Three Days Before the Shooting ... (185 page)

“Yes, it was the hero of the movie they were hoping to be acting in, and when the word spread through the crowd it’s like time itself had doubled itself into a knot and they could hear the dreadful grinding of its gears.

“For after all he was very good-looking, tall and strong, and until he’d dropped out of college to help his folks he’d been a first-string quarterback. He was respected as a man among men and a stud among the ladies, a fancy dresser, and a dancer in the class of Tulsa’s Tickletoes. He was also good with his dukes and belonged to the local chapter of the N.A.A.C.P., didn’t drink liquor, and, being an usher in his church, he was even respected by Miss Janey. So naturally when he got to be the star of the moving picture folks felt he had the world on a string and the key to fame and fortune in his fingers. What’s more, to local pride and racial taste nobody in Hollywood movies was any better looking. Then,
wham
, and after acting as a hero just a little while before, he’s running through the streets like a broke-back dog from Georgia!

“And it’s not the fact that he’s jetting blood that gets folks so excited; anybody was liable to bleed on such an occasion. It’s his
screaming
, which is so out of character that it hits folks with the kind of chill they get when a heavyweight champion gets knocked on his butt in the first few seconds of an exhibition bout by an unknown fighter. It was enough to make folks rip their clothes and tear their hair—and a heap were doing it. It all happened so sudden, but it wasn’t that they hadn’t been warned, because not only did Pulliham’s old dog let out those horrible howls, many had seen Miss Brilliantine upset the camera crew and put the bad sign on the man. So now, seeing him running bleeding had folks yelling and screaming and foaming at the mouth.

“Given the size of all that mob there’s no way in the
world
for everybody to see what’s taking place, but the news shoots through the streets like a dose of salts, and pretty soon it’s like the story of Chicken Little has come alive, with little kids and sober citizens joining the drunks in yelling that the sky is falling down. Nobody really knows the facts behind the fact of his running, but with everybody busy trying to put what they imagine into words they have the poor man being chased by everything from lions and tigers to
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
and
The Phantom of the Opera—
which were both favorite movies of the time. So by the time the news leaps to the end of the business block and bounces back,
little ole ladies are going stiff and passing out, big strong men are chattering like apes and wringing their hands, and tough guys with battle scars and skulls all dented from being hit on the head with brickbats, broken bottles, and big iron taps from the railroad tracks are raving in high falsetto through their Halloween masks.

“I tell you truly, rumors were flying and folks were crying! And when the news hit the red-light district, it turned it upside down and wrongside out. It puts madams in bed, and has the pimps climbing walls over having to turn all those good-paying customers away from what (on the sly) they claimed to be the only fully
integrated
establishments in the whole damn town.

“Now me and Buster were moving through the crowd in our Halloween masks, watching and listening and keeping to the high ground whenever we could. That’s when we saw no less than a dozen big-breasted, big-legged, proud-butted ladies of the evening all weeping and wailing without a hint of shame as they called on Jesus in the hero’s name. I said one spanking
dozen
, and that’s exactly what I mean! And every single one of them beating on her bosom, tearing out her hair, and stirring up the air with her fancy underwear.

“Then one of them who turns out not to even know the hero starts to screaming that she can’t go on living without her heart’s desire—meaning him—and next thing we know she’s climbing up a light pole like the street’s caught fire! The crowd couldn’t tell if she was clowning or going for broke, but when she gets close to those high-tension wires they start to leaping and grabbing, trying to get her down.

“And naturally, that’s when BooBoo Beaujack gets into the act. The fool leaps so high that his head disappears, and when he drops back to the street the woman’s up there clinging to that pole wearing nothing but her red silk stockings and some pink lace teddies. Then you talk about somebody having an instant change of mind and a reversal of direction! When she sees her clothes dangling in BooBoo’s big cotton-picking hand and folks lamping her southern exposure so bare-face bold, she invents a brand-new technique for sliding down a pole. And when she hits the street she grabs her clothes and tries to hide—which by now was nothing but vanity, because everybody is already after the hero in hot pursuit, and the man is really moving.

