“‘So take heed! Look with calm cool eyes upon the man who sprawls there on the table. Then look again at our brother brave who stands with his back against the wall and you will see him as I first saw him: a brave so loaded up and down with firewater that if that firm wall were to move even the thickness of a skittish jot or ticklish tittle he’d go down like a lamb before the slaughter! Aye, or a raindrop before a flood! But then take a second look, and like me you’ll see that although our brother brave is stewed to the gills he has been so truly transformed by his fierce firewater’s inspiring fire that he can’t help but speak the truth! Aye, and speak it coolly. So hear me, my people! My people hear me now as I interpret our brother brave’s most puzzling condition:
“‘Our brave stands pressed against the wall as between a hard place and a rock and he’s lit up like the campfire of the white man, that greedy tenderfoot’s fire which sears the belly but leaves the backside frosted! Yea, but that very heat and pressure is the secret of his vision! For while the firewater glows in his bowels like coals in the blacksmith’s forge, his clear, untainted vision beams like that of Meshack, Shadrack, and their doughty brother—What’s-His-Name—cool, steady, and unblurred!
“‘Oh, yes! I know! To the spooked, unseeing eye this brave is drunk! You know it and I know it. And from the way he reels and staggers yet stands erect he knows it as we know it. So behold! my people, against that wall a drunken head with sober eyes! Is it a riddle? Yes! A conundrum? Yes! I must agree, but let that be no mystery. Nay! For as it is written, “In vino veritas!” Which says (and now I translate into the simplest language of ABC) that for seeing truly the nitty in the gritty, being shicker is the key!
“‘So now take heart, for as our prophet against the wall has made us see, our mangled brother brave’s condition adds up by no means to disaster. Nay, for even though yon wall-pressed brave’s most Noah-like condition be one of uncouth sloppy-drunkenness, he’s still a fountain of our ancient tribal wisdom. Therefore let us remember that just as in this world the broadest of extremes and roads inevitably meet, just so has our brave brother drunk so deep that now—there on the fair far horizon of his mind—he sees most clearly that which the rest of us have been too shaken and liquored-up to see!
“‘Yea, he has survived! He has weathered the tide! For while the storms of booze have swayed him and the hounds of life have bayed him, still he stands with his wrinkled head unbowed! And though he perfumes these rooms with Choc-laden breath, it is a rare, wise wisdom he distills! So hear me now, my fellow braves and beautiful squaws, as I translate the message he inscribes upon the wall:
“‘For although our wounded brother brave has been counted and weighed and left divided there is still hope if we but aid him. Aye! For as it was with fire-water in the old days so be it now in the new days. And while we’ve grown weary of watching the white man’s palefaced medicine grow limp in our shaky M.D.s’ trembling hands I have been heeding the words of our drunken Daniel! Yea, and it is to the Great Spirit that I have appealed….’
“‘Hey, man,’ a voice calls in from the hall, ‘if you gon’ talk religion I’m wid you, so why don’t you cut out all that powwowing and tell us what he said?’
“‘This fine brave has a point,’ the Indian orator says as he smiles and lifts his arms into the air, ‘for indeed the Great Spirit has confided to me that the words of our drunken brave’s firewater falls upon our sad condition as soothing rain upon the seething sun-parched plain! Therefore I can now affirm that although these many docs have tried to cure our injured brother’s sad, sad case, they have been counted, weighed, and now stand divided. And this being so it is clear that our brave Charley of the Choctaw beer is now the only man who can complete this terrible task. Therefore, my strong fellow braves and beautiful squaws, I end my palaver with this, my urgent appeal: Let’s stop all this assing around and GET … CHOC … CHARLEY!’
“‘Well, thank the Lawd,’ a big woman made up like a monarch butterfly exclaims, ‘somebody’s finally talking sense! And it don’t matter that it’s a phony Indian! Because if we don’t do something for that poor man, who else? And what’s gonna happen to the moving picture?’
“‘Now that’s the stone-cold truth,’ somebody calls in from the hall, ‘’cause we all have a stake in that poor bleeding man, so where the hell is Charlie?’
