Rules of '48

by Jack Cady

  Meeting Lester

  By the time Lucky returned to his store the work day stood well advanced; or, for lots of colored guys, already over:

  From fetid rooms where electric fans flailed against night-heat of summer, and where humidity soaked old wallpaper from walls, men had emerged at dawn. They stepped silent along streets and between brick tenements as they headed for the river. On Market St., where the street joined the Clark bridge leading to Indiana, the men stood in clusters; men named Joe, Pete, Zeke, Mose, Alfonzo, Rodney, Jack.

  In early a.m. the jive level flowed lower than the summer river. Men looked each other over and selected standing-spots. Big guys arranged to stand among clusters of smaller men. Big guys wore short sleeves or undershirts to show the bulk of upper arms. These were the men chosen by contractors, warehouse foremen and steel haulers. After the work day ended, these guys would speak of "Sweatin' lak a goddamn Irishman, and fartin' lak a Missouri mule."

  Day labor. Pay in cash at the end of the day. Seventy-five cents an hour, on up to a buck twenty-five. If a man proved worth keeping, and if the boss had a big job, there might be as much as two weeks' work all in a row. Get ahead of the rent man; for once. Brag some to your woman who quit nagging, feed the kids, and loosen up at Sapphire Top Spot.

  Stubby guys, who because of their builds could work low on loads, were taken by truck drivers to handle dry freight, furniture, drums of chemicals, sacks of produce, bags of cement (90 lbs. each, no hand truck).

  Skinny men took what was left; or nothing a-tall. Their work day ended around noon when they were not chosen. They wandered off, eyes cast down, or searching for something to pick off from a parked car, something to hock with Lucky. It was either that or another day of empty pockets. Another day when a man would have to find an angle, or not dirty up a dinner plate.

  And some guys, fortunate as Baptist angels, hooked onto a steady job. These were guys with something extra; a skill, a super strong back, or, in Lester's case, a personality. Lester worked, or had worked, for Charlie Weaver.

  Lester—black—like they don't build 'em that black anymore. Purple lips, skin like midnight satin, reddest mouth anybody ever seen, and laughing open-mouthed.

  And lithe, skinny, dancing like no dancing master could perform. A backward roll to his shoulders, arms flying, twinkle-toes like only the best of hoofers, more natural than trained. Dancing through the summers, throwing sweat, sweating out the beer at Sapphire Top Spot.

  Mr. Personality. Lester packed a real smile. No accommodation attitudes. Not for Lester. Most white folks walked a little doubtful around him, because it seemed that "this boy done forgot he's a nigger."

  Mr. Joyful, that was Lester.

  And, when Lucky returned from the funeral to re-open his hock shop, Lester stood right there before the faded green of Sapphire Top Spot, and bright yellow paint of Lucky's; Lester busy holding down the sidewalk.

  "Nice funeral?" Lester stood watching as Lucky searched his keys then opened up.

  "There ain't no such thing," Lucky told him. "We got him in the ground."

  "Midst all them dead folks," Lester said. "Too much company. I left instruction. When I die somebody grabs me by the big toe and tosses me in the river."

  When Lucky went behind his front counter to pull a cash bag from a safe, Lester stood quiet. After Lucky got cash counted into the register Lester leaned on the counter. "Charlie was okay. Charlie knew how to treat a man." Lester's hands were broad like his mouth; hands work-worn, stubby nails. He looked up at the store mascots, the stuffed chickens. Old Lola the guinea hen seemed friendly. Thomas, the Plymouth Rock rooster, seemed crazier than usual.

  "Miz Weaver always doubted me. What's gonna happen to the auction?"

  "Miz Weaver is high-born," Lucky told him kindly. "The high-born doubt most things." Lucky looked toward the street where afternoon sun threatened to turn to evening. Shadows cast by tenements ran long and brickwork looked rusty. "There won't be an auction," Lucky said. "The family will close it down. They've got no auctioneer."

  "I know the business," Lester told him. "I know the rap."

  "And you know Miz Weaver." Lucky did not say that nobody colored was gonna make an auctioneer. Not a chance. There might even be a law against it.

  "Hopeless," Lester said, "I got bucks laid back. I can go for quite a spell. But, man, I gotta have a job."