“Now the street is massed with upset people and Jack and his henchmen are busy trying to track the man by his screams. Then way up the block where the camera goes on grinding they can tell by the way folks are ducking and dodging from his path that the hero’s heading for the building where the dance hall’s at. Which they take as a sign that he has his wits about him.

“Because in those days you could find a doctor, a dentist, a lawyer, a tailor, have a prescription filled, get a shave and a haircut and a fine shoe shine, shoot some pool, play a game of tonk, blackjack, stud poker, or the numbers, mail a letter, pay life insurance premiums, buy ice-cream sodas, read library books, or get
embalmed—all in the very same building. It was the center of all
kinds
of action, and the place where most of the leading physicians could be found. Everybody knew it, too, so by time the hero hits the entrance to the building the crowd is closing on his heels.

“Oh, but when he shoots up the stairs with his frantic stride he sets off pandemonium in the ground-floor hall where three well-known bootleggers have been doing a thriving rent-free business with folks who wanted to get their gauges high before staggering up to the dancing. Before the hero busted in folks were blocking the entrance and crowding the stairs, ordering liquor by the drink and by the bottle. And with all those crazy-looking folks shaking fists full of money and demanding action those bootleggers were rocking and reeling as they passed out bottles and gathered in that cash. But then,
a-clamity-blam-blam!—
and the hall is like a joint that’s being raided.

“False-faced folks are dashing for the backdoor of the hall spraining arms and ankles and ruining hired costumes as silver dollars, greenbacks, and pocket change go flying through the air. Pints, quarts, and jugs of homemade liquor are smashing against the walls and flooding the floor, and three disgusted bootleggers are standing in the middle, cussing their luck and counting the cost as they wonder what the hell has hit them. But the crowd behind the hero has no time for answering questions.

“Now nobody knows for which of the physicians the hero is headed, but as he reaches the second floor and goes sweeping down the hall they give a hopeful sigh. Because there like a sign sent down from heaven above they see, standing in all the doorways cooing like doves, all ten physicians who’re rubbing their hands in rubber surgical gloves.

“Oh, they’d responded to the ruckus and are ready to a man for whatever business the holiday has brought them. But hardly before they can go into action it becomes a case of many being called but few being chosen. Because right away their number begins to dwindle.

“When the first doc in line sees what’s jetting up the hall he gets so upset he hits the floor and becomes a living doormat for his fellow physicians. And with them buck-dancing on his body, trying to get some traction, in less than a second he’s out of the action.

“Then doc Number Two calls for order, yelling, ‘This case is an eight-day wonder and a surgeon’s dream, but it demands that we act like a proper surgical team!’

“‘He’s twelling it like it twiz,’ another doc says with a tongue-tied lisp, ‘Tho if we going thu get operwaiting we better start cooperwaiting. So let’s get coord-winating, like tra-la, la-la, la-la!’

“So, heading for the biggest office, they rush the hero down the hall. Some have him by the arms, some by his feet and legs, and some are snatching and grabbing at anything at all. Then just as they go to make a sharp turn in a very
narrow passage, a young doc named Jude damn near makes a wreck of their medical procession.

“‘This case,’ he declares with firm conviction, ‘looks so outrageous and downright tragic, that maybe instead of our kind of science it calls for
magic
!’

“Which puts his colleagues in such a state of shock that even the drunks could hear Jude’s message making echoes in their heads. But then with an unbelievable and unspoken surge of coordination, they start kicking the hell out of Jude as they charge him with speaking rude and being a most unscientific nowhere dude.

“So then eight physicians, all willing and able, squeeze the hero through the doorway and toss him on the table. And naturally there’s an awful lot of floundering and skidding about, but old Doc Pugh knows exactly what to do to calm them down. Barking like a sergeant he starts calling for face masks, morphine, and hemostats, and with them ducking and diving like a bunch of white-winged bats it looks like they’re finally making progress.

