Them

by Nathan McCall

  “Lemme tell y’all niggers somethin,” said Amos. “That gal ain’t worf all that slobberin over.”

  “Buulllllshhhiiiit!” Willie snorted. “Thasa perty piece a sculptin dere!”

  “She might have a fine shape now,” Amos countered, “but I can look at her and tell that won’t last.”

  “How you know what ain’t gon last?”

  “Easy.” Amos pointed in the direction of Lucretia’s house. “All you gotta do is go over there and look at her mama.”

  “And?”

  “And that’ll tell you how the daughta gonna look down the road!”

  He launched into some winding theory about how, using a woman’s current age, weight and bowel habits, you could compute the amount of fat she’ll accumulate over time.

  “I can look at that gurl’s bones and tell she gon be heavy. She healthy as a grown woman now!”

  The others kept quiet on that point, which did seem to bear a certain strength of logic.

  “Sides,” added Amos, “she cain’t do nothin no other woman cain’t do…Y’all niggers don’t know nothin bout no woman!”

  “Huummph. Sound to me like you don’t know.”

  Amos turned and faced Willie. “I ain’t gonna argue wit you, Will-hime…What the hell kinda name is that, anyway? Will-hime!”

  Willie’s Christian name was Wilheim, but he was called Willie for short. It seemed simpler to pronounce, even though it was the same number of syllables.

  “Lemme show you somethin,” Amos said, returning to his theory. He snatched a Coca-Cola bottle from Ely’s hand, just as he prepared to mix himself another drink. He poured some Coke into a plastic glass and handed it to Willie.

  “Taste dis.”

  Willie eyed it suspiciously. “You wont me to put some likker in it?”

  “Naw, man! Jus taste the soda like I axed you to!”

  Willie sipped warily and put it down. “Okay. Now what?”

  Amos handed him the Coca-Cola bottle. “Now taste dis; drink it straight from the bottle.”

  “I jus drank some soda…Whas yo pernt?”

  “Taste it from the bottle, man, then I’ll tell you my gotdamn pernt!”

  Willie tasted, again reluctantly. “All right. So whas your pernt?”

  “Which one taste better? The soda in the glass, or the soda in the bottle?”

  Willie grumbled: “Wha you ax me that stupid quer-stion for? The Co-Cola in the bottle the same as the Co-Cola in the glass!”

  “Thas jus my pernt. It don’t matter what shape the containa come in; Co-Cola is Co-Cola! And it don’t matter what shape a woman come in, neither. Is whas inside the containa that count.”

  That said, Amos reared back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. For him it was one of those rare moments when his innate wisdom seemed crystal clear to him. It was moments like this when he regretted he had not become a lawyer or something in life.

  He showed his satisfaction by reaching over and pouring a drink for each of his friends. He wanted them to go undisturbed as they pondered the sheer profundity of his analogy.

  Amos would have basked in his brilliance some more if Barlowe hadn’t interrupted with a question that flung the debate far afield.

  “Have y’all wondered why the only white people to move on this street moved next door to me?”

  They all looked at one another, puzzled.

  “Don’t y’all think thas strange?”

  Willie took a deep, exasperated breath. “Barlowe, I hear they used to pay twenny dollars a head to turn in crazies to the loony farm in Milledgeville. If I was to wrap you in a tater sack and take you back to yo hometown, I blieve white folks would gimme enough for a fif a scotch.”

  They all laughed.

  Barlowe waved him off and went in the store. The boys followed. As they walked behind, they glanced at each other with raised eyebrows that said, That Barlowe got a real problem. He might need to get some help.

  When Sandy approached, the mini-mart was filled with people and chatter. The men now stood off in a tight corner, laughing and knee-slapping at some private joke.

  “An he said that ooman had a mustache thick as his!”

  “Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!”

  When Sandy appeared in the doorway the place fell deathly quiet.

  Barlowe had gone to an aisle looking for the shelf where the oatmeal was kept. Like everybody else, he stopped and appraised the white lady coming in. He saw the long stem of a neck that ran up to dirty blonde hair, cut short at the nape. He noted the slender, athletic build. She was feminine, but with a bit of a rugged mountain look.

