Three Days Before the Shooting . . .

by Ralph Ellison

  “Did he?”

  “No, because hardly had I got started than I was grabbed in the middle of the sidewalk by a wild man—and I mean physically—who insisted that I was some kind of underground civil-rights leader….”

  Wilhite laughed, “A what!”

  “You heard me: an ‘underground … civil-rights … leader’! And not only that, he insisted that I once served time for rape!”

  “Oh, come on, A.Z. You?”

  “That’s the truth. In less time than it takes to say it the man reinvented me, gave me a new name and a new philosophy, assigned me a new calling, and offered to help me overthrow the United States Government! For now that’s all I can tell you, and please don’t mention it to the members. I tell you, Wilhite, as soon as we complete this mission I’m getting out of Washington! How are the others holding up?”

  “Pretty well, considering what we’ve run into. They enjoyed their meal in the main dining room—where the sisters had themselves a fine time criticizing the linen and the silver and comparing the service with the kind that’s offered down home….”

  “Well, now,” he said with a chuckle, “wasn’t that to be expected? They’ve been washing and polishing the stuff long enough to think of themselves as some kind of experts. It’s their way of feeling at home away from home.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t being critical. In fact, I enjoyed hearing them identifying with the best the rich white folks can afford. Down home they do a lot of complaining, but being up here in the North they feel free to express their regional pride….”

  “That’s right, and their taste. The sisters might not be able to afford the best, but they sure appreciate it when they see it.”

  “You telling me? And that’s why some of the brothers are so much in debt! So anyway, they had themselves a great time discussing the quality of everything. Then somebody brought up the way you were talking circles around that secretary and everybody got to laughing. What do you call it, A.Z.? Rhetoric, double-talk, or just plain shucking?”

  Slapping his thigh, he laughed softly into the mouthpiece.

  “Well, Wilhite, since she was forcing me to improvise like a jackass eating briars it was a little of everything. But whatever it was it didn’t do us a bit of good. Not with her being so un-reconstructed.”

  “I know, but it wasn’t because you didn’t try. That guard was talking about old Provo showing off his moves, but he should have been there to hear you going through some of yours.”

  “Well, Wilhite, sometimes a man of the Word is forced to be simply a man of words….”

  “Don’t brag, A.Z., it’s sinful. But, getting back to business, I was hoping that on your second try you’d make that woman stop pulling rank and listen. So since she didn’t, what do we do now? What shall I tell the members?”

  “There’s nothing to tell them, and until we can think of something we’d better find a way of keeping them occupied. Meanwhile I’m hoping that the boy’s secretary will have a change of heart and give him our message, therefore I’m leaning toward doing nothing.”

  “Yes, A.Z., but like you always say: Doing nothing is doing something.”

  “Sometimes that’s true, so I won’t argue. But here’s an idea: How about taking the members sightseeing? Let them have a look at the city?”

  “It’s a good way of killing time—but will you go along?”

  “Of course. That’s what I meant, all of us will go.”

  “But what if he telephones?”

  “So they’ll take the message down at the desk and when we get back we’ll return his call. Besides, a little waiting will arouse his curiosity. Meantime the members will be getting a little pleasure out of this trip and they’ll have something to tell the folks back home.”

  “O.K., A.Z. It’ll take time to get some transportation, so how about my setting it up for about an hour from now?”

  Yawning, he looked at his watch. “Good! And while you’re at it, I’m going to try and take a nap. So when you’re ready, have them assemble in the lobby and give me a buzz.”

  [LINCOLN]

  WHEN HICKMAN EMERGED FROM the Longview the brothers and sisters were already seated in the sightseeing bus and Wilhite standing at the curb beside its driver—a tall white man who watched his approach with undisguised curiosity—and a young white woman in uniform whom Wilhite identified as its tour conductor. And now, apologizing for being late, he followed Wilhite aboard to greetings of welcome from the brothers and sisters.

  “Sit there, A.Z.,” Wilhite said, indicating a seat near the driver, and as he moved toward the window and looked back Wilhite took a seat on the aisle near the rear. Then, with the young woman taking a position near the door the driver called out, “All set,” and the bus moved from the curb.

  Turning now to the view from the window, he watched streets become an accelerating blur of buildings and traffic, against the tempo of which crowds on the sidewalks moved in a dream-like flow of anonymity.

  Yes, Hickman, he thought, and Janey’s little man could be anywhere among them. But even if you saw him how would you recognize him? And after all these years the same thing goes for the man he’s after. But you still have to warn him, and here you are—may the Lord forgive you—sparring for time on a bus!

  And depressed by the thought, he turned from the window and gave his attention to the young tourist guide, who stood near the driver describing details of the unfolding scene through a small megaphone.

  A petite blonde whose blue eyes were accented by mascara, the young woman wore a blue uniform and a white, black-visored cap, and as he listened to her voice above the rumble of traffic he recalled the days when he himself had used such a megaphone when shouting the blues above the moaning and groaning of reeds and brasses.