“Which was a good question,” Cliofus said in his normal high-pitched voice, “because Mister Choc Charlie has been on a blind-staggers drunk for about three days, so it looks like finding him will be a problem. Then somebody remembers seeing him lying in the old horse-drawn hearse with a lantern on his chest, and BooBoo Beaujack knows exactly where to find him. So when Jack pushes him protesting and belching up the stairs the crowd lets out a heartfelt cheer. Choc Charlie doesn’t know what it’s all about, but when he sees such a solemn crowd he thinks he’s in church and sings out, There is a balm in Gilead that’ll heal the sin-sick soul. But when they get him to the operating table and he sees what’s happened to the hero, he wipes his eyes and says, ‘How on earth can any man rip his britches this doggone bad!’
And with that big Miss Tommy burps and lets out a forlorn moan. Then, while Choc Charlie is peering at what’s on the table, some of the crowd come up with a strategy to get him started.
“First they knock the last two physicians out of the way, then slap him on the back and say, ‘Lissen Choc, here’s a pair of ripped-up britches which need your expert attention. You think you can fix them in time for the picture we been making?’ Then Choc-drinking Charlie belches and staggers, steadies himself and sways. Then he leans down and squints at the man’s condition out of just one bloodshot eye. Then he calls out loud and clear, ‘Somebody gimme a shot of something strong to clear my vision.’
“And while they’re fetching a bottle Charlie wavers again and sways, and this causes a proper-talking drunk to sober up and say, ‘What the hell are we doing? Why, this is obscene! You people have lost your alcoholic minds!’
“But he doesn’t faze Choc Charlie. All he does is stagger back a bit to get his man in focus, then he wipes his lips on the back of his hand and says, ‘What the hell do you know about it, friend? Yeah, and how good are you at whatever the hell you do? And I mean for a living! Sho, I have to admit to being maybe a little too high to ‘gotiate an invisible patch, but hell, Choc Charlie can always stitch a good straight seam! And I admit it, friend, because I’m no goddam amateur! That’s right, friend! And you can bet your life on what I say. Because while drinking Choc is my fame, stitching is my living and my game!’
“So now, with folks yelling, ‘Tell him about it, Choc,’ they pass him a bottle and he takes a swig and shakes his head and shivers. Then he takes up that needle with the catgut thread, and with the last of the physicians guiding him to the target he proceeds. And when he starts to stitching he squints and bats his blood-shot eyes and complains about the curve in the needle and the thickness of the thread. But though lap-legged drunk as he truly is, he stitches steady and he stitches true, and folks swear to this day that by time he’s through he’s stitched himself a masterpiece.
“Yeah,” Cliofus said, “but the sad thing about it was that with Choc making all that medical history, none of it was recorded by that ever-grinding camera. Because while the other cameramen were out there shooting up the street, the guy with all the accents was off somewhere jiving that little leading lady!”
Seeing Cliofus pause to press a huge towel to his perspiring face, Hickman heard the clang of a spoon hitting the floor as the audience waited for the tale to continue. Then, hearing a man strike a table and yell, “I knew damn well that those cats weren’t doing all that grinding for nothing,” he saw a woman leaping up from a down-front table as she yelled out in triumph, “I told you that he was the one they’s have to bleach and watch! I told you!” and the room exploded with laughter.
Feeling both uneasy and suddenly exhausted, Hickman joined in as he thought, So I got what I came to hear and hoped I
wouldn’t, and if putting it together with what I heard from Love makes sense, that’s how it happened…. Lord help that boy—yes, and that boy’s boy! Then, hearing the woman repeat her shrill triumphant cry, he became aware of Cliofus, who sat now leaning forward in the posture of a tired boxer with the towel draping his head as he stared intently in his direction. Man, he thought, like the taxi man said, you are really something! Then, giving Cliofus a bow of thanks, he waved his clinched hands above his head and left the Wind Cave.
* The bracketed passage is an extremely close variant of the passage beginning “But why?” and ending “that he remembered” just above.
