I was sitting on the bench in front of the Star Cafe one afternoon when an old gentleman I knew as “Wino” came walking around the corner. He sat down beside me and struck up a conversation. By now, everybody in town knew about Emma and Elzado’s “messin wit white men an gittin rid outta town on a rail.”
“Has yo mama cum back yet, boy?” he asked in a friendly voice.
“Nawsir, but she be back … prob’ly by tomorrow.”
“Yeah, well … where you stayin since she been gone?”
“At diffunt places.”
“Lak where?”
“Lak all kinds uv places.”
“Who you been stayin wit?”
“Nobody. I don’t need to stay wit nobody. I kin take care uv myself.”
“I see. Oh, I don’t doubt yo word for a minute that you kin take care uv yosef. You a real big, little man. Do you go to school?”
“Oh yessir,” I blurted. “I go ever day,” fearing he might squeal on me.
“Whut grade you in?”
“The first. Y’know whut Wino? You sho ast lotsa fuckin questions.”
“Aw, I-I’m sorry Albert. You right. I didn’ mean to pry in yo bizness. I jus thought you might need a little hep or somethin.”
“Naw, I don’t need no hep. Emma be back … prob’ly she be back in the mornin.”
“Well, she prob’ly will, but jus in case she don’t make it in an you need a place to stay, you kin cum keep me company an stay in the room wit me. That is, if you don’t mind listenin to an old man’s ramblins all the time. We could be … pals. I git priddy lonesome sometimes without nobody to talk to. I bet you do too. Don’tcha?”
“Sumtimes. But I got me a buddy.”
“You do?”
“Yep, name’s Floyd. He’s my pal.” Floyd and I ducked the truant officer together, and stole milk bottles to sell for our picture show money. We would sit up in there all day, sucking on our one-cent jawbone breakers, watching the movie over and over until they closed that night.
“Ain’t that one uv Miz Bertha’s boys?”
“Yep, she’s his grandma.”
“I take it y’all are real good buddies?”
“Yessir! An we don’t fight each other neitha. I’m waitin on ‘em right now. We goin do sump’n.”
“Whut you two boys gon do?”
“We goin out to the circus grounds an work for us sum free passes so we kin git in to see it.” Looking down the road, I saw him coming, “Here he cums now. I gotta be goin, Wino.”
“Okay. You ‘member whut I tole you. If you change yo mind, I live roun there in the roomin house,” pointing, “in the first room on the right, next to the back door.”
I gave him noncommittal smile as I looked back over my shoulder running to meet Floyd.
When I got closer to him, “I hadta tote sum wash water fer Grandma befo I lef.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I wuz wonderin whut you wuz doin so long.”
Both of us were wearing our Tuf Nut overalls, but the seat of mine was weighed down ten pounds and almost dragging the ground. I had all my valuables and weapons in my back pockets. I carried at least a half-dozen big washers for throwing at older boys, rocks for my “nigger shooter,” and for close-range fighting I had a railroad spike. Along with my fighting paraphernalia, I carried my pee-wee dice, marbles, spinnerless spinning top, and of course, my protective salt wrapped in a piece of newspaper.
On our way to the circus grounds, “Look Floyd, when we git out there, lemme do th’ talkin.”
“Whutcha thank dey hab us be doin?” he asked.
“Prob’ly hepin put up th’ tents er sump’n. I don’t know. But whutever it is, me an you kin do it. An we kin sell us sum milk bottles an git us sum peanuts an stuff.”
“Yeah, I’m gon buy me sum uv dat cotton candy.”
“Me too!” We were drooling with anticipation. “Now, ‘member,” I said as we approached the grounds, “lemme do th’ talkin. Okay?”
“Go ‘head! I ain’ sayin nuthin.”
Circus hands were working all over the place, stretching out the tents and pounding the long anchor stakes into the ground with their huge mallets. I finally saw somebody who didn’t look extremely busy. “Les go ast that man over there.”
“You go axe ‘em. You tole me not to say nuthin, ‘membuh?”
“I will,” and walked over to him. “Pardon me sir.”
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Me an my buddy,” looking back at Floyd, “wanna work for sum free passes to th’ circus.”
“Well, I’m not the man you wanna talk to. You see that trailer cabin over there? Go knock on the door and talk to that man.”
“Thank you.”
I beckoned for Floyd to follow. I knocked and a man opened the door. The trailer was up on blocks and when he first looked out, we were so short he looked right over us. “Yeah, what can I do for youse guys?” looking down at us.
“Mister, me an my buddy here wanna work for sum free passes. An we’ll work real hard. Won’t we Floyd?”
“Sho will.” He was nine, and about a head taller than me.
We were so scrawny looking, he thought about it a few seconds before deciding. “Yeah, come to think of it, I can use two more big guys like youse two.” He opened the cabin door wider, “See that guy over there with his sleeves rolled up and all the tattoos?” We nodded. “Go over there and tell him I said to put youse guys to work. When you finish, come back by here and I’ll give youse your passes.”
“See there Floyd,” I said smugly, “whut I tell you!” As we walked up to the tattooed man, “Pardon me, mister.”
“Yeah?”
“The man in that trailer said tell you to put us to work so we kin git sum free passes to the circus.”