  Met by burning eyes, Sandy advanced just beyond the first row of canned goods. She gathered herself and rushed down one of the narrow aisles. She could hear her own footsteps as she moved. She could feel the eyes trailing her.

  She stopped in the hair care section and scanned the shelf: Dark and Lovely; Bronner Bros Super Gro; Smooth’n Shine Polishing Curl Activator Gel.

  Strange. Nothing there for her.

  Assuming she’d landed in the wrong spot, she moved down further and scanned some more: African Pride Braid Sheen Spray; TCB Naturals No-Lye Relaxer; Comb-Thru Texturizer.

  She paused. All of a sudden a simple search for shampoo felt complicated. She went down the row again, certain she had overlooked something. All the while, she felt the eyes. She had the sense of walking through a dense forest at night, with twenty owls peering down from surrounding trees. The owls could see her but she couldn’t see them, and she dared not look their way.

  Sensing a tension mounting in her store, Juliette James called to the white lady from up front. “May I help you, ma’am?”

  The owls fastened onto Sandy’s lips, to see what she would say.

  “No. I’m fine, thank you.”

  She could feel it: Every hint of a motion she made was scrutinized, especially by the women. Their eyes cut like razors, peeling back her skin and clothes. With withering contempt, they noted the shoes: Humph! Dusty, dowdy sandals. Then on to the shorts: Too wide at the legs; goofy looking, if you ask me. And the blanched skin: Chalk! No color at all! Finally, the hair: A mop, really—lopped at the base of a bony neck and left to fend for itself.

  The men took stock of more basic things: She look flat-chested in that blouse; nice ass, though, for a white girl.

  Sandy wondered what those people would say when she left the store. Would they share a laugh at her expense?

  For the moment, nobody said anything. Not a meek hello. Not Hi-my-name-is-so-and-so. Nothing.

  The whole affair wore on Sandy. She decided to get out of there. She needed to buy something and get out, now.

  She absentmindedly snatched up some personal item she didn’t need. She started the long walk toward the register, and her thoughts shifted, oddly, to Arkansas. Little Rock, she believed it was. In a college history course she’d once taken, she had seen grainy newsreels of a black girl walking amid a hostile crowd. The poor child was headed up a long sidewalk leading to an all-white school in Little Rock. White people, their faces brimming with hate, lined each side of the walk, shouting obscenities as they were restrained by state troopers. They screamed and taunted and shook their fists. They didn’t want her there.

  Accompanied by a few other black kids, that girl went in anyway.

  Now walking through the mini-mart with the spirit of that girl’s courage nudging her on, Sandy knew what she must do. With owl-eyes tracking every step, she steeled herself. She walked and stared straight ahead.

  To avoid confronting the muddled gazes, she fixed her sight on the cash register up front. She read the curious red-lettered sign pinned to the back:

  IN GOD WE TRUST

  ALL OTHERS MUST PAY

  She zeroed in on the bottom line, vaguely wondering if it somehow applied to her:

  ALL OTHERS MUST PAY

  For the first time in her life, she felt like “other.” She was overcome with the sudden urge to scream, to an
nounce to everyone in the room how awful and otherly she felt right then.

  She reached the front counter, the owls still watching, waiting to see what she would do. She held her package aloft and forced a sheepish smile.

  “Just thought I’d pick up a few things, that’s all.”

  The people stared, first at the package: Stayfree pads. Then they looked at her.

  Sandy paid Juliette James and rushed to the door. On the way out she heard snickering. From the far corner a woman’s voice spat an ugly curse: Beeeiiiittttcccchhhhh! Beeeiiiittttcccchhhhh!

  Sandy scooted across the street and reached her front porch, panting. She went indoors and flopped on the couch. For a long while, she stayed indoors and kept to herself.

  Sean noticed her downcast mood and asked what was the matter.

  “Nothing. I need to think, that’s all.”

