Bookman

by Ed Baldwin

  “Well?” T.J. said, still smirking. “I’m on the edge of my seat, particularly interested in the three or four hours of hard work. Why I might decide to go down to Collier’s myself.”

  “There’s a lot of driving around to get to the place where the three or four hours of hard work is done, and then back,” I said, defensively.

  He nodded, an earnest look on his face for the first time.

  “When I felt successful, I was. As soon as I learned you could fail, I began to worry about failing, and I did. Some of the guys are always reading those positive thinking books, but Gerald never did. He’s different from the rest of the salesmen. Something within him is always positive. When I was failing I envied him. I read the books and sometimes they helped, but not enough. Gerald is the key here. He’s found the answer and now I have too.”

  “I need to meet this Gerald/’ T.J. said, the smirk creeping back.

  “He’s not that impressive in person, actually. He’s not one of those fancy dressed loud talking types. He isn’t enthusiastic himself, but somehow he brings it out in others. I never knew why until now.”

  “And why, pray tell, is this Gerald such a sales guru?” T.J. said, obviously trying to bait me.

  I ignored him. “He’s got attitude and attitude can’t be faked, it has to be felt. The trick is to consistently conquer the thoughts of failure,” I said, getting excited now, “and truly believe you will always succeed. Then you will, because you will be so magnetic, people will listen to you, and take seriously whatever you have to say.”

  “So you’ve got to conquer doubt, is that it?” T.J. said, surprising me that he was paying attention.

  “Gerald made a bet with one of the guys in his crew about who would write the most orders on a road trip last Summer. There was no doubt in Gerald and it goaded the other guy into the ten dollar wager. Both got orders easily the first two nights but Gerald’s crew said he had failed to write one by the time he was to pick the guys up on the third night. So what he did was he gave his car to the first salesman he could find and told him to pick up the rest of the crew while he made some more callbacks. The crew waited at the end of the street and watched him hit house after house, stopping at street lights or porch lights to read his appointment record, and finally just knocking wherever he found a light until he got in and closed a deal. It was after midnight, but he did it, and he won the bet.” I sat up straight on the side of the bed, eye level with T.J.

  “If you are determined to do whatever it takes to succeed. To knock on doors til dawn if necessary, and you know you will do it if it takes that, then you will have that deep seated confidence that will make you succeed. By being determined to knock on a thousand doors if necessary you won’t have to!” I said, feeling even more confident than I ever felt when I was selling like crazy. In fact, suddenly I realized that understanding about sales was even better than getting sales—at least it was at that moment. I paused for a moment, breathing hard, practically breathless in my enthusiasm.

  T.J. nodded at me and smiled. It was not a smirk.

  My excitement was causing my nose to start bleeding again so I got up and got another towel and re-applied the ice. The bellman brought our breakfast and spread it out on the table by the window. Fried ham and eggs with grits and hashbrowns and toast. It looked and smelled so good I sat down and started shoveling it in without waiting for T.J. Between mouthfuls, I kept talking.

  “The game starts again at every door. It doesn’t matter who answers it. What happens is really up to me. There are two hundred thousand potential deals in Shelby County alone. I couldn’t get around to all of them in a lifetime. This job is just as simple as Lanny said it was that first day in training class last Summer. ‘Go out there and find somebody who qualifies and write ’em up.’”

  “There may be hope for you,” T.J. said, sopping up the runny part of a fried egg with a piece of toast and then stirring the rest in with his grits.

  “I can hardly wait til the nose heals up. I want to apologize to a couple dozen people for the complete shit I’ve been and then hit the street again as soon as possible,” I said confidently.

  “You sure that’s the way to go? Door to door sales?” T.J. asked, serious for the first time.

  “Now that I’ve got it figured out you want me to do something else?” I asked, fearing that somehow all this insight had passed right over his head. “I’ve figured out the secret to Life and the making of a fast dependable buck and you want me to start learning something new?”

  “No. Not really,” he said, getting up and looking uncomfortable for the first time. “You’ve seen the light alright, but it’s not just the book business. It’s everything. If you can hold onto that feeling you can sell cars, insurance, stocks, get elected to Congress, or be a great trial lawyer. You could even go into the flower business,” he said with a big smile, turning around from looking out the window to let me see it.

  “Ha!” I said, leaning over and collecting the last piece of his toast. “We’d be in a fist fight the first week, and then I’d be fired. I might as well start out with the books now.”

  T.J. turned back to the window and thought for a few moments. “I came down to the station this morning for several reasons,” he said to the glass. “First, I didn’t want my grandson’s father to remain a jailbird for the rest of the month, which you would have. Second, I thought I detected that change in viewpoint that would be necessary for us to have a meaningful conversation. Up until this moment, you’ve hated me so deeply you’ve been blinded to the possibilities I have to offer.”

  He paused for a moment and I started to open my mouth to protest even though I knew he was right. But before I got past saying, “Now, T.J., I…” he raised his hand and countered with the truth.

  “Phil, you’ve worked for me for two years and you don’t know jack shit about me or my business. You don’t even know about the people you’ve worked with.”

