Hitting a Straight Lick with a Crooked Stick

by Zora Neale Hurston

  Out on the bosom of the river, bobbing up and down as if waving good-bye, John Redding floated away to Jacksonville, the sea, the wide world—at last.

  The Conversion of Sam

  Jim’s restaurant is a dingy little place on Poplar Street. Now, Poplar Street, be it known, lies in a down-at-the-heel locality such as is found in all American cities, where the derelicts of all nations drag out their aimless existences.

  Drab, tottering old houses with grimy doors and broken windows squat along the narrow thoroughfare; heavy wagons lumber over the uneven cobble-stones, and all manner of filth and trash litter the side-walk and gutter. Indeed, the whole width of the street appears to be a gutter.

  The unwashed of both sexes and all races stroll up and down and hover in front of the slatternly business places, “The Bucket of Blood,” a notorious saloon, receiving the most attention.

  Jim was fat, black, and indolent; and his eating house reflected the character of its owner. In his fly-specked shop-window were displayed fish, pigs’ feet and ears, and chitterlings that one more than half suspected had had the same attention from the flies as the window itself.

  While his wife slaved in the hot kitchen, Jim lounged in one of the greasy chairs talking loudly on the solution of the race problem with two of his cronies, the Reverend Zephaniah Solomon Meggs and Professor Cicero Omega Butts. They argued loud, they argued long, but all finally agreed that the salvation of the Negro lay in leisure. Too much work was sapping the vitality of the race—Booker T. Washington was all wrong.

  There is no telling how many problems these three worthies might have solved had not a slim octoroon stepped into the shop.

  She was young, fresh-looking and clean, which marked her a stranger in these parts. Jim jumped up as quickly as his immense body would permit, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Mornin’ miss, whut’ll yer have?”

  The girl shifted from one foot to the other and looked shyly about her. “I come ter see ef yer er—er high me fer er waittruss.”

  Now Jim had never considered hiring help in his small place. His wife did the cooking and he, himself, waited on his patrons except when he got drunk, which was frequent; then his wife did both cooking and waiting. But his mind was made up immediately; in fact, the girl could have gotten most anything that Jim had to give.

  “Why, yas, miss er—er—ah wuz jes lookin’ fer er nice gal ter wait on de place—is yer ready ter staht now? an’ er—whut’s yer name?”

  “Mah name’s Stella, an’ ah come from Virginia yestiddy, an’ ah ’lowed ter git er job right er way.”

  “Wa-al, Miss Stella, youse hiahed at five dollahs er week, fur es long es yer wants ter stay—walk right bak en tek off yer things.”

  Stella started toward the rear, and the eyes of the men followed her. Seeing this, Jim began to tire of all problem discussions; yea grew weary of the fellowship of the Reverend and Professor and wished them far from Poplar Street. As they made no motion to leave, Jim mumbled something about “looking after things” and followed Stella.

  It was a very easy matter to convince Mrs. Jim that she needed a waitress—the eyes of her husband told her it would be unhealthy for her to object; so Stella became a part of Poplar Street.

  The news of the coming of Stella spread like wild-fire. The crowd of “lillies” who usually sunned themselves in front of the barber-shop across the way, promptly moved over to Jim’s corner. Business picked up one-hundred per cent; the place was always crowded. Moreover, Stella washed the window and scoured the floor and the cleanliness was an added attraction.

  The Reverend and Professor became rivals for the favors of this country girl who was unconscious of her power to attract, and even Jim began to talk of “getting out papers agin Mrs. Jim en gittin’ mah’ied ergin.”

  For days Stella showed no preference for any of her admirers. She blushed and giggled, giggled and blushed, and continued to look clean and fresh and made everything about her look the same.

  Then one evening a tall figure, shabbily clad, entered the eating-house. The genial, brown-skinned face was cracked in a broad grin, a black water spaniel followed closely with a pipe between its teeth. A titter ran over the room, then the assembly laughed outright. People usually laughed when Sam and his dog made their appearance.

  Sam Simpson was shiftless. He never did any work unless exhibiting his trained dog could be called work. Good-natured and witty, he was liked by both colored and white folks alike.

  On seeing Stella, Sam made a grotesque bow and exclaimed, “Saint Peter sho mus’ be sleep on his job, en lettin’ angels fly ’way fum Heben.”

  The recipient of this crude compliment giggled and looked confused, and haltingly asked Sam what he would have to eat.