* In the typescript, between “for” and “about,” one or more words are apparently missing.
EDITORS’ NOTE TO “MCINTYRE AT JESSIE ROCKMORE’S”
“MCINTYRE AT JESSIE ROCKMORE’S” appears to be the last portion of the novel that Ellison saved to disk before his death. Given that so much of his attention in the decade of his composition on the computer had been dedicated to revising portions of the novel related to Alonzo Hickman, it is somewhat surprising that this single scene with McIntyre would command his final attention. Nonetheless, Ellison seems to have revised each of the files in the McIntyre sequence in the waning months of 1993.
“McIntyre at Jessie Rockmore’s” is a revision of Chapter 12 of Book I, consisting of McIntyre’s recollection of his nighttime visit to the scene of a possible crime—the apparent homicide of an elderly black man. McIntyre is struck by several things: It appears that the dead man, Jessie Rockmore, was the owner of the tony townhouse and the museum-quality historical artifacts within. Even more, Rockmore is found dead sitting bolt-upright in a decaying coffin, with both his assistant, Aubrey McMillen, and an aging white prostitute, Cordelia Duval, as witnesses. The entire place reeks of whiskey and defunct goldback currency is strewn across the floor.
Leveraging his contacts with the police, McIntyre insinuates himself into the scene, where he converses with both McMillen and the nearly naked Miss Duval. Through the course of the scene, we come to understand that Rockmore’s death was not the result of foul play, but of shock upon the arrival of an unidentified man—whom we may reasonably suspect was Sunraider, though he is never identified by name—who lays claim to the coffin. The episode stops with McIntyre making his way from the townhouse out into the street coincident with the dawning of a new day.
Notably, it appears that Ellison likely conceived this scene as a pivot point in the narrative, marking the confluence of Hickman, Sunraider, and McIntyre and conceivably knotting his various narrative threads. Among the several instances in which he ponders such a connection is the following note: “N.B. Try introducing Hickman and Wilhite immediately after McIntyre leaves the building. And this time it is he who leaves the door open.” The Rockmore scene would thus serve both practical and thematic purposes. As Ellison states in another note, included here, the Rockmore incident was an instance of “trivial chaos … building to some kind of disaster,” underscoring the central instance of chaos and disaster brought on by the shooting. Although the precise nature of this scene’s connection to the Hickman plot remains unresolved, the fact that it is likely the final episode Ellison revised marks it for special consideration.
MCINTYRE AT JESSIE ROCKMORE’S
[MANSION]
THE ADDRESS CITED IN the murder report was that of a four-storied mansion, and seeing detectives and policemen making their way up the walk I gripped my recorder and hurried to join them. But upon reaching the entrance we came to a halt, for although the door was wide open there was no one to receive us. Then came a murmur of voices, and with the Sergeant of detectives leading the way, we entered the thick-carpeted entrance hall and set out to find them.
Straight ahead a grandfather’s clock gleamed in a corner, and on our approach it began chiming an hour which was very much later than that on my wristwatch. And then we turned left and encountered a scene which we least expected. For suddenly we were facing a spacious, high-ceilinged vestibule which was crowded with black folk who were dressed in an eye-dazzling assortment of bathrobes, housecoats, and kimonos.
Women and men, they crowded the floor and an elegant staircase which curved to the floor up above, and as I wondered why anyone had need for so many servants they greeted our arrival with expressions which ranged from anxiety and relief to outright hostility. Which in itself was not surprising, for having known at least three of the detectives from on various assignments I was all too aware that some of their tribe were indeed quite prejudiced.
And yet my immediate reaction was one of resentment. For while I took pride in my impartiality on questions of race, the black folk before me appeared to make no distinction between me, a reporter, and the white lawmen for whom as a group they had quite valid reasons, current and historical, for feeling distrustful.
Okay, I thought, so you don’t like the presence of white policemen, but they’re here because of a murder. So since you resent others judging you on the basis of color, why not regard me as an individual and make your decision as to my character and competence after you’ve read my report? Who knows, it might prove helpful in bringing the murderer—whoever it might be—to justice, and even dispel any suspicion of your possible involvement….