  Something told me he was right, but still I was confused and even a little irritated. I couldn’t disagree with him about not knowing about him or his business, but what did he mean by saying I didn’t know about my friends?

  “I’m talking about Moses, Sonny, and Pig,” he said sternly. “What do you really know about them?”

  Now I was angry, but he’d bought me breakfast and bailed me out of the slammer and deserved an answer. “They’re colored. Moses talks slow. Pig likes barbecue and Sonny talks on the phone a lot.”

  “And they’re your friends? Isn’t there anything else you’ve learned about them in two years?”

  My face flushed with anger, and embarrassment. Then I said, “I have new friends now. I haven’t seen them for awhile.”

  To my surprise, he nodded, letting me off the hook. Then he turned and looked out the window again. “You and I have more in common than you ever imagined. I think I will tell you my story.” He turned around and looked at me. “Not the one you’ve heard at Sunday dinners, but the real one.”

  I smiled. Not the obnoxious grin I have a tendency to throw onto my face, but a warm smile, encouraging him to launch right in.

  “The best thing that ever happened to me was to get two toes shot off because they couldn’t refuse me a job after the war. So when I came home from WW II with no education, no family business, no ambition and a child and a pregnant wife, they stuck me in the zoo. Since the first elephant, there hadn’t been a white gardener at the Memphis zoo, and they probably expected I’d stay buried there forever. And I might have, except for the other guys who worked there.

  “Anyway, it was a job with no future and no glory, but it could be done well. It could take a man’s best effort and reward him with flowers and trees that prospered and were beautiful.”

  T.J. drew a deep breath and paused. His story was sounding pretty much like the one I’d already heard. I shifted the ice from my nose to my ear for awhile and readjusted the pillow on the bed. It looked like this was going to turn into one of those Sunday afternoon
tirades.

  “We were sitting around having a Coke one afternoon, about 1946,” he began again. “We were talking about music and I was complaining that I never had enough money to go hear the big bands that played up on the roof of the Peabody Hotel. I really liked swing music. They said I ought to come down to the Club Handy. That’s where the real swing was. Duke Ellington and Count Basie and the other negro bands played there regularly. Even during the week there would be a combo superior to anything I could ever hear at the Peabody, and the cover was only a dollar.

  “I said, ‘I can’t go to a colored club. I’d get knifed!’ They said, ‘You can go with us. No problem.’ So we made a deal to meet at the Club Handy, down on Beale Street that very night. It was a Tuesday and the crowd wouldn’t be big.”

  TJ. sat down and poured himself another cup of coffee, continuing with his story as he did.

  “The club is still there, although not in its former glory. It’s on the corner of Beale and Madison, right in the heart of the colored part of downtown. It’s on the second floor and it’s big. Must hold five, six hundred people, and it’s all dance floor. They don’t like sitting around talking.”

  “I didn’t figure you for a music lover,” I said, shifting the ice back to my nose and finishing off his toast.

  “In the late forties, with the euphoria after the war, the music kind of was the background for all the exciting things that were going on. I wasn’t part of anything exciting and didn’t think I ever would be, but I could at least listen to the sounds,” TJ. said, looking kind of uncomfortable.

  By questioning his interest in the music I had apparently cast a shadow over that whole story he was trying to tell me. He looked like he might be having second thoughts about telling me anymore, but then suddenly he went on.

  “I got down there early and waited on the street corner. Even on an off night the crowd started building early. Most of the people were walking, but there were cabs and cars of every description pulling up at the door. About the time the band started my three friends showed up. There was no air conditioning then so they left the windows open and you could hear pretty well on the street. It sounded great!

  “We walked up the narrow stairs and paid our buck cover at a table at the top. There was a five piece combo with a wailing sax and most of the people were dancing already. They were playing swing, blues and jazz. It was fabulous. The place was so cavernous it looked empty even with a hundred or so people there.

  “We stood at the bar and I bought the first round. People came over to greet my friends and we were introduced. Soon we ordered a second round and then a third. They didn’t have the range of options you see at bars today since they didn’t have a mixed drink license. In Memphis, only private clubs were allowed to serve mixed drinks. You could get a shot of whiskey with your beer but it was from under the bar. Anyway, after an hour of the music and a few shots with my beer I was feeling about as good as a man can feel. That’s when Royall Lee came in.”

  “Royall Lee?” I said with a guffaw. “That’s a whore’s name if I ever heard one.”

  “No,” he said angrily. “She wasn’t a whore. Just a girl. About eighteen. My friends—everyone in the place—knew her as soon as she came in and called her over. To them she was just a little girl who liked to dance and would sneak out of the house to come to the club. To me she was mesmerizing. She was medium tall and wore one of those dresses made out of rayon that were so popular then. It was emerald green and really riveted the attention of anyone with eyeballs. She moved with a grace that gives me goose bumps yet today. When I see someone dance on television or in the movies, and they’re really good, and the rhythm seems to flow through their body, I think of her and that first time she walked across the dance floor. She wasn’t even trying to be sexy, but man oh man, she was!”

