The Angry Ones

by Williams, John A. ;

She started to sniffle again as we walked up the street.

  “I got a call for a show. My first Broadway thing. I did very well the first two rehearsals. I talk with Lint about everything, you know, and I told him what the director had me do with the part. He said I should stand up to him and tell him he was doing it all wrong. It sounded logical, Steve, what Lint said, so the very next day I told the director he was doing it wrong and he very acidly told me why he was doing it his way, and that sounded right, Steve, absolutely right. He canned me that very day. Lint was sympathetic, but I think he was really very happy. Do you know that? Actually happy.”

  It was Bobbie’s turn to talk it out and I remained silent.

  “Do you know what I think it is, Steve?”

  “What?”

  “I just cannot become a success before he does. He’s got to be first.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I said, but I did.

  “It’s the truth. God, how can we go on this way?”

  “Bobbie,” I said finally, “is there a note for me? Did you leave one?”

  We walked a few paces before she answered. “He asked you to let him know, didn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s no note, Steve.”

  “Bobbie!” A voice called then, and out of the crowds, half walking, half sprinting, came a young, handsome guy whom I recognized as an off-Broadway director who was coming up fast. He only had eyes for Bobbie. Perhaps, like so many people, he refused to accept the fact that we were walking together because I was black; that just could not be the case. His eyes clouded for just one second when Bobbie touched me on the arm and excused herself.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. Her eyes were shining too. Maybe this guy was the one she’d left not too long ago. He reached possessively for her arm as she went toward him. Bobbie looked backwards at me and withdrew it timidly. The eyes of the man shot toward me. Now Bobbie was talking to him and he relaxed.

  My move was clear. I left them and walked on home.

  When I called Lint at his office the next day, I cheerfully told him that there was a note, and I read one I’d made up, but he only grunted and hung up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  He didn’t believe me, and when he hung up the way he did, I knew he was almost past believing anything. I couldn’t say that I felt very sorry for him.

  The following weeks I was busy preparing copy for the Christmas season. O, Come Ye Back was about to come off press, and there was the New York deal Rollie told me to see about—radio, television and whatever else we could get.

  I had little time, even if I had wanted it for worrying about Lint and Bobbie. I didn’t call Lois and I didn’t see her. I was taking the subway to work early and getting home late. She called two or three times and we talked briefly. I had the feeling when she called that it was to give me the opportunity to ask to see her. I didn’t.

  Obie had moved. To where, I didn’t know—he just upped and left his old place. I didn’t know his girl’s last name or I would have called there. I had to wait for him to call me.

  And Grace was still on my neck to come up to Albany.

  O, Come Ye Back was one of the few Rocket books that came out on schedule. We earmarked for Crispus his seventy-five author copies, free of charge. I managed to get some radio time on a couple of local stations. I wrote releases for consumption near Crispus’ home. I contacted farmer groups.

  The approach I used was integration. Everyone was interested in it, of course, but Crispus had nothing about it in his book. If anything, he was for the status quo, him and his goddam happy darkies. But you always need a hook and that was the one I chose, phony as it was.

  Hadrian Crispus also wanted a reception—to start off the promotion. Rollie tried to talk him out of it, long distance, but was unable to do so. He would have tipped his hand had he pressed. So I set up a reception for Crispus at one of the small, East Side hotels. I sent letters (probably the best I ever wrote) to the book editors of Life-Time, Newsweek, the Times, the Tribune and a dozen other publications.

  There must have been very little promotion before I arrived at Rocket. Had there been, these people would have known us a little better and would not have responded the way they did.

  The faith of a Mississippi Delta farmer and its application to today’s integration crisis. That’s what I’d said. You only have to mention Integration and Mississippi in one breath and people stop, look, and don’t quite believe it.

  There’s not too much difference between integration violence and any other form of violence; people rush to look.