He stopped what he was doing, “Okay, follow me.” We did until, “Here,” he said handing us two buckets apiece. We followed him again. He stopped at the nozzle of the huge fire hose that lay trickling on the ground. “Okay, I’m goin over to the fireplug and turn the water up a little.” After adjusting the nozzle, “Watch this nozzle and let me know when it’s comin out fast enough to fill up your buckets.” Using the big wrench atop the fireplug, he slowly opened the valve.
Floyd and I started waving our hands and shouting, “Okay! Okay!”
He returned. “Alright, fill up your buckets and come on. We got some elephant waterin to do.”
Water sloshed all over the legs of our overalls as we hurried to keep up with him. “Do dem elefins bite?” Floyd asked in worriment.
“Nawww boy,” he said, “elephants don’t bite people. Unless, of course, they make ‘em mad. You know what really makes elephants mad?”
“Nawsuh,” we said.
“When they don’t get enough water.”
“Well, I sho don’t wanna make ‘em mad.”
“Me neitha.”
We could see the elephants standing under the smaller tent with the sides rolled up about four feet off the ground. It had a large walk-through entrance like a barn and was about thirty feet from the bucket-filling spot. When we walked in under the tent, our mouths flew open and our eyes were filled with the biggest “elefins” in the whole world.
With one of their back legs chained and anchored down with a stake, about a dozen were rowed up on one side of the tent, leaving only a narrow passageway in front of them. The gigantic monsters swayed back and forth contentedly, picking up bits of hay from the ground and slinging it up on their backs.
Still holding onto our bucket handles, Floyd and I stood frozen in our tracks. My voice trembled with fear, “Mister, is you sho they won’t bite?”
“Nawww, they won’t. Here, let me show you,” taking one of Floyd’s buckets. He walked up to the first one in line, sat the bucket down in front of it, and began to pat and pet it. “This is Julie,” pat, pat, pat. “She’s a good old girl. Ain’tcha Julie, baby? Hand me another bucket,” he ordered.
I stepped forward to hand him one of mine. He got the empty and gave it back to Floyd. As I reached the bucket out to him, “You sit it down for her.” Coaxing, “C’mon, sit it down there where she can get it. She won’t hurt you.”
I walked closer, sat the bucket down, and JUMPED BACK quickly. “I did mine Floyd! You do yours!” I urged, as my heart pulsated with fear and excitement.
“See? That’s all there is to it. Think you guys can handle it?”
Nodding fearfully, “Yessuh,” we chimed with uncertainty.
Left on our own, we started filling the buckets and packing water to the tent. We still jumped way back after we sat our four buckets down in front of Julie. She emptied a whole bucket with each slurp and reached her long trunk for another. Even after ten trips each, Julie’s thirst was still unquenched. Every time Floyd or I tried to walk past her to water one of the other elephants, she stuck out her trunk and blocked our path.
After about thirty minutes of steady toting water to only one elephant, trying not to “make ‘em mad,” the five gallon buckets got heavier and heavier. The railroad spike I had in my back pocket became a real nuisance, kicking me in the ass with every step I took. Back at the spigot waiting for our buckets to fill, I said, “WHEW! Floyd, I’m plumb tuckered out!”
“Me too! Dem bucket hannels dun rubbed a so’ on my hands.”
“Mines too. The way we goin we ain’ NEVER gon git all them fuckin elefins watered.”
“Sho ain’t. Shoots, dis heah circus be dun cum an gone befo we git thru.”
“I tell you whut I’m gon do,” I declared. “I’m gon take that big o’ funky elefin one mo drank, an thas all! She kin git mad, scratch her ass til she git glad for all I care!” We delivered those four buckets to Julie and returned to the spigot. “Floyd, this time les wait til we ketch her lookin off an then run by her,” I plotted.
When we tried, Julie saw us and politely stuck out her trunk. Neither of us was brave enough to stoop and run under her roadblock so we retreated straightaway. We sat our buckets, as directed, down in front of her. She took her usual four slurps and they were empty once more. Then she playfully sprayed water on the other elephants.
“Look Floyd,” I said excitedly, “I got a idea.”
“Whut?”
“I know how we kin fill ‘er up! An all the rest uv ‘em too!”
“How?”
“Next time we ketch them men not lookin, les drag that fire hose over here.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Making certain the coast was clear, we started dragging the hose over to the tent. It reached with plenty to spare. “Okay Floyd, while I keep a lookout, wrap sum hay roun that nozzle so she won’t see it, an ram it in her mouth. Then I’m gon run turn the water up so—”
“Is you crazy? SHIT! I ain’ stickin my arm up in no elefin’s mouf! You do it an lemme go turn it up.”
“Nawww, Floyd. I can’t reach her mouth. You the tallest,” I pointed out.
“Dat ain’ nuthin, I kin pick you up.”
“We ain’ got that much time, Floyd. C’mon, wrap sum uv that hay roun it an stick it in there befo sumbody cum.”
Grumbling as he concealed the long brass nozzle, “You stick it in the next un’s mouf.” With the camouflage completed, Floyd cautiously approached Julie, reaching the nozzle up toward her mouth.
“I’m gon run out to the fireplug an be ready. When you git it in, wave yo hand.” Standing at the fireplug, gripping the big wrench, I waited for Floyd to give me the high sign. It took him several frightened attempts before he got Julie to take the hay-covered nozzle. When she did, he waved his hand affirmatively.