  "The only job I've got," Lucky told him, "is a kid's job. Part time, sweep and polish." He paused. "Have you tried the new guy?"

  "He don't look good."

  "Could be you're wrong." Lucky reached to tap Lester on the hand, friendly. "He talks like an outhouse, but there's something there."

  "You might could put in a word," Lester said. "Or, say it this way . . . would you put in a word?"

  "You're straight," Lucky told him. "It's the least I can do. You two might be able to figure each other out."

  * * *

  Because they handle consignment, and do not own merchandise, auction houses open and close on schedules different from other business. During early set-up for sales, the house looks like a Kentucky thunderstorm swept through, piling merchandise helter-skelter. At zenith the pile is a confusion of goods from different places. Only concentrated memory tells what came from where. The house remains closed.

  Once the floors are swept, and the various lots of merchandise sorted and placed, the auctioneer assigns lot numbers and tags every item. There's still work for the doing, but at least the public no longer screws things up by picking an item from one lot, and placing it in another. The auction's doors open for viewing.

  Two days after Lester and Lucky talked, Wade and his kid were assigning lot numbers when Lester showed up for work, 7:57 a.m., sharp. Lester paused inside the doorway, admiring a mighty pretty sale. Wade saw a muscular nigger, somewhat skinny, who probably wasn't gonna work out, but Wade held trust in Lucky. When Lester held out a hand, Wade took it; not a little surprised. "Lucky called," he said, "and I'm fair for giving it a try. You're Weaver's boy."

  Bad start, but Wade didn't know it. Wade had perfect pitch for talking among white folks, not colored. In those days 'race words' went this way: 'Colored' was polite and good. 'Colored gentleman/lady' was best. 'Negro' was respectable and technical. The newspapers, including The Louisville Defender used it. So did the NAACP. 'Black' was suspect, a bit insulting. 'Negra' was a polite way of saying nigger, and was used by cultured whites and preachers. 'Darky' was droll, nearly affectionate, and not a little possessive. 'Boy' was any colored male under sixty, and 'Uncle' was any colored male over sixty. With females it was 'Girl' and 'Auntie'. 'Nigger' was not used by people of Wade's quality in the presence of colored folk, though they might think it. Nigger was used in conversation with whites.

  "I was Weaver's grip," Lester said, "I've done Army time and I'm twenty-seven years old." He looked toward Wade's daughter who was waxing an antique chest. "Better tell her to use paste, not that liquid slop."

  Wade was, quite literally, taken aback. Black boys were supposed to grin and say 'yassuh'. "How in hell is this going to work? You're already tellin' me how to run my business."

  "I'm saying liquid slop darkens wood. Ask any antique dealer."

  "No shit?" Wade said. The white guy understood that this brand-new trooper, sorta skinny and midnight black, actually knew something.

  "None a-tall," Lester told him. "Except for the war I been around this business since a kid."

  The colored guy saw a white man who was so full of crap you could almost smell it on his breath. On the other hand, the colored guy saw that Lucky had been right; this white had something going. The colored guy looked around the auction house. He checked out the cleanest and most attractive sale he'd ever seen. This white guy knew something. "No shit?" Lester said.

  "Help me finish numbering this sale," Wade told him. To his kid, Wade said, "Check with your mom. Find something to do." He turned back to Lester. "We get done here, we've got a big warehouse. Ever do a warehouse?" />
  "All the time," Lester told him. "Lots of times."

  August 2nd

  Meeting Wade's Kid

  Rumor began two days after Mrs. Mildred Samuels was taken to the mortuary. On Saturday, while loitering, Wade's kid, Jim, heard it at the drugstore kitty-corner the Shell station. The kid was supposed to be getting a haircut, but took time for goofing off. He wouldn't have heard rumor at all, except the pinball sat near the soda fountain.

  "We had our army in Europe," a sweaty man said. "We should've walked right on in and settled it. We'll have to sooner or later." He sat before a five cent glass of Coke. A straw farm-hat was shoved to the back of his head and sweat stained the hat above the hat band. His face look stream-lined. His nose stuck out nubby like one of the new Studebakers.