“Oh, but then, out in the hall there’s a tremendous pushing and shoving, and sweating and puking—plus a mighty swilling of whiskey, gin, and other brews—not to mention extracts of lemon, vanilla, and Jamaican ginger—which was either guzzled neat, or given a dynamite kick with Sterno canned heat that was strained through a handkerchief and had the poison burned off with matches. And while the crowd is thrashing about waiting to hear the hero’s fate they’re screaming and scrambling and a-helling and a-damning with a great stepping on of heels and a smashing of tender corns.

“Then this drunk who’s got up like a Chinaman, black pajamas, pigtail, and opium pipe, starts to threatening the docs with a rusty three-barreled derringer. And with that the rest of the crowd starts advising him exactly where to stick it before he pulls the trigger. This hurts his drunken feelings and makes him want to cry but he runs into trouble with his narrow false-face eyes. And while the others keep ragging him it’s a way of keeping their sagging spirits up as they plunge deeper into despair.

“Because all they can glimpse in the operating room is a rich, thick confusion of an M.D. nature, and nothing that’s being done seems to be getting anywhere. They can see seven high-powered physicians bumping heads as they bend over the hero waving needles, gobs of cotton, and reams of catgut thread, but with seven pairs of hands fumbling in his pubic hair the hero’s still groaning and writhing in agony. So now the crowd turns downright hostile.

“Then a high-voiced drunk wearing hard-conked hair and a sequin-covered mask and who’s big enough to sing ‘Ol’ Man River’ against both George Dewey Washington and Paul Bustill Robeson, expresses his opinion. ‘Look, y’all,’ he says to the medical men, ‘if you don’t do something quick for that darlin’ man, and I mean
fas’
, I’m gonna start whuppin’ some of y’all’s
ass
!’ And with that the rest join in in spades.

“And as they go spelling out their bills of particulars and battle plans the docs are so busy fumbling with the hero that only one takes time to listen. And that’s only because he’s short and fat, with arms too short for his heated competition. Being very unhappy over being jockeyed out of what he thinks is his rightful position he announces that for all his good intentions and his doing his level best to serve humanity like the rest, he’s been elbowed, stepped on, and crushed in his pride; bled on, cussed at, and shoved aside. So naturally he feels neglected, rejected, and scandalized,
and
the victim of professional discrimination only because of his compact size. Come to think of it, Buster
really
felt sorry for that little doctor.

“So now, to have his revenge, or maybe out of spite, he takes dead aim at a fellow black man-in-white, and rushing at him like a mean little fice in a bulldog fight he goes into action.

Oh, with his feelings being hurt
And his nerves being raw
,
He fractures his right on his
Colleague’s jaw
.
Then coming up with as sweet a left jab
As has ever been beheld
He really proceeds
To give him holy hell
Yelling, Here’s one for your maw
,
One for your paw
,
And one for your great-grandmammy
Down in Arkansaw!

But then, since the doc he hit turns out to be a native of
Little Rock
, his last punch damn near ruins him.

“‘What the hell was that for?’ he hears his victim yell and sees him standing blinking after thinking he had fell. And then this iron-jawed Arkansawan proceeds to attack little Doc’s snout, break a gold-inlayed bicuspid, straighten his hair, and send him reeling backwards, flopping like a fish and gasping for air.

“Then, as he lies on the floor, little Doc explains with tears streaming from his eyes that he acted in the name of his stepped-on bunion, his aggravated gout, and his deep desire to serve humanity. But while it might have been false, or it might have been true—and even convincing to a colleague or two—in the end it was for conduct unbecoming of a professional that they kicked him out.

“Then, when the crowd sees what’s been done to the little champion, they start breaking up furniture and ripping up the rug. Some are even about to risk seven years’ bad luck by smashing the mirrors on the walls when the sight of all those false faces glaring back distracts them. So now they’re pushing and shoving
as they yell, ‘Who the hell is you?’ and ‘Where the hell is
me?’
and keep at it until they hear two physicians feuding over how they’d split the fee. And when all this new who-shot-john interrupts their colleagues’ concentration the results is something truly unexpected.