I yanked on the wrench so hard I went completely around the plug and had the valve wide open. With the sudden blast of maximum water pressure, the fire hose pitched and jerked as it wiggled on the ground like a huge snake. The water sounded like it was rushing through in big lumps, instantly swelling the hose taut.
I ran back. Floyd was jumping up and down ecstatically. When the full force of water fired through the hose, it shot the nozzle deeper into Julie’s mouth. She had a strange look on her face while an elephant-size tear trickled from one eye. In futile efforts, she coiled and uncoiled her trunk around the hose.
All the while, Floyd and I danced a jig, whooping victoriously. Julie’s belly rumbled and shook like an earthquake from the pounding force of gushing water. It got bigger and bigger. She cut loose with a waterfall of piss three hands wide.
We were laughing wildly and forgot all about the workers skittering about. Somebody saw us, “Hey! Just what in the hell do you boys think you’re doin!?” When he realized what we had done, “Hey! Look at what those crazy-assed boys are doin!” They started running toward us. “You Gotdam boys, get out of there! Get away from those elephants!”
“Catch ‘em! There they go!” another hollered.
The chase was on. I took the railroad spike out of my back pocket to lighten my load. When Floyd and I reached the road, we left a jet stream of dust behind and didn’t slow down until we got to the intersection. He veered one way, heading home; I took off for the railroad tracks.
Fearing the circus folks might call the police on us, I needed a hideout and an alibi. I was almost out of breath as I tiptoed down the rooming house hallway. His door was slightly ajar and I slowly pushed it open. The shabby little room was dusky, except for the daylight I let in. The two curtainless, shadeless windows were completely covered over with yellowed newspaper pages. Empty wine bottles lined the walls, and the room reeked of piss, puke, and the stench of stale wine. Wino was lying crossways on the bed, snoring loudly. Careful not to wake him, I eased inside and closed the door. I slept on the floor on some quilts and blankets in the corner of his little dollar-fifty-a-week room.
Wino, a sweet old man who loved his cheap-ass sherry, became a dear friend to me. He was a retired railroad brakeman with snowy white hair, a weathered Uncle Remus-looking black man. It was obvious that once he had been a handsome man, but the booze had gotten the best of him.
He cut grass on Nugget Hill for the rich white families who paid him two or three dollars and gave him their leftovers. He didn’t eat any of it until he came home and we’d share. To warm the food, we used a charcoal-filled bucket with a little grill on the top. We ate together right out of the pan. Lots of times with one fork because we couldn’t find the other one.
He got drunk every night off of cheap fifty-five-cents-a-quart sherry. Sitting around listening to his stories of trips to faraway places and different people he met made me forget she was gone, sometimes. Like the old folks say, “The shade uv a toothpick beats the broilin hot sun.” Wino’s room was that toothpick for me, casting its cool shadow over some of my gloomiest nights. When he was drunk, he had a unique habit of whistling right in the middle of his sentences. I lay on my pallet while he sat on the edge of his bed rambling on and on, and making long whistling noises.
“Well, I’m Alonzo Johnson. I’ve traveled all over the (whistle) country an I’ve been in everyplace in Canada (whistle) an everywhere. I’ve been frum the golden gates (whistle) uv California to the rocky shores uv (whistle) Maine. I’ve been to the Empire (whistle) State Buildin an the Statue (whistle) uv Liberty. Seen all kinds uv things. An one thing I learnt (whistle), people’s the same everywhere. When you got money (whistle), you got friends for miles around, but when you git (whistle) down an out, ain’ no need to look for ‘em, cuz (whistle) ain’ none uv ‘em aroun … sususususususus.” Listening to him was mind boggling at first, but after staying with him for four years, I could time them to perfection.
I was just like a coyote. I’d get out at night, steal, hustle and do whatever I could to help keep the household going. In the early dawn hours, I followed the delivery trucks. As fast as they’d put food out in front of the stores, I took all I could carry and ran for the den. I had to get a bunch; we didn’t have an icebox. We ate up everything we had at one time, like the natives in the Bush Country.
I probably looked like one too. My hair was long, I was skinny as a rail but tough as a boot, and my eyes were sunk deep in my head. The closest thing I ever got to a bath was swimming in the T & P Pond. I didn’t bathe, I guess, because Lonzo didn’t.
I kept seeing him leave at the crack of dawn each morning with one of our two mayonnaise drinking jars, but this morning he got both and said, “Cum go wit me to drink some real water. We havta go early when they eyes is shet an they mouths is open ketchin flies, cuz us colored folks ain’t allowed.”
We walked quite a long ways to a mineral water well on a knoll near the courthouse. “Useta be a tall standpipe up heah, but they dun tore it down. Thas why they call it Standpipe Hill. Once you drink the water frum this well, you keep comin back.”
“How you know?”
“I’m standin heah, ain’t I? An I been all the way to Canada an cum back. I bet yo mama drunk some uv this water befo she left.”
“How cum?”
“Cuz she ain’ no fool. Yo mama be back. She gotta cum back when she kin, though. You got any money?” As I dug deep into my overall pockets, he smiled and said, “It cost you a penny to chain yoself to this well.”
I had seven pennies, more than enough, and dropped my honor-system penny into the little metal box with a lock, “Whut happen if you don’t pay?”