  I made a wolf call and old T.J. winked at me.

  “She felt the music, Phil, and as she walked, she’d get in tune with it.”

  “She was a dancer,” I said, trying to cut out the awe and get on to the important part.

  “Christ! I didn’t know what she was. She was just walking across the goddamned floor. Yeah, she could dance,” he said, first angry, then settling down to continue the story. The man would obviously not be hurried.

  “My friends asked about her father and sisters, and introduced her to me. Just like you would if you met the daughter of one of your friends at the country club. It was all natural and friendly. She smiled shyly when we were introduced, and looked down rather than look me right in the eye. Her hair was braided in the back but still hung down enough so that it was swaying in time to the music the whole time she stood there.

  “Her feet seemed to move on their own. I secretly glanced at her body when I thought nobody would notice. With all the swaying and movement going on it was clear that under that rayon lay some pretty spectacular equipment.”

  “You dog!” I shouted at T.J., and we both laughed. Then suddenly he got serious again and went on in a sober voice.

  “First one of the others asked her to dance and they were out there for a couple songs. She was great, of course. Finally I made my move and got on the floor with her. I’m not a bad dancer, by white standards, but of course I looked like a cripple out there with her. I didn’t care.

  “Between dances she stood with us by the bar. There wasn’t a lot of talk. She just stood there and smiled and moved. Before I knew it, it was time to go. When we left, the band was still playing and the younger guys moved in on her before we were down the stairs.”

  “Was it her or the whiskey?” I asked. I had been down the road a time or two myself with women and whiskey. They don’t always seem the same in the morning.

  “I could think of nothing else for the rest of the week. I turned my radio to the colored station to listen to the music and whenever something came on that I’d heard that night I could see her more vividly in my mind. My poor pregnant wife seemed clumsy and stupid by comparison. I pestered the guys to take me back. They reluctantly agreed.”

  “An affair!” I gloated. Old T.J. was beginning to appear human. He ignored me and went on.

  “This time she seemed glad to see us, and especially me. My friends began to look a little worried by the end of the evening. We danced almost every dance. I wanted to walk her home but she said she would get into trouble with her father if she left with anybody. My friends and I left again early and I was in worse agony than the week before.”

  “Wasn’t she a little young for you?” I asked, cautiously.

  “No. I was about twenty-one. She might have been a day or two shy of eighteen, though,” he said with a guilty smile. “Anyway, I pestered the guys all week to take me back. They all had other things to do and were tired of catching hell from their wives for going out to the club with me instead of with them. Then I made a big mistake. I went back to the Club Handy by myself. On a Saturday night.”

  “Whoo-boy!” I exclaimed excitedly. “That moonshine must have damaged your brain. Had you seen any other white guys in there?”

  “No.” He smiled, shaking his head. “I didn’t intend to go in. I went down there late in the afternoon and had a few beers in another bar thinking I might see her on the street. The crowd on a Saturday night was a lot bigger. They were really dressed up, and many came in fancy cars. The men had their hair all done up with pomade and wore dancing shoes with spats. I saw Royall Lee coming up the street but she got up the stairs before I could get through the crowd. I walked around until the music started and I knew she wasn’t coming back down. I went up and paid my money and went looking for her.”

  “What kind of band did they have on Saturday night?” I asked, now wanting to know every detail.

  “Oh hell. I think it was Count Basie. Some big band. They had half a dozen trumpets and as many on sax. The building shook when they got going and all those people got up to dance. She was there and came right over. She didn’t seem quite as happy to see me as before. I went to the bar an
d got a drink and tried to talk to the bartender. He acted like he’d never seen me. I had a few beers and then someone started buying me shots. The bartender just shrugged when I asked who it was.”

  I smiled and nodded. I could see where this was going.

  “I’m telling you, Phil, I was in love. I saw none of the warning signs. Just her. We danced every dance. Her skin was so perfect. She smelled like soap, perfume would have seemed cheap on her. About this time someone went to get my friend, the guy they had seen me with earlier in the week. He came up the stairs and saw what was happening and knew he couldn’t stop it at that point, so he went back down to the street.”

  “Some friend! You mean he just left you there?”

  “If he’d have tried to get me to leave I don’t think I would have gone with him. They wouldn’t have let me out then anyway. Here I am, a white man in this huge club, romancing a colored girl in front of 300 colored men! The only white face in there, and she’s the prettiest girl in the place!” He was getting frustrated with my ignorance.

  I raised my hand in surrender. “Okay, I think I’ve got the picture.”

  “So here’s what happened,” he said, calming down. “There were two stairs down to the street level. To the front of the building were the stairs we came up that led back down to the street where there was about as big a party going on as there was inside. An identical stair went down the other way, to the alley in back. It was the fire exit and the door at the bottom had a one-way lock. You couldn’t get in that way, and if you went out you couldn’t get back in. There were a dozen bouncers inside, carrying blackjacks. There were ballbats under the bar. They wanted no trouble in the Club Handy/’