  Sam bestowed his most winning smile on Stella for a full minute, then answered, “Well, since you goin’ to wait on me, ah will eat sumpin’; guess ah’ll tek er grave-yard stew.”

  “Whut’s dat?”

  “Doll-baby, aint yo’ never hearn tell of er grave-yard stew? Where yo come fum?”

  “Ah come fum Virginia.”

  “Oh, Ah see. Well, er grave-yard stew is milk toas’. Folks eat dat when they’s ’bout ter croak.”

  “Is you ’bout ter croak?”

  “Ah wuz, but since Ah seen you, Ah reckon Ah kin hol’ out er little longer.”

  The loungers were listening and laughing at Sam’s chaff. To them, he was Hitchcock, Bert Williams, Jolson, Lauder, Clifton Crawford, and all other first class comedians in one.

  Stella went into the kitchen. The Professor C. Omega Butts turned on Sam. The green-eyed monster was at his vitals. He was determined that Sam should not win more by sugary smiles and airy persiflage in a few minutes than he had in many days by assiduous attention and lengthy, weighty words. What added to his fury, he noticed that Stella thought Sam clever. He, therefore, felt it time to squelch this Sam person once [and] for all. He cleared his throat, thrust forward his chest and began.

  “Sam, do you know this young lady’s entrimmings?”

  “Naw, Ah don’t, an’ Ah aint worryin’ ’bout what kin of trimmin’ she wears.”

  “That aint whut Ah means, do you know her intitlems?”

  “Ah dunno whut she’s entitled ter nuther, en Ah aint worryin’ ’bout dat.”

  The room rang with boisterous laughter, and the Professor found it difficult to make himself heard.

  “Ah’m axin you ef you knows de lady’s name, but youse too ignant ter perceive de logic of mah discussion,” Professor Butts replied witheringly.

  Sam jumped to his feet and shook his fist under the nose of the other and shouted, “Looker hyaer, shad-mouf nigger! Ah doan’ perceive non er yo’ logic, en’ Ah doan wanter, but Ah does perceive dat yo’ trousers need haff-solin, en Ah’m gwine ter wreck ’em fuder, ef yo’ doan’ shet up wid me. Goin’ ’roun’ tryin ter get respect’ble by wearin’ whiskers, ef er man is hones’ he doan need whiskers ter hide behind.”

  It was now the Professor’s turn to rise. He did so slowly, haughtily.

  “Ah perceives dat—”

  “Aw, Ah’m tiahed er yo perceivin’, whut meks yer call yerseff er perfesser? Whut is yo’ perfesser of?”

  More tittering.

  “Wal, Ah’m perfesser ob ebery t’ing, not er no one thing, Ah’m er all-roun’ perfesser.”

  Sam turned to his dog and gave him a playful kick. “Stan’ up Perfesser Vicious en shake han’s wid Perfesser Butts.”

  The dog arose and offered his front paw to the irate man, who strode to the door pompously, trying to look pityingly on the assembly. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Sam yelled after him, “Say Butts, de street-cleaning Depahtment wants er nice ’fesser lak yo ’ter lif’ garbage-cans offen de side-walk.”

  The Professor fled.

  Stella was beaming on Sam—whom she considered, in spite of his shabby clothes, the wittiest, most charming being on earth. Sam saw this and acted up to her. He told his funniest stories, put the dog
through all his tricks, and told her in detail of the Mummers’ Parade, in which he and his dog always figured.

  “Yaas, Miss Stella, Ah’d be mekin’ money eve’y day ef Ah had er girl lak you.”

  Stella smiled and wriggled in her confusion.

  “Aw, Mr. Sam, youse jokin’ now, Ah ’clare ef yo’ aint de funniest, de teasinest man Ah ever seed.”

  “Deed, ah hope er shad may shoot me, ef ah doan lak you.”

  No shad appeared with deadly weapons so Sam continued, “Co’se, Ah knows Ah ain’t got no call ter be sayin’ dis, but ef any er dese ‘Lillies’ en sea-buzzards whut hang ’roun’ hyar gits too fresh fer yer, jes yo’ lemme know, en Ah’ll tek keer uf ’em.”

