The Outsider

by Richard Wright

  “Crossy, how come you’re drinking so much these days?” Booker asked in a tone free of moral objections.

  “My soul needs it,” Cross mumbled.

  “Makes you feel better, hunh?” Booker asked.

  “No. Makes me feel less,” Cross corrected him.

  “But how about your liver?” Joe demanded.

  “My liver’s in the death house,” Cross admitted.

  “Say, Pinkie, remember when Crossy used to be the life of the gang?” Joe asked. “Now he just swills and every word he says is a gripe.”

  “We all have blue days,” Pink said.

  “Pink has blue days,” Cross’s tongue played softly with the words.

  They tossed wild laughter amidst the milling flakes of snow. All of them laughed except Cross whose lips shaped themselves into an ambiguous smile whose meaning might have been a jeering at or a participation in the merriment. He was tall but slightly built with a smooth, brown and yellow skin, and his body moved as though it had more nervous energy than it could contain.

  “Aw, leave Cross alone,” Pink said.

  “Thanks, pal,” Cross muttered.

  Joe suddenly paused amid the flakes of dancing snow, laughing hysterically, slapping his thighs, sending blasts of steam on to the frigid air. The sheen of a street lamp sharply etched his ebony face.

  “What’s the matter, Joe?” Booker asked.

  “Oh, God,” Joe gasped, his fat cheeks trembling and tears gleaming at the corners of his eyes.

  “All right; share the damn joke,” Pink said.

  The three men confronted Joe and waited for his mirth to subside.

  “Today I heard somebody say the damndest thing about Cross—” Joe went off into another spasm of mirth, bending over, coughing, spluttering, sending tiny flecks of spittle into the run-away snowflakes. Joe finally straightened and placed a brotherly hand upon Cross’s shoulder. “Now, listen, if I tell what I heard, you won’t be mad, will you?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you heard,” Cross muttered.

  Tiny crystals trembled whitely between their dark faces. The shoulders of their overcoats were laced with icy filigrees; dapples of moisture glowed diamondlike on their eyebrows where the heat of their blood was melting the snow.

  “Well, spill it, man,” Pink urged impatiently.

  Joe sobered only to give way to so much laughter that Pink and Booker joined in and laughed so infectiously that even Cross surrendered to the contagion and chuckled.

  “Somebody said,” Joe began, “that Cross was trying to imitate the United States’ Government. They said the trouble with Cross was his four A’s. Alcohol. Abortions. Automobiles. And alimony.” Joe laughed so violently that his eyes were buried in fat and the pearly gleam of his white teeth vied with the translucence of the snow. Jerking out his words, he continued: “They called C-cross the Q-q-quadruple-A Program! Said that the best thing for Cross w-was to plow h-himself under…”

  Cross stood aloof as the others bent double with their giggles. Cross did not resent what had been said; it was as though they were laughing at the foibles of an absent man who was well-known to him. He smiled, admitting to himself that the analogy was not badly put, that it fitted the snarled facts of his life pretty aptly, and that he could not have summed up his situation any better himself. The more Pink, Joe, and Booker guffawed, the longer Cross retained his nervous, ambiguous smile. Finally the laughter died and Joe, putting his arm about Cross’s shoulder, promised consolingly: “Goddammit, Crossy, I’m gonna buy you a drink. Hell, I’m gonna buy you two damn drinks. You need ’em.”

  Still chuckling, they trudged on through the snow to a corner tavern whose neon sign dimly identified it as: THE SALTY DOG. They pushed through the door and went in. Cross followed solemnly, his hands dug into his overcoat pockets, a cigarette stub glowing in his lips. He sat with the others in a booth and looked at them with quiet eyes and an enigmatic smile. A short, fat, brown proprietor with a bald head and a grey goatee called to them from behind the bar: “Same old thing, boys?”

  “Same old thing, Doc,” Joe and Pink chorused.

  “Crossy, what’s the trouble?” Booker asked softly.

  “You know what’s wrong with ’im,” Joe insisted. “His Quadruple-A Program’s got ’im down.”