“Ain’ no tellin,” he answered in a serious tone as he scooped a dipperful of water from the well. After pouring it into one of the jars, he handed the jar to me. “Afta yo first mouthful, turn around three times an make a wish.” I took a drink and did what he said. “Didja make yo wish, Albert?”
“Yessir.” With all my heart, I wished Emma had drunk some.
“Spittin it out’s bad luck.”
“Whut happen to you?”
“No tellin.”
The head-aching winds of March had subsided and spring arrived, but it made no difference what time of year it was, only now I could do it barefoot. I even did it in the rain. I had a water-puddle kick that always got an extra nickel or two thrown, and even a quarter sometimes. From time to time, Mr. Albert was among the crowd watching me dance on the downtown street corners. No thumbs up, but I could see “you’re gonna make it somehow” on his face. When his wife and boys were with him, he sneaked the look. I could read it when our eyes touched. He winked. I smiled. He threw green and I picked it up. His wife said how cute I was and, “That boy’s talented, isn’t he, Albert?” He nodded.
I remembered what Emma told me, “If he don’t say nuthin to you, you don’t say nuthin to him.” By the time I gathered up the rest of my money, they were gone.
When Emma came back, I thought I was dreaming or had died and gone to heaven. Lying on those raggedy quilts on Lonzo’s floor, half-asleep, I heard talking. “Wake up! It’s Emma, I’m back.”
I opened my eyes, and there stood Emma and a Mexican. She was much bigger now, close to two hundred pounds, but I never saw anything so beautiful in my life. She was all decked out in a glittering, sequin-covered black dress, fur, and had pretty rings on her fingers. “Miz Bertha tole me you’d prob’ly be over here. Put yo shit on an les go.”
She gave Lonzo fifty dollars for “lookin out” for me. Dividing fifty-five cents into fifty dollars was a lot of sherry! We left in a car with a big shiny bird on the front of the hood. Within her first fifteen words she asked, “Whut do you think bout this guy? Name’s Sabbado. Ain’ he good lookin?”
“Yes mam, Emma,” I answered indifferently. “Here, I kept it for you while you wuz gone,” handing her the crap blanket, which she promptly tossed on the floorboard.
“Whut ees you name?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice.
“Let Sabbado hear you tell when you wuz born.” I didn’t respond. “He’ll talk afta he see whut I brung ‘em.” He drove down to the Nickels Hotel, the aristocratic hangout of the “big time” hustlers. They’d already been by the room and had clothes lying all over the bed. “I bought these for you. Go take a bath an try ‘em on.”
I came out wearing a towel and tried on my new clothes. Nothing fit; everything was too small. While putting my same old rags back on, I said,“You don’t even know whut I look lak.”
She angrily threw them in the corner, “Well, fuck it! We’ll gitcha some mo shit!” Later that night as I lay on the crap blanket on the floor I heard her say, “Not now Sabbado.”
In looks maybe, but in principle she hadn’t changed one bit. She had met Salvador in Mexico and convinced him to sell his bar and come back to Longview with her. Having used up most of his money, she took what was left and set up another gambling, et cetera house at 1000 East Whaley Street.
This was the first un-shotgun house I’d ever lived in. It had electricity, three rooms and a kitchen, a well off the back porch, and an outhouse in the back. It was farther from the T & P Station than our other house and didn’t tremor as much when the trains went by. Best of all, it was only half a block from the corner liquor store.
Prohibition was ancient history, and the bootleggers who formerly dispensed homemade moonshine graduated to selling the cheap, packaged whiskey and wine. Emma was no exception. The liquor store man gave a good discount when it was bought by the case, and she doubled her money reselling it by the half-pints and quarts. So after hours, all day Sundays, and during the games, it was bootlegging as usual. Even when the liquor store was still open, the gamblers would rather pay Emma a little more than to have to leave the game to go get a bottle.
The liquor store was the pulpwood haulers’ headquarters. Most of them lived across the Sabine River and came to town after cutting and hauling wood destined for the paper mills. Eighty percent were related either by blood or marriage, and three or four would be part owners in the old, battered trucks. Every evening after work, the huge oak “council” tree at the back of the liquor store was surrounded by the old model, beat-up, long-railed pulpwood trucks.
“Them o’ pulpwood boys” were noted for hard work and paying their bills, especially their whiskey bills. The white store owner extended them liquor credit freely, cashed their checks, and even loaned them money. All they had to do was sign the book. The haulers marched in and out of the store like ants, buying a half-pint at a time.
The cooking and gambling did it. As soon as they finished transacting business at the liquor store, the pulpwood haulers made a beeline for “Big Emma’s.” Every last one of them loved to gamble and they lined the walls around the crap table as often as possible. Some were there so often it didn’t seem like they’d ever left. Big Emma (they named her that) fed them, and won their money. They didn’t call her Big Emma because of size; it was more of an accolade for being the top-of-the-heap whore.
They walked in heading straight for the kitchen to “jes help yoself.” Emma had no set fee for the food, “When you git thru, jes gimme somethin.” They emerged as greasy around the mouth as a meatskin, pitched her a “fair price,” and bought a half-pint. They gambled and ate at the same time, keeping the dice so slippery Emma had to ofttimes stop the game to drop them into a glass of soapy water.