  Sam looked hungrily into Stella’s eyes for some sort of encouragement, but the girl only hung her head and traced a pattern on the floor with the toe of her shoe. She was a country girl, and knew not the ways of city folk, of whose perfidy she had heard so often. Except for his clothes, Sam was her idea of a swell fellow—saying snappy things, and defying all other aspirants to her hand. He was tall too—a comforting thought. But how could she know that Sam really liked her? She had been told how city fellows made fools of country girls, and what would Sam Simpson do with a stupid thing like Stella? And besides, this was the first time that she had ever seen him, and her aunt had cautioned her against taking strange men seriously. So it was more than self-consciousness that kept the girl silent.

  Being neither accepted or refused as Lord Protector of Stella’s person, Sam was hopeful and made up his mind to win her somehow. He took stock of his personal appearance that night in the mirror in the barber-shop and decided that a new suit, a shave and a hair-cut might help some. But how was he to get all this money? His dog brought in no such sums. He must get a job. He felt that he was tired of loafing anyway.

  Stella did not see Sam for two weeks. Then he surprised all by walking into Jim’s, dressed in a snuff-colored suit. Tho the suit was not new, it was clean and well-pressed. He wore patent-leather shoes with grey tops, and a snuff-colored felt hat set rakishly over one eye. He strolled leisurely to a vacant chair, drinking in the admiration he was receiving from the assembly.

  Stella’s heart jumped up and down so violently that she dropped a glass of water she was carrying. Sam was at her side instantly, helping her to collect the fragments. For a minute neither spoke, then the man found his tongue.

  “Miss Stella, how you been makin’ it sence Ah seen you las’?”

  “Yes indeed,—Mr. Sam,—putty good,—Ah mean al’right. Whut yo’ gonner eat?”

  “Bring me er reg’lar twenty-five cent dinnah, please, miss, an’ yer needn’t hurry ’tall.”

  While Stella was in the kitchen, Sam struck up a general conversation with three or four men who were sitting about for the pleasure of seeing Stella smile. He broke the news to these worthies that he was a working man now; had a job at Wescott’s lumber yard at fifteen dollars per week, subject to a raise and was thinking of settling down.

  When Stella returned, Sam asked her if she had been to a “movie” since she had been in town.

  “No, but ah’d jes lufter go.”

  “Git yer bunnet an’ we’ll jes run eround dere dis ehenin.”

  “Ah dunno if mistah Jim ’ll lemme go.”

  “Doan you worry ’bout dat, chile. Ah’ll speak ter him.”

  And so he did, or rather spoke to Mrs. Jim when she poked her head into the dining room to see how things were going. Now, Mrs. Jim did not like Sam. She suspected him of making her person the butt of many of his witticisms. His clothes surprised her, but did not allay her dislike for him. So when he spoke, she was ready to refuse as soon as he finished his request.

  “Now, Sam, you ain’t nobuddy fer Stella ter be goin ’round wid.”

  “Why?”

  Mrs. Jim flung her head up and closed her eyes in an attempt to look imposing.

  “Cause you ain’t nothin’ ’tall but trash.”

  “Ah’m jes es good es you er Jim either. An you’se glad enuff ter git him.”

  “W’en Ah wuz Stella’s age, Ah’s very purtickler who I ’cepted fer mah escorts, Ah kin tell yer.”

  “Well, yer didn’t pick much. But Ah doan reckon yer had much chance.”

  “Who, me? Ev’ey buddy said Ah’se putty as a pink when—”

  “Yas, Ah reckon you’se bout whut you is now—er kitchen bokay. An Ah reckon Jim married yer w’en he’s drunk.”

  “Git outer mah place, Sam!”

  “Oh, Ah ain’t hurryin’. But ef you chunk one er dem baked insults at me dat you calls biscuits, Ah’ll wish Ah had er went. You call dis joint er rest’rant? Why, dis ain’t nothin’ ’tall but a munition fact’ry.”

  Stella entered from the rear with hat and coat on, and Mrs. Jim, glad to escape from Sam’s ridicule, turned on her.

  “Stella, ef you leaves yo wuk ter go out wid dis scalawag, you needn’t come back hyar no mo’.”

  The girl wilted and turned to go to the rear, with a sorrowful expression, but Sam detained her.

  “Stella, come on. She ain’t got nuthin’ ’tall ter do wid you. She’s jes er darned ole anteek dat’s jealous er yer looks. Ef she kin mek out widout you, you kin more’n mek out widout her. You kin git er job mos’ any place, an besides, I’se got a job.”