  They laughed again. Doc sat four whiskies before them and, at the sight of the little glasses of pale brown fluid, they grew sober, almost dignified; each took up his glass daintily and threw back his head and tossed the liquor down his throat.

  “One of these days, Doc,” Cross said, sighing and smacking his lips, “we’re going to fool you. We’re going to swallow the glasses too.”

  “Atta boy!” Joe approved.

  “The spirit moved ’im at last,” Booker commented.

  “Crossy,” Joe said, “you’re losing your touch. Remember the time you used to pull them crazy stunts?” Joe turned to the others for confirmation. “When Cross first came to work in the Post Office, he was a nonstop riot, a real killer-diller. Early in the evening, when the rush hour was on, he used to—we were working on the 11th floor then—lift up the window, run his hand in his pocket and toss out every cent of silver he had. Just throw it all out of the window to the street. And then he’d lean out and watch the commotion of all them little antlike folks down there going wild, scrambling and scratching and clawing after them few pieces of money and then, when the money was all gone, they’d stand looking up to the window of the 11th floor with their mouths hanging open like fishes out of water. And Cross’d be laughing to beat all hell. And Cross’d say that them folks was praying when their faces were turned up like that, waiting for more money to fall. Ha-ha!

  “Remember when two men jumped at the same time for the same quarter that Cross had tossed out? They dived toward each other and they butted head on and knocked each other out, cold? They just lay there, like a truck had hit ’em, and all the other folks crowded round, looking and wondering what had happened. They had to send the riot cars full of cops to break up the mob and take the two dopes who had been diving for the quarter to jail. Ha-ha! Honest to God, I thought I’d die laughing. Cross said that that was the only time he ever felt like God. Ha-ha!”

  They laughed musingly, their eyes resting on Cross’s face which carried a detached smile.

  “Remember that wild gag he pulled at Christmas time in 19—?” Joe frowned thoughtfully and the others waited. “When the hell was that now? Oh, yes! It was in 1945. I’ll never forget it. Cross bought a batch of magazines, Harper’s, Atlantic Monthly, Collier’s, Ladies’ Home Journal, and clipped out those ads that say you can send your friends a year’s subscription as a Christmas gift. Well, Cross signed ’em and sent ’em to his friends. But he didn’t sign ’em with his name, see? He signed ’em with the names of friends of people he was sending the subscriptions to. He sent me one and it was signed by my wife. Ha-ha! Was she mad? But in the end, she really paid for it. Crossy sent one to James Harden and signed it with my name. Ha-ha! Christmas morning Harden calls me up and starts thanking me for the gift-subscription I’d sent ’im to Harper’s. I didn’t know what the hell Harden was talking about, and I was so ’shamed I sat right down and sent Harper’s a check! Man, the whole South Side was in a dither that Christmas morning. Folks was thanking other folks for presents the others didn’t know nothing about. And Crossy was listening and watching and saying nothing. Lord, it was a mess! Cross, how in God’s name did you dream up such stuff? Any man who can do things like that is a man standing outside of the world! Know what I mean? Like somebody outside of your window was looking into your house and poking out his tongue at you.” Joe went into a gale of laughter; then he pointed to Cross’s smiling face. “Look at ’im, will you? He sits there, smiling, not saying a word, not letting on he used to pull stunts like that.”

  They laughed, looking at Cross with tenderness in their eyes.

  “Say, remember all them big, deep books he used to read and tell us about?” Joe asked
looking from Cross to the others. “He used to use so many big words I thought he’d choke! Every time I saw ’im, he had a batch of books under his arm.”

  “But what I couldn’t understand,” Pink recalled, “was why Cross wouldn’t believe anything in the books he read. One time he was all hepped-up over one writer and the next time he was through with ’im and was gone on to another.”

  “And the books in Cross’s room!” Booker exclaimed. “I went to see ’im one day when he was sick, and I could hardly get into the door! Big books, little books, books piled everywhere! He even had books in bed with ’im.”

  Their heads tilted back with laughter; Cross smiled without rancor.

  “I told ’im,” Booker continued, “‘Crossy, you better find a gal to sleep with you, ’cause them books can’t keep you warm!’ Man, in the clothes closet: books. In the bathroom: books. Under the bed: books. I said, ‘Crossy, you ain’t got no ’flu germs; you got bookworms!’”