Just like with the railroad workers, when the pulpwood boys gathered, she sent for Allen. He lived in the Old Field section of town with the same woman he had been living with for years. Sometimes when I was sent to phone him, his old lady Lucille answered and I gave her the message, or if he answered, “Blue?”
“Yeah?”
“This is Albert. Big Emma said tell you to cum git suma this money.”
Allen would come in a taxi. He was a good draw because he kept a pocketful of money all the time and the pulpwood boys wanted to beat him just because he didn’t smell like pine resin. He stood out like a show horse in a stable full of mules at the crap table. They had on dirty overalls and he wore his customary tailor-made silk shirts and trousers. Nine times out of ten, their hopes of beating him were mere wishful thinking.
I’d seen him lots of times at the other house. He ignored me and I did my best to stay out of his way. I liked to watch him gamble. He’d begin to sweat, take out his silk handkerchief and meticulously place it between his neck and collar. He always rolled up his sleeves so the grime and kitchen grease the pulpwood boys smeared on the blanket nailed to the table top wouldn’t get on his cuffs.
He was quick to squabble with them about their crap table etiquette, “Man, don’t be puttin that nasty-ass ashtray over here, gittin all that shit on my shirt! Nasty, stankin, funky-dick muthafucka!”
While Emma was busy running the crap game, Salvador and I manned our designated posts. I covered the back door, handled the whiskey trade, and served as the official runner. Salvador generally sat on the front porch, “out of the way,” watching for the police.
Besides the hot tamale man, Salvador was the only other Mexican (I knew of) living in Longview. He kept mostly to himself and didn’t participate in the games or on-going hoopla of the gamblers. He drank his Canadian Club whiskey alone. Only occasionally would he take a drink with some of the others, but not before wiping the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve.
Emma was living the life of Riley. There was always a good crowd on hand and she had even rented a nickel jukebox for the crap room. Pat was no distraction. Mama Joe still kept her and had moved just a few houses down the street. Emma had front and back door watchmen, was making lots of money, and whenever Salvador was out of pocket, even turned a trick or two.
It happened again. Only Emma, Allen, and a white gambler called Blackie were left in the game. Emma backed off so Allen and Blackie could go “head to head.” She pulled for Allen to take him and sat on pins waiting. When they finished, Allen was the winner.
She woke up all the broke, snoozing players so they could watch. Salvador even left his post when she and Allen played head to head, but his interest was not in the game. He knew Allen was still her husband and didn’t like the way she looked at him or touched his hand, and jealously called him her “sweet man.”
The only rule about rolling and setting was, “Go for whutcha know.” It was teacher against pupil. Emma sat on the daybed with the crap table pulled up to her; Allen sat at his usual seat directly across the table. They went back and forth for hours, all the while keeping it casual and friendly. Both rolled so smooth and easy that one die seldom stopped more than an inch ahead of the other. Emma had one distinct advantage; she gauged her rolls with the nails tacking the blanket down, just like she used to do with the cigarette burns on her old crap blanket.
Whenever they squared off to duel she did everything to throw him off stride while he was shooting. “Give me anutha drank outta Emma’s bottle, baby. Betcha don’t bar it. Shoot ‘em!” On and on with the rap. When he got set picking them up, she’d make him put them down, somehow. “Hold ‘em up there!” She’d grab his hand and pat it, offer him a drink, and just outright say, “Blue, put them dice down baby.”
Frustrated, he’d stop and throw her the dice. “Here! When you git thru playin wit ‘em, give ‘em back!”
She’d spit and blow on them, rub them between her thighs to hex them and then toss them back. He’d miss. “Aw, Gotdam! The mule throwed Rucker,” she’d say, and could hardly get the top screwed on the bottle fast enough.
They’d been going at it for hours and, money-wise, they were about even. Emma called for a time out. “Shit, Blue! Les stop an take a break an have a drank. Ain’t you tired?”
“Hell yeah! I gotta git up an stretch my legs a minute. They dun damn near went to sleep.”
She pushed the table away, went to the outhouse, checked on Salvador, and returned. “Hand me my bottle, baby.” Looking around the room, “Resta y’all WAKE UP! WAKE UP! The house is on fire!”
That perked them up. “Give everbody a drank. Pass the bottle roun when Blue gits thru. Git some water for ‘em to chase it wit, them nigguhs ain’ useta drankin good whiskey,” referring to her personal bottle of “hockey proof” Old Grand Dad. She kept on, “Y’all wake up now or you might miss somethin.” I certainly didn’t need any rousing. I was absorbed and watched every move they made. The others had to ask for the bottle three or four times before I heard them.
After seating herself back on the daybed and pulling the table close, “Blue, you bout ready?”
“Yeah, I’m ready,” retaking his seat.
It was her shot. While rubbing the dice on the blanket, with a metal smile, “You know whut, Blue?”
“Whut?”
“I’m goin on an take you lak Grant took Richmond.”
“Well, you won’t be gittin no cherry. I been busted befo. Quit stallin an shoot the dice!”
“But I’m gon do it different this time, Blue. I’m gon make ten straight passes on yo ass befo I miss. Then I’m gon letcha shoot ‘em one mo time, an it’s goodnight Irene.”
After he took his shot and missed, he sang, “You got me!”
“An you the one taught me.” He never beat her. When their game was over, she’d throw him ten or fifteen dollars so he wouldn’t leave broke.