  "That's quite a bit of territory," a second man said. "Russia's like us in a way. It's too big to occupy." This man sat slaunchwise on his stool. He watched the cashier at the cigar counter, a girl worth seeing; bobbed brown hair and leggy, though with skirt hitting mid-calf. The man wore a battered fishing hat tipped forward over horn-rim glasses. Neither man cussed because ladies were present. Across the counter a waitress scooped ice cream, leaning forward; the effect spoiled because of a primly buttoned high-neck blouse.

  "They were allies, the Russians," the man with glasses said.

  "And I believe everything I read in the newspaper." The first man lifted his cup, toyed with a saucer. "I believe in the Easter Bunny. Shucks, I believe in the Brooklyn Dodgers."

  The other man chuckled. "I'm with you on the Easter Bunny. But, what's your beef?"

  "Unions. Communism. Two names for one thing. Read your history. You'll find it goes back a long, long way." The man's voice sounded more impassioned than he looked. "Congress is looking into it."

  "House UnAmerican Activities," the man with the glasses said. "It's a committee."

  Wade's kid juggled nickels in his hand. The pinball's lighted backboard showed the picture of a cowboy; spurs that jingle-jangle-jingled.

  "And I have read the history," the man with the glasses and fishing hat said. "Truth to tell, I teach it. Male High."

  "Then I don't have to explain." The thin guy in the straw hat looked through the windows of the store, and into the street. "Samuels," he said, "what kind of name is Samuels?" He watched the waitress move beyond hearing distance. "That the hell kind of name is Samuels? Yid?"

  "It could be Jewish. Don't bet on it. It could be English or Irish."

  "Or Russian. There's lots of Russian Jews. There's an underground."

  "We have a spy on Bardstown Road?" The man with the glasses and old fishing hat tried not to seem amused. "It would be the world's most boring job." He looked across the street at the Kaiser-Frasier dealership. "Those have to be the ugliest cars since the Chrysler Airflow."

  "On Bardstown Road," the first man said, and he sounded prim, "we have some bastards named Samuels who do not come out in daytime. You hardly never see 'em. They talk like Russians. They sound exactly like Russians. There's a radio aerial up the side of their house. So what's that about?"

  "There's lots of ham radios, and otherwise. I've got an aerial, myself." The straw-hat man tapped the counter with his fingers. "Don't get me wrong. I like this town. But it's a damn slow town. There's nothing here to attract spies."

  "We're a central rail station north and south. We have industries. We have a waterfront. You think Stalin's just lying doggo?" The straw-hat-man's voice dropped to a near whisper. "And, for some, the war ain't over." He smiled, but not a happy smile. "It's over for one of them. The old lady croaked."

  Wade's kid turned from the conversation. He muttered under his breath. "You never saw somebody dead."

  The kid left the drugstore and dawdled along the street. He was of that age when kids get sick at heart; buried beneath both truth and bull, but haven't learned to tell one from the other.

  In his mind and memory it went like this:

  "What's a Jew?"

  "Somebody from the Old Testament," his mother told him. "Some of them are nice."

  "Sharp businessmen," his father told him. "I don't like the sonovbitches, but I can do business with them."

  "Pushy," the Sunday School teacher said. "They want to buy houses in neighborhoods where they don't belong."

  "Lucky is okay," his father said. "He's an exception. You can learn a lot from Lucky."

  "Keep the yids in line," a man at the barbershop said. "They already own Taylorsville road. Won't be long before they want the whole damn Highlands."

  "What's a communist?"

  "Somebody who thinks the government should run everything," his mother said.

  "Roosevelt did something great for his country," his father said. "He died. Communists are unions. Goldbricks. People who won't work."

  "Evil men trying to take over the world," the Sunday School teacher said.

  "A bunch of Red sonsovbitches spreading integration shit among uppity niggers." (According to the barber shop).

  And in the kid's mind ran hymns, not jazz; and yes, Jesus loved the little children, all the children of the world.

  He dawdled along the street, reluctant to head for the barber shop and more confusion. School would start soon. Almost a relief.

  When Mrs. Samuels died his dad had told him to see what was going on. He had walked through the open doorway of the next-door house, wishing he were elsewhere. Men's voices came in sobs and whispers from a back room. He moved timidly in that direction, knowing he was doing wrong, but obedient.