  I listed the names of the people who would be attending the reception from their responses by mail and phone. I sent them follow-up telegrams and then secured telephone confirmation of their attendance. Through some good luck I met, through a friend, a television personality on the way up. He agreed to come to the reception and have Crispus on his show for a minute or so, coast-to-coast. I swung some lesser people into coming for the decorations, and the affair was set, complete with photographer, when Crispus arrived in town.

  He raved about his book. There was something pitiful about the way he picked it up, hefted it, smelled the newness of it.

  “Mr. Culver,” he told Rollie, “I don’t believe there’s ever been a better-looking book than mine.” He patted it proudly. We were smiling, of course, and making enthusiastic little chitchat.

  “Mr. Crispus,” Rollie said, “that’s one of the best jobs we’ve ever done. Even I was surprised. I guess the entire staff was inspired by the great work you did yourself.”

  Crispus grinned. He leaned forward, cuddling the book beneath his arm. “Confidentially,” he said, “it took all my savings—and you know what happened the last time I was here?”

  “Yes?” Rollie said. He didn’t bat an eyelash.

  “I went to see my brother so I could go ahead plannin’ things for next year if I got some money from him?”

  Southerners have a way of making statements sound like questions.

  “Yes?” Rollie said. I noticed that his voice had risen in pitch to match Crispus’.

  Crispus laughed. “He called me a fool an’ wouldn’t give it to me, but”—he laughed heartily—“wait until he gets a look at this.” Crispus stroked the book. “It’s going to make me a pile of money,” he said. “I just know it.”

  “Not a pile,” Rollie said with a smile. “Maybe half a pile.”

  Crispus laughed again. “Mr. Culver, you sure do like to joke.”

  Sarah winked at Crispus. “He’s the only one in the office who has time enough to joke,” she said with a friendly smile. “He’s the boss.”

  “Has there been much advance sale?” Crispus asked.

  “Things are shaping up nicely,” Rollie said. His smile was big, open and, to Crispus, honest.

  The answer seemed to satisfy the farmer. There had not been a single advance sale, of course. Crispus then gave me a list of his friends in Texas, California and Mississippi who would buy copies. I put the list on my desk. It was damned hard for me to believe that Crispus truthfully thought he had a big thing with his book, but he did. I kept wondering when he would wake up. He gave us the name and number of his hotel, saying, as he left, that he would be available any time for lectures and interviews. Rollie told him that things probably would not be moving much until after the reception. Crispus said, with a big wink, “I’m sure they’ll move all right.”

  Rollie had cut down on the promotion percentage for Crispus’ reception, but the money was still pretty nice in comparison with the nothing I’d had to work with before. I was able to set the thing up so that it appeared solid anyway.

  Early in the afternoon, before the reception got underway, I checked food and drinks at the hotel and got Charlie, the photographer, to follow me around and take pictures at a signal from me. I wanted him to get his pictures quickly because it figured that as soon as the guests got in, they’d smell a hoax and leave in a hurry.

  A g
uy from the Saturday Review came in. I grabbed Crispus, who had come in only seconds after me, not wanting to miss anything, and steered him close to the SR man. I nodded and Charlie took a picture. The SR man looked around startled. I walked away. People were coming in steadily now, and a little cautiously. Crispus and I walked around introducing ourselves. Charlie was right behind us, busy with his camera. Once I heard Rollie say, “I’m Roland Culver. I’m the president of Rocket.” Someone mumbled, “Nice to know you.”

  The television personality came in and Crispus recognized him. When they were introduced, Crispus said, “You mean I’m going to be on a show with you? A television show?”

  The television personality looked from Crispus to me, and I imagine he was trying to discover who was responsible for this farce. He walked away with Crispus trailing him.

  The dead horse was being scented. I could see people merging together, whispering. But the food and drinks were free and they lingered. Some of the guests spoke with me about my job. They seemed curious and appeared to be thinking that Rocket couldn’t be such a bad outfit to have a Negro publicity man.