They were good gambling friends, but he never ever slept with her. That’s where he drew the line, content with just their gambling friendship developed over the years. It never failed though, when the house cleared and we finished cleaning up, Salvador started his nagging, “Gotdamme Eemma, you thinkee I’m a Gotdamme suckum, don’tcha? I no fuckin suckum [sucker]. I see you make them fuckin goo-goo eyes to you Gotdamme sweet man.”
“Whut the hell you talkin bout, Sabbado?”
“Eemma, you know Gotdamme well whut I talkee. Allen, you Gotdamme sweet man. I’m the Gotdamme man to theese fuckin house. I hangee my Gotdamme hat over here, not you fuckin sweet man!” He was way off base, as usual. She was tricking with Mr. Albert, definitely not Allen.
Disgusted, “Aw Meskin, fuck you! I’m tired. I don’t wanna hear all that shit. Go lay down somewhere an git outta my face.”
“Gotdamme Eemma, didn’ I tole for you, you leessen to my voice! I’m the Gotdamme man …”
I was busy as a cat covering up shit keeping a lookout at the back door and selling whiskey to the players. On weekends, Emma’s bedroom at the front of the house became the trick room whenever the whores needed it. I had already rented it out twice, and waited for Octavie to get through so I could clean it up quickly. Ida was in the wings.
It was midday Saturday, payday. The crap room was humming. The pulpwood haulers, Allen, two or three crapshooters from across town, and some white railroad workers all jammed around the table betting hot and heavy. Emma had finished all the cooking earlier and was smack dab in the middle of the action. All the bases were covered. Salvador was at his usual post in the front; I was taking care of all the other house business.
By late afternoon there was a lull in the action because several of the pulpwood haulers, the heaviest losers, left for the liquor store to borrow some money. The white gamblers were gone as well. Nobody was shooting craps and the gamblers were just sitting around waiting and bullshitting.
Since there was no game going on, Salvador joined the revelry in the crap room. Departing from his normal aloofness, he stood against the wall drinking and laughing his head off at their “nigger-whitefolks” jokes. They bullshitted about everything, from the way they each looked to the size of their peckers. Oscar especially enjoyed teasing Emma and said, “Lemme axe you sump’n Big Emma. How on earth didja end up wit a pepper-belly? Frum whut I heard, dey screws lak rabbits, ninety miles a minute,” he joked. Everybody in the room laughed—except Salvador.
“Fuck you! You black-ass cheeken-sheet sonaveech!” Salvador shouted.
“Fuck you back, Meskin! If you don’t wanna hear whut we talkin bout, carry yo Meskin ass on sumwhere else. You stand over dere an laugh yo ass off at everthang sumbody say bout sumbody else, but when sumbody say sump’n bout a Meskin, you git mad.”
“Leessen, you sonaveech, you no talkee to me! I telly to you! I’m the Gotdamme man to theese house!” moving in Oscar’s direction.
Oscar rose quickly from the daybed, ready to rumble. Some of the others held them apart. Throughout the momentary fiasco Allen stayed in his seat at the table, casually playing with the dice. “Say Oscar, let Sabbado alone, man. An you Meskin, you oughta take yo ass sumwhere an set down.”
Hotheaded and more than ready for a piece of Allen’s ass, Salvador broke the grasp of the restrainers and attacked. He forced Allen into the crap table, jamming it against Emma and hemming her in on the daybed. Although Allen outweighed him at least forty pounds, Salvador had the advantage as they grappled with each other atop the table. Allen was fighting with all his might to get him off but Salvador was fighting equally as hard to retain his position.
One of the two-by-four legs gave way, and table and all crashed to the floor. This jarred them apart momentarily. Allen got to his feet first and landed a clean blow to Salvador’s face, and he reeled backwards toward the kitchen entrance.
Both were straight-up slugging it out in the kitchen. Allen’s heavier blows were doing the most damage. He knocked Salvador back seven or eight feet into the icebox.
Emma rushed in but Allen shoved her back through the doorway and quickly pulled the .38 long-barreled revolver from his waistband. Before Salvador regained his bearings, BANG! The scent of gunpowder filled the small room.
Still on his feet, Salvador staggered and slumped against the icebox. With blood pouring between his fingers he held his head. “Gotdamme Allen, you sonaveech! You shoot me!”
“An that ain’ all, Meskin. I’m fitna shoot you again!” Like a flash, Salvador ducked and rushed Allen a fraction before he squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed.
He bear hugged Allen and came out of nowhere with a hunting knife, ripping him from the left shoulder blade all the way down to his hip bone. Allen hit him repeatedly with the gun barrel and managed to get elbowroom for another shot. With his left arm tucked against his wounded side, he raised the .38 to fire again.
The head wound had weakened Salvador and he was about to drop. Allen squeezed the trigger, CLICK! CLICK! … CLICK, CLICK, CLICK, CLICK! He wheeled and walked out of the house, heading down the back trail.
Emma followed him out the door, “Blue, you hurt! Don’t leave, somebody dun called the ambulance. It’ll be here any minute.”
He kept walking. Salvador had collapsed on the kitchen floor. She got a towel and attended him until the ambulance arrived. Allen got to the hospital on his own. I heard it took almost two hundred stitches to sew him up. Hard-headed Salvador returned home that night. Miraculously, the bullet ricocheted off his skull and came out near his temple. All he had was a headache and swollen face.