  Stella hesitated. She wanted her job and she wanted to go with Sam. At this juncture, Jim came waddling in, reeling under his load of “bottled in bond.” He did not know what was going on, but he could see that his wife was angry and that Stella, his gold-mine, his prosperity, had on her hat and coat, and that she was almost in tears. Even in his befuddled state, he could see that his prosperity would go with Stella. And if his wife was driving her out, she’d suffer for it. He rushed forward and fairly bellowed.

  “Whut’s gwine on? Mattie, whut yo doin out er de kitchen? Meddlin in mah affairs ah reckon, jes es usual.”

  Mattie fairly quaked, and Sam seeing her confusion completed the rout he had begun.

  “Jim, I axed Miss Stella to ’comp’ny me ter de movies an yo’ wife say ef she go she cain’t come back hyar to work no mo’. Now Ah cain’t see why. Ain’t she a good waitress ’en ev’eything?”

  Jim glared fiercely at Mattie, as she shuffled toward the kitchen.

  “I knowed it! Ah knowed it!” he triumphantly exclaimed. “The minute Ah come in dat do’, Ah could see dat Mattie hed been up mo’ devilment. An’ dog-damn her, ef she doan’ git back in dat kitchen and stay dere Ah’m gwine knock ev’ey one er dem naps offen her haid one by one. Co’se Stella kin go ter de show wid her gen’leman frens’, when she gits ready.” Sam gathered the blushing Stella upon his arm and proudly fared forth.

  Whereupon Jim flopped into a chair and held forth at great length on the necessity of keeping wives in their places; to wit: speechless and expressionless in the presence of their lords and masters and cited several instances where men had met their downfall and utter ruin by ill advisedly permitting their wives to air their ignorance by talking. His audience, composed entirely of males, agreed with him. Wife-beaters are numberous in Poplar Street.

  Sam went to work next morning a happy man. Stella had accepted him as her “fellow.” How he did work! Mr. Bronner, the boss, remarked the fact to some of the men. He was due for a raise and at the beginning of the next month he got it.

  Sam strode proudly into the restaurant the night following the afternoon upon which he had been informed of his good fortune. Stella accompanied him to a “movie” as usual where he broke the news to her.

  “Co’se we kin git mah’ied now,” he fumbled with his hat awhile, “ef you’ll have me.”

  Stella looked down at her feet, played with her fingers a bit, but said nothing.

  “Will yer?” Sam urged. “Ah kin tek keer un yer lak yer oughter be took keer un, en Ah’ll wuk mah toe-nails off fer yer. Den atter dat, Ah’ll go git a reglar job ef yer say de word. Does yer love me jes’ a little, Stella?”

  Stella w
as thrilled to the heart by this passionate appeal. She loved Sam surely, and she wanted to be his wife, but she couldn’t find a word of acceptance that didn’t sound bold and brazen to her. But every woman, whether she be college-bred and city reared, the daughter of wealth and fashion; or just a country girl like Stella has felt that same lack of words under the same circumstance. After a while Stella nodded her head in the affirmative. Sam grabbed her hand and pressed his suit with zeal.

  “Yer gonna ma’y me, Stella?”

  Stella nodded her head again in the affirmative. Sam squeezed her hand more tightly. Both lost sight of the screen story, and sat there silently, their hearts beating audibly. It was a holy moment.

  Poplar Street was dumbfounded. No one thought a pretty girl like Stella would marry Sam. When the news went its rounds, the other aspirants to the hand of Stella rushed upon her, hoping and expecting a denial of the report, but no denial forthcoming, they shuffled away chagrined. Sam ostentatiously displayed his “catch.” The nuptials were to be celebrated in September, three months later. Stella had insisted on this interval so that she might have time to get ready.

  Sam’s employer was very fond of him, because, besides being a good worker, Sam radiated good humor wherever he happened to be, and his witticisms kept the men about him in a cheerful mood and made good workers out of them too. So when he gleefully told Mr. Bronner of his approaching marriage, Sam’s employer mentally resolved to do the handsome thing by him. A week before the date set for the nuptials, the Negro was agreeably surprised by Mr. Bronner’s calling him into the office and asking him where he was going to live.

  “Well, boss, Ah ’lowed ter git some rooms dere in Poplar Street.”

  “Sam, it would be better for you and better for your wife if you lived in a more respectable neighborhood.”

  “Yessah, Ah guess hit would.”

  “Well, I’m going to call up Mr. Hill, a friend of mine. He has some houses and flats to rent to colored people. I’ll see if he hasn’t something up-town where the better class of Negroes live. How about it?”