  Faded-flower wallpaper decorated the short hall and living room. A plain lamp wearing a paper shade sat on a low table. Overstuffed chairs and sofa were worn but clean. The house smelled funny, like perfumed candles. The kid wanted to leave, could not.

  When he stood at the doorway to the bedroom, a short, pale man wept. The man's short-sleeved shirt did not cover a blue tattoo on his arm. All the kid could tell was that the tattoo wasn't a picture of anything. It looked different and clumsy.

  A second man, thin and with tear-streaked face grabbed Wade's kid by the arm. The man did not seem angry, only determined. He seemed awful sickly, barely able stand. He practically staggered when he walked. He gave little gasping sounds, like he hurt just terrible, and his grip was weak. He didn't even shove, just urged.

  Wade's kid only had the briefest look at Mrs. Samuels, but it was a look that would last. Her mouth hung open. Worse. her eyeballs had disappeared. Her eyes were open and nothin' but white. Did everybody do that? Or was it Russian?

  He had returned to the auction house. Then his sister and mother went next door to Mrs. Samuels' place. When they returned his sister was wordless. She picked up a rag and furniture polish. His sister could pretend anything. She could pretend that spiffing up used coffee tables was interesting. She remained wordless for the rest of the day.

  "I met her sons," his mother had said. "There's not much we can do." She sounded troubled. "They are taking it awful hard."

  "Foreigners," Wade said, "Albanians or something. Italians. Noisy as all hell."

  "Rest her soul, a woman just died."

  "They'll send for a preacher," Wade told her. "More interruptions? No sense crying over spilled Italians."

  "I'm not crying." The kid's mother had looked directly at Wade, looked around the auction house, then looked at her kids. "I probably should."

  The kid heard something wrong. Her voice held quiet rebuke, the way it did after he did something dumb. He watched his dad, and his dad didn't pick up.

  "You'll not tell me when to be neighborly," his mom said. "Those people are from someplace else, and they're alone. They look sickly, and nobody talks to them." She had returned to desk work, and she too, became wordless.

  * * *

  As he walked along the heat-stricken sidewalk, after leaving the drugstore, the kid fretted. His mom said the Samuels people were from someplace else. And what was this shit about Russia. The kid looked around, guilty because he had just thought '
shit', even if he didn't say it.

  Except for windows fronting the street, all the shops had blinds pulled against the sun. A motion picture house sat next the drugstore, and after that a florist, and on the corner a barber shop. The kid had already thought shit, and now he thought worse, but fought against thinking it. Although confused, he almost understood why.

  Because, he was about to get a haircut and that meant more confusion. Kids were supposed to show respect for grown-ups. The kid did not understand that there was no shortage of men even a dog couldn't respect. The sad sacks gathered at three kinds of meeting places:

  V.F.W. lodges, both the sort for whites, and the fractured imitations for colored, were largely sites of good red whiskey and war stories. Most war stories were told by walking-wounded; brave men who had fallen down a staircase while drunk in such exotic ports as Trenton, New Jersey. The real soldiers, the true combatants, didn't talk all that much.

  Stag bars (no women allowed, ever) were places where men went to cuss, and brag about the size of their apparatus. It was better than the V.F.W. because no one felt obliged to tell war stories, and no one felt obliged to believe them. In stag bars, men who lacked arms, or legs, or eyes, could get quietly drunk without offending sensitive southern belles, or discussing their wars, or listening to summer-soldier-horse-hocky.

  But, it was barber shops that educated Louisville's young white boys, because boys were not allowed in the V.F.W., and only rarely in stag bars. Barber shops gave instruction in thoughts about society and women. A standard barber shop joke went:

  Young and gorgeous female enters barber shop (where she doesn't belong) in quest of hubby. She speaks:

  "Bob Cox here?"

  Barber smiles. Answers:

  "No ma'm, just shave and haircut."

  A real howler. Always good for a chuckle.

  Twirling barber pole, red and white twisting; a symbol not as ancient as the pyramids, but no spring chicken. In olden times barbers were half-baked doctors, bleeding patients; the barber pole a sign of wrapped cloths and blood.