  They clapped their hands with laughter; Cross smiled and looked off.

  “Cross, you ain’t never said how come you was reading all them books,” Joe pointed out.

  “I was looking for something,” Cross said quietly.

  “What?” Pink asked.

  “I don’t know,” Cross confessed gloomily.

  “Did you find it?” Joe asked.

  “No.”

  Joe, Pink, and Booker howled with delight.

  “In those days Cross’s mind was like a little mouse, running every which way—Say, Cross, how many books you got in your room?”

  “I don’t know,” Cross mumbled.

  “I wished I had a dollar for every book you got,” Joe sighed. “Now, honest, Crossy, how come you don’t read no more?”

  “I’ve put away childish things,” Cross said.

  “Aw, be yourself, man,” Booker said.

  “I am what I am,” Cross said. “I’m sparing you guys a lot. I’m not going to bother you with my troubles.”

  “Can’t we help you any, Cross?” Joe asked seriously.

  “Lay off, guys,” Cross said, frowning for the first time. “I’m all right.” He turned and beckoned to Doc. “Bring me a bottle, Doc!”

  “Don’t drink any more, Cross,” Pink begged.

  “Ain’t you gonna eat some breakfast?” Booker asked.

  “Whiskey ain’t no good on an empty stomach,” Joe reminded him.

  “It’s my stomach,” Cross said.

  “Aw, leave ’im alone,” Booker said.

  “But a man who drinks ought to eat,” Joe insisted.

  “Eating’s all you think about, Joe,” Cross growled.

  “Hell, you got to eat to live!” Joe shouted with authoritative rudeness. “And you better stop drinking and eat and sleep some.” Joe suddenly laughed and began a game of make-believe, imitating a baby’s crying: “Aww-www—Awwww—Awwww—!” He altered his tone. “Now, what the little baby wants?” He bawled out the answer: “The bottle, the bottle, the whiskey bottle, Mama!”

  Laughter seethed and Cross joined in to show his appreciation.

  “Leave ’im alone,” Booker said. “He knows his own mind.”

  “If he keeps up that drinking, he won’t have no mind left,” Joe said emphatically. “And it’ll kill ’im.”

  “All right,” Cross said darkly. “Do I want to live forever?”

  “You’re nuts,” Joe said.

  “It pleases me,” Cross said without anger.

  “Okay,” Joe said.

  “Sure; it’s okay,” Cross said, opening the bottle and taking a long swig.

  “Wheeew,” Joe whistled. “You can’t drink like that, boy!”

  “I am,” Cross said calmly.

  “You gonna finish that bottle today?” Booker asked softly.

  “Maybe. How do I know?”

  “Ain’t you gonna sleep?”

  “If I can.”

  “‘If I can’,” jeered Joe. “Stop drinking and you can sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t sleep at all then,” Cross said.

  “What’s eating you, Cross?” Pink implored softly. “We’ve been your friends for six years. Spill it. We’ll help you—”

  “Skip it,” Cross said. “Am I complaining? You signed for my last loan and that took care of my Quadruple-A debts. That’s enough.”

  They laughed at how Cross could laugh at himself.

  “There’re some things a man must do alone,” Cross added.

  The three men looked silently at Cross. He knew that they liked him, but he felt that they were outside of his life, that there was nothing that they could do that would make any difference. Now more than ever he knew that he was alone and that his problem was one of a relationship of himself to himself.

  “We ain’t your mama and your papa,” Joe sighed, forcing a sad smile. “We can’t hold your hand, Big Boy. And you’re a big boy, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m a big boy,” Cross smiled bitterly.

  “It’s between you and Your Maker, your problem,” Joe said.

  “Lucky Joe,” Cross murmured in a tone of envy.

  “What do you mean?” Joe asked.

  Cross rose, smiled widely for the first time, pointed his finger into Joe’s fat, black, round face, and intoned: “‘And God made man in His own image…’”

  Pink and Booker yelled with laughter. Joe passed his hand caressingly and self-consciously over his black face and looked puzzled. Cross demanded in a mockingly serious voice: “Did God really make that face? Is He guilty of that? If He did, then He was walking in His sleep!” Cross shook with laughter. “To blame God for making Joe is to degrade the very concept of God!”