  Finally the crowd began to thin. I could see some of the guests going out with grins on their faces, whether for themselves or for the farce Rocket had just put on, I couldn’t tell. I rescued the television personality from Crispus and he rushed out. From the way Rollie was grinning, I knew we’d had a great success.

  We would use the pictures for the next brochure going to prospective authors; they would be a selling point. The pictures would show Crispus chatting amiably with New York’s book people, the implication being that the book was a good one and these people had rushed to congratulate the author. And perhaps we would also use the photographs for the newspapers in or near Crispus’ home.

  I could not get an autograph party for Crispus in New York. He finished his radio spots and hung around until he had his television show. Then Rollie sent him packing home, having assured him that there, too, we had made arrangements for radio and television appearances and many autograph parties. Crispus left, promising to return if we needed him, and we all heaved a sigh of relief. You could feel the tension relaxing with the approach of the holidays.

  “What a pain in the ass he was,” Sarah said, when Crispus had been gone a couple of days.

  I could not help thinking how very much Sarah sounded as if it were her right to con and insult people, and that if they somehow obstructed her in the routine performance of that operation, they were bothersome little swindlers. Then I thought of Crispus getting off the train in Jump-off, Mississippi, or some other damned hole, holding his book high, waving it and crying to the cotton-picking world to look at his dream come true.

  I could not decide whether I was glad it had happened to him or sorry, and that is the truth.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A day or so before Thanksgiving I sat moping at my desk trying to look busy and trying not to feel sorry for myself. Leah came in. She stood looking out the window and I sat shifting papers from the top of a pile to the bottom. I turned to her.

  “Why don’t you get out of this?”

  She shrugged. “As soon as I get married. I don’t want a career, I just want a home and children. There’s no point in my running from job to job.”

  We watched Anne flounce around. Leah said, “Poor kid. She thinks this is such a big deal.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Anne and Sarah became engaged in an earnest conversation.

  “You having any luck?” Leah asked. She knew I was looking for something else.

  “No.”

  “Steve, that’s awful. Gee, I’ll keep looking and listening.”

  “Thanks. That’s sweet.”

  “So are you, Steve, and I wish you’d get some luck. By the way, old boy, when are you getting married?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. A chill hit me. I was thinking of Lois instead of Grace.

  “Soon?” she went on.

  “I don’t know,” I laughed. “Beat it. Earn your money.”

  She went out laughing. Then and there I decided to call Lois that evening. I did, and she came down.

  She didn’t say anything for a long time. She just sat looking at me, and looking at the floor. Finally she said, “I’ve wanted so much to see you.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  We didn’t talk for about five minutes, then she said, “How weak I am. How very weak.”

  “For coming down?”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “You know, don’t you?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “It isn’t right for me to love you. My parents would die. Don’t I owe them something?” She went on, not giving me a chance to answer. “Yet, it seems I have to be near you or talk to you. I keep wondering why—we know each other such a short time.”

  “But you’re here,” I said, not saying what I should have said.

  “Yes,” she said. She looked directly at me. “For the last time.”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  She clasped her hands across her face. “I know. Each time I say it, I mean it, Steve. I do mean it.”

  “Do you?”

  She nodded. Then she changed the subject. “How’s the job hunt going?”

  I had told her about it. “Nothing,” I said.

  “That’s another thing,” she said. “If you weren’t Negro you’d have no problem getting a job. I guess in a way I’m like all those people who say ‘no’ to you every day.”

  I looked at her and I felt a little frightened, just the way I felt when I was a kid playing hide-and-go-seek and the searcher drew near my hiding place.

  “I want to take you to a party,” I said.

  “When?”

  “Saturday.”

  “But—”

  “Saturday.”

  She looked at me a long time. “All right.”

  Later, as we were smoking, and after I had put her into stitches talking about Crispus, she said, “I dreamed about you a couple of nights ago.”