  And now, closing his eyes and surrendering to reveries of days long past, he thought, Those were times when bus rides went with being a musician. Days and nights of rocking-and-rolling through counties patrolled by sheriffs who were hostile, traveling hundreds of miles just to play one-night stands, and the roads rough, the dates far between, and the towns unfriendly. A time when no hotel would accept us—whether North, South, or in between—and with our own folks the only ones to take us in, many of them refusing because they regarded jazz as the devil’s music and us his disciples…. And the tricks and skullduggery that went with the profession. Playing to halls packed with dancers, many of whom were gate-crashers…. Having local managers skip town with our pay…. Dances broken up by anything from drunks riddling the ceilings with owlhead pistols to jokers throwing terrified pigs and skunks through the windows…. The lives of men in the band threatened by jealous country boys who thought we rode all those bumpy miles just to make big-city plays for their green little women…. Being late for dates in distant towns because redneck station owners refused us gas…. Served fat-back, greasy greens, and cornbread in greasy-spoon restaurants so often that we felt blessed whenever we lucked-up on good barbecue and chitt’lings…. Nothing strong to drink but rot-gut whiskey…. And that endless confusion over race and color, money and music—like that Christmas Day when the white owner of a black dance hall refused to let us perform until we agreed to parade through the streets like minstrel men playing “Dixie,” which we had to do or be run out of town. Yes, and with me turning the tables by sneaking in that nasty, wailing obbligato of “Your Mama Don’t Wear No Drawers” on which the others performed variations all along the way … which made it not only bearable but side-breaking fun, with the local Negroes laughing and the white folks applauding and none the wiser…. It’s a wonder we came through any of it alive—and yet sometimes there were the good things…. Like the quiet in which to remember my early days with my family … and the pleasure of rolling past fields full of flowers and serene streams sparkling beneath clear blue skies. Or watching the soaring flight of blackbirds, quail, and doves…. The smell of wood smoke drifting from lonely cabins…. And that early morning in Virginia seeing red-coated horsemen riding to ho
unds over the broad rolling grounds of a fine white mansion…. And the tally-ho sound of a hunting horn floating through the air.

  Then on the rise of the hill ahead three bare trees looming lonely against the gloom of the sky—yes, and the air’s sudden chill when my mind sang a blues evoking images recalled from my father’s sermons celebrating the coming of Easter…. But finally we reached Atlanta, and no longer the need for quilts and pallets spread on the floors of cautious strangers…. And all that Saturday night excitement of women and whiskey and the joy of sharing down-home fellowship with those of our own kind—which was a bonus that came with making music…. White folks enjoy their put-down joke about what it means to be colored on Saturday night, but as usual they miss the challenge of the foxy truth hidden in it. Tally-ho! Maybe that’s why they sneer at our styles and end up making them their own while refusing to admit it. Which is the living contradiction Millsap’s friend Sippy was exploiting when he went about creating what he considered an ideal white American…. What a character! First he takes a man whose white skin gives him room to maneuver and educates him with a mixture of the best traits of both black and white. Then he trains his pupil to improvise on the unexpectedness of experience like a cross between a jazzman and a Texas politician—while he sits back and watches what happens from the shadows…. That Sippy! Only a great trickster would realize that in a land like this nobody has a patent on conceiving the wisest action or coming up with the most definitive blend of styles. So what’s an American? Shucks, Hickman, it’s all up for grabs! So sometimes it’s us who’re on target, sometimes it’s others. And of ideal Americans there are only a few, and them mostly dead. As for us, we live in worlds within worlds, touching others cheek by jowl, and yet so far apart

  that when it comes to our ideals there’s a yes in all our no’s, and a no in all our yeses….

  Black and white, we’re all involved, but mainly it’s the fault of folks who want to control everything and everybody but themselves. Still, it’s a part of the game, and in spite of all the confusion it caused back in those bus-riding days our knowing exactly where the color lines were drawn made for a sense of security. We were young and adventurous, and having elected to perform in a land a-whirl with hostility there was nothing to do but deal with the world as we found it. No need for anyone to tell us the rules or the reasons, because there were always those for whites only signs, their facial expressions, attitudes and quick-trigger violence. They were always there, and no matter how well we played, no manager—gentile or Jew—could have made things easier…. So with our manhood challenged on all sides we blazed our own trails, musical, moral and social, and used our outlaw music as our sword and shield. Sure, it was rough going; but by moving toward our own vision of the possible and trying to deal with the world as we found it we made the struggle a thing of self-affirmation…. So now, looking back, the bad part recedes while the good part advances, giving its memory a glow like the echoing hope of a rousing melody first phrased in the days of the old dispensation…. I wouldn’t have believed it, but just as it takes two to tango it takes time, luck, and aging to see the effects of change. Which means that the bad part was the price we paid to get to the good part—So what’s new? Given the tricky changes Father Time plays on the living we find ourselves constantly giving up some good things for other good things while exchanging old bad things for new. Which, perhaps, is the only reliable definition for that tricky notion called “progress.”…

  And now, listening to the rise and fall of the young woman’s voice he stared out at the passing scene with the events of the morning returning to mind, and when addressed by brothers and sisters excited by the young woman’s comments on the scenery he replied with silent bows of his head.