As soon as Salvador recovered from his minor gunshot wound, he started blaming “Eemma” for what happened. “Eeet’s all you Gotdamme fault Eemma! You sent off for you Gotdamme sweet man!” But that was the case no more. Allen no longer honored the calls and quit coming to the house.
Emma and Salvador began fighting like cats and dogs. He soon discovered that when he drank too much he couldn’t whip her, so he changed the course of things and started faking it. She would still get drunk, and that’s when he would make his move.
I was so familiar with the routine I cautioned her not to drink so much, “Emma, you can’t fight when you drunk.”
Only to get a customary, “Jes hand me my bottle. I don’t need you tellin me shit! Hell, I ain’ drunk!” Followed by, “You stay outta me an my o’ man’s bizness! I don’t need no help frum you!”
Once she got started, the whiskey made her really blow it out, “I ain’ scaid uv no muthafucka on earth! Specially Sabbado!” All the while, he sat on the old metal trunk over in the corner of the crap room with his head down, feigning a drunken sleep and taking it all in. “I kin whup a whole cow pen full a Meskins lak him in my underskirt an never show my ass!”
Unfortunately, it didn’t hold true when she was drunk. He’d beat the dogshit out of her, but she sternly ordered me not to interfere. Most of the time I left, only to return to find her with a black eye and busted lip.
She put him out of commission for a while though. They got drunk “together” and went to bed. Salvador waited until she fell asleep. He got up, put his pants on, and went behind the headboard. Reaching his arms through the iron railings, he got a chokehold around her neck. She woke up struggling and reached her hands through the rails, frantically trying to break the hold. She grabbed the first thing she touched, which happened to be his balls. Using her long fingernails, she ripped his nutsack. When she let go he fell to the floor, his trouser fly covered with blood. I talked her out of chopping his head (or anything else) off with the hatchet.
I was back in school but absent most of the time because they fought and stayed drunk so much. When I came home from school one afternoon she told me, “That old white daddy uv yo’s died. They havin his funeral today.”
“We goin?”
“Hell naw. His wife would shit a green egg if we showed up at First Baptist.”
“I got to go change,” heading for my room.
“Where you goin?”
I was old enough now and just kept walking, changed clothes and slipped away to the church. Even if I was wrong as two left shoes, I had to be there. I owed him that much. After all, he was my father.
I was practically running the house, and it even spilled over into the crap games. My big chance came after they started arguing while the game was in progress. For fear of the gamblers leaving, Emma put me in charge so they could go in their room and finish the fight.
In many ways, I was better than she was. I had the “rolllll” down to a T and controlled the dice better, knew how to gauge them in accordance with the nail heads, and wasn’t drunk. The gamblers didn’t hesitate when I took the game over. I had been around them so long, I was viewed as a regular player. Besides, “money’s money,” young or old. When she sobered up I turned the money I’d won over to her.
Emma was so busy trying to keep the licks off her ass, mine was being spared. When she got whiskey mean and missed a point on the dice, I still got my “jinky peckerwood-lookin ass” driven from the crap room. But I no longer quivered when she ‘buked me; I bit my lip to hold back my seething anger and to keep from lashing out at her.
Their fighting had given the house a bad name; it was losing money. After the police were summoned several times to quell things, the gamblers got scared to come for fear of being arrested themselves. Now, we were lucky to have three or four people at the house on weekends.
It was another Saturday, and I’d been up since early dawn getting things ready, just in case. I scrubbed the floors with Eagle Lye (minus the piss) and cleaned up the crap room from last night’s minor activity while she and Salvador were still in their room. With all the preparations taken care of, I left to round up some players. I walked down to the liquor store council tree where the pulpwood haulers were parked, and told them, “There sho is a good game goin at the house.”
Two or three interrupted their drinking and said, “When we finish takin care uv bizness, we might cum by.” I knew they probably wouldn’t.
After leaving them I headed for the Terminal Cafe at the train station to give the same message to any potential players who might be there. I made all my Junction rounds to the places where the gamblers hung out before going back home.
I heard the low, muffled scuffling as soon as I stepped up on the back porch. When I walked through the kitchen and entered the crap room, I saw that Salvador had Emma pinned in the corner next to the trunk. He was choking her so hard his hands and arms trembled. The fight had gone out of her and she was barely struggling. I rushed over and positioned myself so she could see my face. “Emma, you want me to help you?” She couldn’t talk, but motioned her eyes up and down for a “yes.”
We had a potbellied wood-burning stove in the crap room, and kept the wood stacked on the back porch. I ran out and got a big stick of the wood, ran back and hit him just above the ear. He released his hold, and Emma sank to the floor. The first blow stunned him. I got in another before he came at me, which was just what I wanted. I faded him off to give her a chance to catch her breath.
As soon as she got herself together she jumped him from behind. Emma wasn’t drunk this time, and Salvador was no match for both of us. Realizing he had two motherfuckers on his hands and nothing to fight with, he managed to raise the lid on the old metal trunk where he kept all his tools. I knew about the house’s major weapon that was kept inside. He was going for the white-handled hatchet!
Emma slammed the lid down on his arm and plopped her 200-plus pounds on top of the trunk. Salvador let out an agonized shriek. When he screamed, she looked at me, “Is I got ‘em?!” More excitedly, “Tell me, IS I GOT THIS MUTHAFUCKA??!”