  For the rest of that day, she couldn’t stop thinking. She kept thinking about that poor girl in Arkansas.

  Chapter 12

  Barlowe sat at the table at Martha’s Kitchen and wolfed down a plate of fried chicken, collards and candied yams. On most days, he took a bag lunch to work, but on payday he usually rewarded himself. So he ate at Martha’s at least once a week, and always alone.

  The boys at the print shop often went out together for lunch and beer. In some awkward gesture of kindness, or sympathy about him being the odd man out, they invited him sometimes. He joined his colleagues a few times, but found it a strain talking with them for more than ten minutes, unless the talk centered on work or sports. So Barlowe usually turned down their invitations. It made them happy, too.

  Now he finished his meal, took up the tray and said good-bye to Martha, who owned the place. The weather outside was nice; bright and sunshiny, with a bit of a chill.

  He took another route back to the print shop. He often took a different route, to see what he could see. This time he went up Walker Street. Eventually, he came upon a strip of businesses nestled between an ice cream parlor and a clothing store. Before reaching the end of the strip he nearly bumped into a wooden sign in front of another shop.

  Come In!

  Make Your Own At

  The Pottery Place!

  He stepped to the huge plate glass window and pressed his mug against the pane, cupping both hands tight around his face. The place looked cluttered, like an elementary school art room. There were several long tables spread out over an open floor, topped with clay pots and porcelain figurines. Pots in various states of completion filled rows of shelves lining the walls.

  There were about twenty people inside. Some sat at tables and sculpted wet mounds of clay placed on spools and twirling around. Others painted on pots that had already been shaped and dried.

  Barlowe stood there and studied them. Deeply absorbed in their clay creations, the people seemed unaware they were being watched.

  It occurred to Barlowe that in the normal course of things it wouldn’t cross his mind in a thousand years to go inside a place like that. What would he do in a place like that, a place where people went to make clay pots? He wouldn’t know where to begin. How had those folks started? How had they come to spend their free time making pots?

  He stood there a moment and tried to think that through. After some reflection he concluded that making pots was clearly about the activity itself. He’d read somewhere that it was therapeutic. Still, he wondered how people found space in their heads to indulge in the sheer pleasure of making a thing, especially if that thing was an item they could easily find at Kmart or Lowe’s.

  It seemed odd. Then again, maybe it wasn’t odd, for them. Maybe it was the most natural thing in the world.

  He came back full-circle in his head. So why had he never been inside a pottery? He didn’t know. And he wondered if his not knowing was yet more proof that other people knew so much more than him. It always seemed to come back to that: knowing or not knowing how to live. Something about that notion left him vaguely unsettled.

  He scanned the room again and noticed a white woman eyeing him. She sat at a table in one of the corners. A spool of wet clay twirled in front of her. When their eyes met, she shifted her gaze back to her art, every now and then glancing his way, a curious expression etched on her face.

  He wondered what she was thinking.

  He checked his watch and noted that it was time to go. He had scheduled a meeting with his foreman. He left, heading back toward the print shop. Along the way he thought again about The Pottery Place. When he had time again, maybe next week, he would go back and watch some more.

  He doubted he would go inside. Still, he was curious. Who knew? It might be fun making pots.

  The Copy Right Print Shop was located on Marietta Street, up on the northwest end, near the industrial area. Barlowe got there and headed straight to the foreman’s office. The office was a glass-encased partition that enabled the foreman to keep a watchful eye on shop operations.

  When Barlowe showed up, a Tennessee boy named Drew Wallace was inside, knee-slapping and cracking jokes. Barlowe waited outside the office until they were done. When Drew left, the foreman waved him in.

  The foreman was a man named Billy Spivey. Billy was born and raised in Louisiana, where they still had plantations in modern times. A tall, lean, hard-boiled man with deeply stained teeth and a crew cut, Billy had his jaw puffed with a wad of tobacco stuffed inside. He carried a scratched-up tin cup to catch tobacco when he had to spit.

  Billy’s office was just like Billy: spare, straightforward. The desktop was piled high with ink-stained paper, sheets he’d snatched off presses to ensure quality control. Besides a few pens and paper clips, that was about all Billy kept on the desk.