  Instead of being on this bus, he thought, I should be in my room trying to work this thing out in my mind; at least I would be more honest. This way, after promising them bread, all I’m doing is giving them a pile of stones…. And I thought it would be so easy! We would see him and give him our information and those who knew him would have the satisfaction of watching his reaction to their gesture of peace and reconciliation, and then we would go back home and wait to see its effect on his actions. Just that. Not a lot of name-calling or accusations, but a gesture that would say: In spite of everything that’s happened to you and to us since those old hopeful days, this is how we feel. And now may the Lord watch over thee and us while we’re absent one from another. Instead, we ran into a wall within a wall, and here I am offering them nothing more than a diversion. And even if they find it refreshing it’s far too little to even begin to compensate for the sacrifices they made to come up here…. Hickman, if you don’t do better by them than this you’ll never forgive yourself—Just listen to that young Northern white gal dishing out her canned version of what she’s calling history! Spieling that stuff like a sideshow barker and doesn’t even realize that she’s addressing a glaring-staring part of everything she’s omitting!

  And now, suddenly realizing that they had arrived near the Washington Mall, he leaped from his seat and surprised himself by ordering the driver to pull to the curb.

  “Miss Guide, Mr. Driver, brothers and sisters,” he said, “you’ll have to forgive me, but I just realized that for all the comfort that’s to be had by going about it this way, we can get more out of this trip if we go the rest of the way on foot.

  “And don’t worry,” he said, turning to the driver, “you’ll be paid your full fare….”

  “I’m a little surprised, A.Z.,” Wilhite called as he stepped into the aisle, “but that was taken care of before you came aboard. We paid in advance.”

  “Good!” he said with a smile for the puzzled young woman. “Most folks don’t realize it, but that’s usually the way it is when you go looking for history: You pay in advance and you get what you see and remember.”

  Then, giving Wilhite a blank-face wink and telling him to have the driver wait until their return, he moved to the door.

  “So let’s get moving,” he called to the surprised members, “because from here on we’re going to walk a while. And not only will we have our look at history, we’ll do it while enjoying the cherry blossoms and the springtime air.”

  “Maybe so, Revern’,” Sister Scruggs protested from her seat in the rear, “but what’s your hurry? Some of us haven’t even had time to get comfortable and now you’re talking about walking!”

  “Sister,” he called with a laugh, “this is the first time in twenty years that I’ve ever heard of you riding in the back of the bus and liking it. So just come on out of there! Oh, yes, and if you’re wondering why I changed our plans, there’s no mystery: It’s so we can commune a bit with nature while catching up with the progress of history.”

  “Nature and history,” Sister Scruggs said as she struggled out of her seat. “Shucks, we have enough trouble in dealing with both of those down home! So what’s so different about them up here?”

  Hickman laughed. “I’m not sure, but maybe it’s because up here we’re free to enjoy a less intimate view. Now quit grumbling and come on out of there!”

  Walking locked arm in arm between two of the sisters, he listened silently to the bustle of comments around him with a sense of relief. For in spite of his sudden change in plans the members seemed to be enjoying themselves. And now as they approached the Washington Monument their exclamations over its height and grandeur brought a feeling of reassurance. Moving silently among them now, he gave his attention to the sweeping view of the city as it wheeled serene and majestic as far as his eyes could see. And as the members gave voice to their excitement he was reminded of Juneteenth, their favorite of all the nation’s holidays. And under the mounting spell of the unfolding scene the disappointments of the morning seemed to fade, and he was surprised by the extent to which some were identifying with historical events evoked by the scene around them.

  For now they strolled along telling anecdotes which ranged from their grandparents’ memories of slav
ery, the Civil War, and Emancipation to their own adventures during the Spanish-American and First World Wars. And listening to tale after tale unfold, he could hear that unmistakable blend of truth and fiction, tragedy and comedy, which marked it as uniquely their own, as Negro; a triumphant note which sounded in most of their accounts of difficult experiences that had been transformed in memory by the passage of time and the sheer wonder of their endurance.

  The triumph is in the telling, he thought, so no matter what they felt at the time it was happening they endured the experience and made it their own. So while our role in much that happened has been denied or distorted in print, the living connections still exist. The truth lives on, if only in the minds and hearts of the ignored and forgotten.

  Reaching a spot with a distant view of the Jefferson Memorial he was reminded that several of the members were Virginia-born when Sister Gipson grasped Brother Matt Jefferson’s arm and held up her hand for silence.

  “Brother Matt,” she said as the group paused to listen, “now that we’ve reached this place I think it’s time for you to make a public and long overdue confession….”

  “Me?” Brother Jefferson said with a frown. “Confess what?”

  “Nooow you know very well,” Sister Gipson said, “so don’t be wasting our time!”

  “Oh, no I don’t,” Brother Matt said, “I’ve been living a clean life, I pay my debts, taxes, and life insurance, and Deacon Wilhite there can testify that I do my bit for the widow women and orphans—so will somebody please tell me what this woman is talking about?”