“Yes mam, I bleeve you got ‘em.”
“Don’t BLEEVE nuthin. Tell me, is I GOT ‘em?”
“You got ‘em, Emma!”
“Thas all I wanna know.”
Salvador’s face grimaced with pain, “Gotdamme Eemma! Geet you big ass up! You gonna broke my fuckin arm!”
“You don’t say?” and started bouncing up and down as Salvador groaned loudly. She was winning one for a change and how sweet it was to be bullyragging him. “Y’know whut Meskin? I been waitin a long, long time for this day.”
“Gotdamme Eemma, you brokeen my fuckin arm!!” He squirmed vainly trying to free his arm.
“I know Gotdam well I am,” she said unconcerned, “an thas not all I’m gon do,” ordering me, “cum here baby.”
“Yeah, Emma.”
“You think you kin hold this lid down if I git up off it? Be sho now! Set down on it an see.” I added my skinny ninety pounds on the trunk lid along with her.
Salvador moaned, then cried out, “I no heetchu no mas Eemma! OOOH!”
“Emma!” I said concerned, “I don’t think I kin hold it down settin on it. Lemme stand up so I kin brace my hands on th’ ceilin.” I stood up and got into position. With my palms pushing against the ceiling, “I kin hold it now, Emma. Git up anytime you ready!”
“Make sho you got it now! I’m fixin to git off.”
“I got it,” I reassured.
“Don’t tell no dirty!” as she slowly wiggled off the lid. Looking up at me, “Be sho you got it now! I’m gittin off,” she said one more time anxiously.
“I got the muthafucka! Go ‘head an git off Emma.”
“Okay, I’m gittin ALL the way off,” and finally let her feet touch the floor. Satisfied that I had him under control, she taunted, “Awww, Gotdam! Gotcha at last, ain’t I? You know whut I’m fixin to do to yo ass Meskin? Betcha can’t even guess, kin ya?” Pausing to look up, “You still got ‘em?”
“Yes mam, Emma.”
Sugar Ray Robinson would have loved the footwork she put down. Moving and circling around him, she jabbed and shadowboxed, stopping only to put her hands on her hips and shake her booty in his face. Finished with her roadwork, she let him have a fist right in the kisser, “Maybe that’ll stop some uv that ol’ mouth uv yo’s.” Then back to the show, putting her head right down in his face, “Here, hit this muthafucka! I know you wanna hit me. Why don’tcha? Oh, don’t wanna fight now, huh.”
Using her fist like a sledgehammer, she hit him again. “C’mon, hit me back Meskin! You know whut I oughta do? I oughta git that stove poker an ram it up yo ass. But I know you wouldn’t lak that,” sarcastically, “so I’m jes gon give you a good ass whuppin instead. How’s that?” POW!! “You still got ‘em?”
“I got ‘em.”
“Why don’tcha ball up yo fist an hit me right here where you hit me while ago?” again lowering her head to his. “Here, lemme help you,” taking his free hand, “lemme make you a fist.” She balled up his hand and began hitting herself on the head with it. “Black my other eye muthafucka. I wantcha to git me good an mad befo I sho nuff start whuppin yo ass!”
She wound her arm up like a pitcher and used the knuckle side of her fist like a club to pummel blow after blow on top of Salvador’s head, only stopping to reaffirm, “You still got ‘em?”
She hit him so many times her hand was swelling. “Stop hittin ‘em on his head, Emma. You gon break yo damn hand!” I warned.
“Thas awright. I wanna break it on his ol’ hard head!” POW! She pounded him again. “Whew! I dun jesta bout give out whuppin this Meskin’s ass,” adding, “but it sho wuz a lot uv fun, even if I did fuck up my hand. Look at it,” she said pitifully, holding it up with her other hand for me to get a better look. It was swollen to twice its size.
“Whut we gon do wit ‘em now, Emma?” I was getting tired of straining to keep the lid down.
“Hold ‘em til I git outta the house. When you hear me callin, git down an run.” A minute or two later she yelled out, “Anytime! Let the muthafucka go when you git ready!”
I jumped off the trunk and dashed out the back door. “PSSST! Here I am, over here.” She was standing at the corner of the house. “I got some bricks piled up so when that sonuvabitch cums out, les bombard ‘em.”
Salvador emerged from the back door carrying the hatchet and looking for our asses, cussing to the top of his voice in Spanish. When he came around the corner of the house, I let go with an “alley apple” that caught him dead in the chest. I was putting some Satchel Paige shit on his ass and all he could do was duck. He dropped the hatchet and took off. We had him on the run!
Victory in sight, I fired brick after brick as he fled down East Whaley Street. But with Emma’s help, he was on the verge of making a drastic comeback. She was running halfway to him and rolling the bricks like bowling balls. Every time I zoomed one at him, I had to duck because he stopped running and was returning the fire. Like a shortstop, he scooped up the bricks she rolled and hurled them back at me.
“Dammit, Emma!” I shouted after a near miss. “Quit chunkin! You feedin ‘em ammunition!”
When she stopped helping, I started winning again. Salvador took off down the street, probably heading for the border. “We got ‘em!” she crowed, as if she had really blasted him with those bricks.
“Damn, Emma! You gon git us kilt one uv these days!”