  Several printing plaques lined a side wall. The back wall was nearly fully covered—with a huge American flag. It had been nailed into the Sheetrock like some glorious crucifixion.

  Barlowe sat down, crossed his legs and tried his best to ignore that thing.

  “Billy.”

  “Barlowe.”

  The two men had an unspoken pact. They looked at each other no more than they had to, and spoke to each other even less. They got along well so long as they kept their exchanges confined to work.

  This day, Barlowe needed to talk with Billy about something vital, so he’d asked the foreman to set a time.

  Billy raised the tobacco spit-cup to his mouth. “What can I do you for, Barlowe, m’boy?”

  Barlowe shifted in his seat a little. He could see that flag—he could feel it—out the corner of his eye.

  “I came to talk to you bout a raise, Billy.”

  “A raise?”

  “Yeah, Billy. A raise.”

  The foreman’s mouth puffed out, blowfish-like. “Raises not due fore next year, Barlowe.”

  “I know. But I got a special need.”

  “You wanna tell me bout it?”

  Barlowe glimpsed that flag and veered back at the man sitting beneath it.

  “Actually, is personal, Billy. Is personal.”

  “Well, raises not due fore next year.”

  Barlowe fixed on his boss with a level stare. “I work hard for this company, Billy. You know I work hard.”

  “Yeah. I know that, Barlowe.”

  Billy sat there, stiff as wood. No doubt, Barlowe was a good worker; one of their best, actually. In the years he’d worked there he’d established himself as a real pro, the top man in the house on four-color jobs. He had a way of setting the press register just right, slapping the colors on top of each other so straight the images popped up and out, camera-perfect. Billy liked that he had an ace four-color man he could depend on, especially for the most important jobs.

  And Barlowe was a bit of a press mechanic, too, which was vital in a shop that used such old machines. Whenever his press broke down, Barlowe would come in on weekends and fix it himself, rather than wait on outside maintenance people. Barlowe saved the company money. The bigwigs at Copy Right liked that a lot.

  Billy sat there t
hinking, his face blank, impassive. There was no need trying to make Barlowe feel guilty. Unlike some of the other boys around there, always bitching about this and that, Barlowe never asked for anything he didn’t rightly deserve. He did his work and minded his business, which was all a boss could ask of any man.

  Still, with men like Spivey a certain deference was required to get real cooperation on anything. After working there for several years, Barlowe didn’t seem to know that yet. Either he didn’t know or didn’t care. He made that clear when he uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and pounded an ink-stained fist on Spivey’s desk.

  “I work hard around here, Billy. And all I’m askin is for a raise.”

  Billy’s face flushed the deepest red. He would have loved to fire Barlowe on the spot, and, for general principles, have him tossed out on the sidewalk—on his head. But Billy was in a bit of a pickle here. Print shops around town were always looking for good four-color men. He couldn’t risk losing Barlowe to another shop. If he lost Barlowe, Billy would likely have to answer to the higher-ups, the big shots in the white cotton shirts who paraded through the pressroom, assessing production costs and employee waste.

  Billy didn’t want to be hassled by them. He hated people like them, just like he hated Barlowe’s kind. They were all shit to him; just different shades of crap, that’s all.

  The foreman sneered and spit in his cup. The sour look on his puss said it all: It said Spivey didn’t like the direction this country was moving in. There was a time in the country when life was straightforward. Now things were complicated. Times like this, Billy longed for Louisiana. Things there were still pretty cut-and-dried. Certain people in Louisiana knew where they stood, and knew where they were damned well supposed to stand.

  Billy leaned back in his swivel chair. He leaned back so far it looked like he might spill over. He was daydreaming now; daydreaming about the good ol days in the bayou, when a man like Barlowe wouldn’t dare barge into the boss’s office, making demands. In Louisiana, a person like that might be known to disappear. At some point he might be found hanging among sprawling Spanish moss, maybe with a note—a reminder to the living—clipped to his big toe.