  Pink and Booker leaped to their feet and grabbed Joe about the waist.

  “Did God really make you, Joe?” Pink demanded.

  “Was God absent-minded when He cooked you up, Joe?” Booker asked.

  Joe forced a smile, but underneath he was a little disturbed. Then he protested: “God made me, all right. He made my soul and He made my body too.”

  “But why did He make your body so fat, Joe?” Cross asked.

  “I just ate too much and got fat,” Joe replied sheepishly.

  “But God gave you your appetite,” Pink told him.

  “And the body reflects the soul,” Cross clenched it.

  “Wow!” Pink screamed, covering his mouth with his hand. “I’m going home ’fore I laugh myself to death!”

  They all rose except Cross; he still sat and smiled up at Joe.

  “Go home and get some shut-eye, Cross,” Joe advised him.

  “God won’t let me sleep,” Cross said.

  “God ain’t got nothing to do with it!” Joe pronounced.

  “Then who keeps me awake all day long?” Cross wanted to know.

  “You, yourself,” Joe said.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Cross conceded.

  “So long,” Pink said.

  “See you, Crossy,” Joe said.

  “’Bye, now,” Booker said.

  “So long,” Cross mumbled, not looking at them as they filed out.

  “Some guys,” Doc said from behind the bar.

  “Yeah; some guys,” Cross repeated, staring at the floor.

  Yeah; it was time to sleep. He felt dead. How long could he last like this? His eyes suddenly clouded with displeasure. He had promised to see Dot this morning, but he didn’t want to talk to her, much less see her…That was all he needed: seeing Dot and having one of those long, hysterical, weeping arguments. He knew what Dot wanted to ask and the answer was no and it would always be no! Oh, damn that Dot! But if he didn’t call her, she’d soon be coming to his room and they’d argue all day long. And that was the last thing he wanted. Yes; he’d better call her; he’d tell her he was sick, feeling too bad to see her. He rose, jammed the whiskey bottle into his overcoat pocket, went into the telephone booth, dropped a coin into the slot and dialed. Almost at once Dot’s voice sang over the wire: “How are you, darling?”

 
; She was waiting in the hallway by the phone, he thought.

  “I feel like hell,” he growled.

  “Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “Naw; I just left the Post Office—”

  “But honey, you got off from work at four o’clock and now it’s nearly six. You’ve had plenty of time to eat.”

  “I was in a bar,” he told her.

  “Oh, God, Cross! You must stop drinking!”

  “Do you think I can with what I’ve got on my mind?”

  “Come over right now, hunh? I’ll cook your breakfast—”

  “Naw.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You’re mean! And you promised you’d see me this morning—”

  “But I don’t feel like it. I’m exhausted.”

  “You mean you’re too drunk!” she said savagely.

  “So?”

  “Oh, God, Cross! Why did I ever get mixed up with you?”

  “I’ve told you how to get unmixed with me, haven’t I?”

  “Don’t you say that to me again!”

  “I am saying it!”

  “Listen, come here now! I want to talk to you!”

  “I’m tired, I tell you!”

  “I don’t care! You come over now!”

  “You’re crazy, Dot! Do you think you can make people do things they don’t want to do?” he asked her earnestly.

  He heard her suck in her breath and when her voice came over the wire again it was so shrill that he had to hold the receiver away from his ear.

  “If you don’t see me this morning, you’ll be sorry! You hear? Whatever happens’ll be your fault! You can’t treat me this way! I won’t let you! You hear? I said I won’t let you! You made me a promise and I want you to keep it! Now, come over here. I’ve got something to tell you—”

  “Dot—”

  “No; no; let me talk—”

  “Listen, Dot—”

  “I said let me talk!”

  “Oh, Goddammit, Dot!”

  “Don’t cuss me! Oh, God, don’t cuss me when I’m like this! Can’t you understand? Have a little pity—” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’ll kill myself—”

  “Dot—Don’t go on like that—”

  “You don’t think I’ll kill myself, but I will—”