  “Tell me.” I got my curiosity from dreams naturally. My father used to knock me out with his dreambook. Dream of snakes and look up snakes in one of those books and play the number opposite it. I still remember it—536.

  “Your office staff was having a party somewhere,” she said. “I walked in and everyone was surprised to see me go toward you. I was a stranger—and to be heading straight for you with that look in my eyes you tell me I always have …” She passed me her cigarette. “I sat down,” she continued, “beside you, and I was very attentive, touching you and so on. You were a little embarrassed, I think, the way you can be sometimes.” She paused to kiss me. “Everyone looked, but I didn’t give a damn because I wanted to be with you, no matter what. It seemed as if I had not seen you in a long time. Later the party broke up. We had caught each other’s eye and it was understood that we would meet outside and go somewhere. You left first and I left shortly after.

  “As I came out I could see you walking rather fast, and this surprised me. It was as if you were trying to leave me, go away from me. You went into some kind of forest and I went running after you. I saw a trail that curved over a hill and I was quite positive you’d taken it, so I followed it. Overhead, for some reason, there was a tiger. It stalked back and forth. At first I was very afraid, but when I saw it made no move to attack, I ran on and voices came to me saying, ‘Watch out for the tiger, watch out for the tiger.’

  “You were nowhere in sight when I got to the top of the hill. Then I heard a lion roar, and I saw two of them mauling something in the grass and for a minute my whole being was wrapped up in the thought of how it would feel to be torn limb from limb. But I went on looking for you. I didn’t find you.”

  I tried not to expel my breath too quickly or too loudly. “What did your doctor say?”

  “He helped me with parts of it.”

  “What was in the grass?”
>
  “I don’t know. I didn’t get that close. I had a powerful feeling that it wasn’t you.”

  “The voices?”

  “Consciences, Steve. Yours, mine, society’s.”

  “Nuts. And you never did find me?”

  “No.”

  “Sure?”

  She looked at me, puzzled. “Yes, I’m sure. Why?”

  “Nothing.” I sighed. “Most colorful dream I’ve heard described.”

  “Most colorful one I’ve ever had. There was no twin feature, I’m not sorry to say.”

  We were silent thinking about the dream.

  “Why did you ask if I was sure I hadn’t found you in the dream?”

  “The tiger,” I said.

  “The tiger?”

  “Wasn’t I the tiger?”

  She thought a moment. “I don’t get the connection,” she said.

  “Well, it wasn’t anything.”

  “Do you think you were the tiger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just a hunch. Can’t explain.”

  If I had explained, she would have had the picture I wasn’t ready for her to have. A tiger is a violent animal—a predatory beast that likes warm blood. She had pictured a tiger without violence, which did not mean, of course, that the violence wasn’t present. Again I had the feeling of near discovery. I was uneasy with myself for showing her only parts of the portrait.

  “Lois?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “After Saturday—after Saturday, let’s quit it.”

  I could almost hear silence moving in the room.

  She said, “Why does it sound so horrible when you say it?”

  For a week then, as if we were to die at the end of it, Lois and I saw each other. It was only because of her that I could look with some humor at the job situation. She was more than fun; she seemed to be everything. It was during that week that I began to think a little about us. To think at length about it was to look at evil. I only thought about it, as I said, a little.

  We went to the uptown movies and saw a couple of off-Broadway things. We seemed to have agreed, without saying it, that we would try to stay away from crowds. That Saturday we went to a small party in Yorkville. We would have had a nicer time if we hadn’t been so busy thinking we wouldn’t see each other again. When the party was over, we walked a little ways before hailing a cab. We strolled around looking at the harsh contrasts of svelte modern buildings pimpled with air conditioners standing between drab, scarred tenements. We looked at the scenery beyond the East River and decided the view we had over the Hudson to New Jersey was infinitely better. It was about two when we began walking west, swinging our hands between us.