But now to the Sergeant’s “Where can we find him?” a man on the staircase pointed to a tall door behind us, and with the Sergeant and his men leading the way I followed. Then the door was flung upen and I was blinded by a fierce glare of light, blasted by strong fumes of bourbon, and in a blink of an eye faced a scene of startling disorder.
[ROCKMORE]
WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN a ballroom was so crammed with furniture, appliances, and odd works of art that the slightest misstep or unwary gesture could end in disaster. Worst, I had a feeling that the wild disarray was not accidental but the product of a conscious, if elusive, design. And struck by the contrast between the ballroom’s disorder and the vestibule’s elegance I recalled a designer of interiors who had scoffed that the American home was fast becoming a cross between a ragtag museum and a warehouse for gadgets.
Then I moved in with the detectives, and everywhere I looked there were tables and chairs, divans and chaises longues; cabinets, chests, and various utensils; toys, oil paintings, and miniature sculptures; baskets, crates, and old cardboard boxes. Through the glass doors of cabinets I saw collections of crystal and porcelain; antique tables were piled with books, lamps, and musical instruments. And as I tried to make sense of the mind-teasing chaos I heard a detective exclaim, “Hey, Murphy, what the hell kind of a joint is this!”
To which Murphy replied, “Oh, come on! Being that it’s here in the U.S. of A., it could be any damn thing! And especially with those boogies out in the hall. What’s more, I’ll lay you ten to one that our being here has to do with this booze we’re breathing—isn’t that right, McIntyre?”
“It may very well be,” I said as I squinted, “but what’s bothering me is this eye-blinding glare.”
“So use your shades, McIntyre, use your shades!”
“I could very well use them,” I said, “but since it’s long after midnight I left them at home.”
“Which is typical of see-all, tell-all reporters,” he said with a grin, “so be careful, old buddy, or next thing you know you’ll stumble, and for once in your life you’ll end up writing the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
“Yes, and then may God help me,” I said, “because you’ll still insist that your harebrained preconception of what brought us here is more accurate than my painstaking efforts to get at the truth. And by the way, since you’re so smart and foresightful, why the hell are you squinting?”
And now, turning away, I realized that one source of the glare was a collection of unshaded lamps. And with the detectives beginning their search for the murdered man’s body I stood puzzling as to why the room was so personally disturbing.
Perhaps it was simply the shock of encountering suc
h an incongruous clutter so close to the Capitol, and in a house which was staffed by so many black folk. For while they were as typical of Washington as its historical monuments, this particular household’s existence suggested that something was happening in the District of Columbia which had escaped my reporter’s awareness….
Whereupon, hearing a thudding behind me, I turned to see a policeman grabbing frantically at a tall stack of books which were tumbling to the floor from a table. And intrigued by the books’ leather bindings, I knelt to give him a hand as he stooped to replace them. But not only did the incessant glare render their titles unreadable, the fumes near the floor were so powerful that in the course of standing I staggered. Which increased my suspicion of having blundered onto a scene in which anything could happen.
For now the clash between objects of such disparate styles and places of origin suggested some excess of emotion or confusion of logic that had been doomed from the start to lead ultimately to murder. But now, seeing the officers making their way to a door straight ahead, I began inching my way toward them and decided that once I had the victim’s name and his attacker’s motive and identity I’d leave the strange house and structure my report in the quiet of my office.
But now I was impatient to have a look at the victim, for suddenly I felt—somewhat irrationally—that although the man responsible for the chaos around me had escaped public notice he had been nevertheless an insidious threat to our center of government. And that even a brief look at his face would assure me that the chaos in which he had chosen to have lived was uniquely his own. And should the detectives discover evidence of crimes other than murder I’d leave that to the Sergeant and the Negroes to deal with. But despite my mounting desire to get the details and take off, my integrity as a reporter demanded that I remain and make note of any facts that were available before structuring my story….
Three Days Before the Shooting . . . Page 142
