Such Sweet Thunder (51 page)

He made his way through the jungle of pots and pans until he discovered the long black face with a long sharp nose and almond eyes that belonged to the knife-sharpening hands and penetrating voice. He wore a tall starched cook’s cap and a white hand towel around his neck. The naked bulb hanging from the ceiling not far from his hand created an aura of brightness that made the big range behind him look like a great furnace. Its upper shelf was lined with heavy black cauldrons, kettles, and pots of various sizes. The giant spoons, dippers, sifters, colanders, and the biggest egg beater he had ever seen in his life aroused subtle fears in him. And then there was the rack of sharp knifes beside the table, and the big meat grinder at the far end of the table, which was stained with blood. He watched the man’s movements with awed fascination, unconsciously breathing to the compelling rhythms of the sharp swishing sound.

Then he gradually became aware of a second sound, like that of an electric motor of, say, a streetcar, accompanied by intermittent chopping sounds, like a hard stick beating out a solid rhythm on a wooden drum.

“What does the gen’leman want?” said a second voice, but this time it was a softer fuzzy-timbred voice. He followed the subtly amused
glance of the tall-hatted man and discovered the chopper against the adjacent wall near an open window with bars looking onto the alley where he could see the rear end of a blue truck with a sign written in fancy white letters on it:

R-I-T-Z C-R
— the unfinished word crashing into the face of a brown-skinned man wearing a white cap that was not as tall as that of the swisher. His lips were fleshy, his nose blunt, and his white jacket stained with dirt and blood. Amerigo moved closer and waited for him to look up from the pile of parsley he was chopping. He started to speak but the chopper turned around and opened the door of a big white refrigerator that stood directly behind him.

That’s where it comes from. Amerigo was pleased to have located the motor.

The chopper — Mr. Hopkins! — took a cylindrical can from the refrigerator and set it on the table. Then he shot an unexpected glance at him that took his breath away:

“Ah-Ah —”

“When you Ah-in’ —” said Mr. Hopkins, “you lyin’, an’ when you uh-in’ — you don’ know!”

“I’m lookin’ for a-a-a —”

“Watch out, now. Take your time!”

“— for a job!”

“He’s lookin’ for a job, Mister Peady,” said Mr. Hopkins, smiling at Mr. Peady, who was ripping the belly of a big fish with swift casual precision.

“Doin’ what, Mister Hopkins?”

“Mister Peady said, ‘Doin’ what?’ ” said Mr. Hopkins.

“Waitin’ on tables!”

“Waitin’ on tables,” said Mr. Hopkins to Mr. Peady.

“How much experience he had?” asked Mr. Peady.

“How much —” Mr. Hopkins began.

“None! I mean …”

“He means
none
,” said Mr. Hopkins, scooping up a handful of chopped parsley and dropping it into the can.

“I don’ think he kin wait,” said Mr. Peady.

“Aaaaaw —
yes
I kin! Just gimme a chance.
I’ll
show you!”

“How come?” asked Mr. Hopkins, looking at Mr. Peady, who flipped the severed half of the fish onto the table, revealing the fine white ribbing of bones that wove the pink flesh into a kind of a leaf.

“How come?” Mr. Hopkins was asking.

“He can’t even wait till he gits big enough to hold a tray —” said Mr. Peady, “let alone wait on the customers! Tell ’im, Mister Hopkins, that they got waiters
waitin’
in line that been waitin’
forty years!
Tell ’im that the one thing wrong with the world taday is that they got too damned many waiters! They the lyin’est! cheatin’est! stealin’est! no-goodes’! Snakes in the
world!
An’ don’
never
leave one by hisself with your old lady!”

Mr. Hopkins grinned, revealing a mouth full of tobacco-stained teeth. “You heard Mister Peady. He’s the
Chef
. Been Cheffin’ a
hundred
an’ forty years! Mister Peady usta burn in heaven till the Lawd give ’im a job down here ’cause all them cute little angels started gittin’ fat! Now He didn’ mind it so much as long as them black angels got fat, but when them little blond, blue-eyed angels started gittin’ fat,
too!
Good Gawd-a-mighty! It looked like they just couldn’ git enough of Mister Peady’s good home cookin’ …”

“What kin you do, Mister — uh — I don’ believe I caught the name, sir?”

“A-merigo!”

“Uh — what-was-that?” asked Mr. Hopkins, cupping his palm behind his right ear.

“Amerigo Jones!”

“Aaaaaah! You one a the
Jones
boys! He says his name is Jones, Mister Peady, but he didn’ say what else he kin do. It’s a cinch he ain’ no waiter, like you say.”

“I kin cook!” He turned to Mr. Peady: “Just as good as you!”

“He kin
what
, Mister Hopkins?” Mr. Peady exclaimed.

“Mister Jones,” said Mr. Hopkins, “didn’ I tell you that Mister Peady usta
burn in heaven
?”

“Ain’ his momma’s cookin’ good enough for ’im?” asked Mr. Peady. “I bet he’s got a
good
-lookin’ momma! An’ a rich old man. Why — Mister Jones’s settin’ pretty! Cookin’ ain’ nothin’ but a lot a hard-assed work! Have to work like a dog all day an’ half the night — an’ the snakes gittin’ all the credit! I maybe could help ’im,” he said to Mr. Hopkins, “but I’d just have ’im on my conscience. I wouldn’ even condemn no waiter to be no cook!”

“
You
doin’ it!” he retorted.

“Yeah! But just take a good look at me! Old. Broken down before my time. An’ ain’ got a cryin’ dime to show for it! You take my advice, son, you git yourself a education. Finish high school. Go to college — if your old man’ll send you, an’ if he won’, work your way through.
Learn to be one a them big-shot doctors! Yeah! Or a lawyer, so you won’ have to work so hard. Then you kin stay home nights an’ make your old lady happy.”

“I think Mister Peady done spoke his mind, Mister Jones,” said Mr. Hopkins with a kind thoughtful smile. “No bones, Mister Jones. What did you say your first name was?”

“Amerigo.”

“With a name like
that
you oughtta run for
pres-a-dent
— or at least a congressman!”

The naked glare of the bright bulb, the shimmering reflection of the aluminum pots and pans, the throbbing rhythm of the refrigerator motor, and the intermittent chopping sound of Mr. Hopkins’s knife whirred in a sickening constellation of dread, rage, and humiliation that growled from the pit of his stomach as the silent white door boomed softly to and fro. He followed the sun-blazed path through the darkened room of the Southern Mansion to the door.

Trembling as he half walked, half stumbled down the street, he grew dizzy, and the air that rushed into his hot lungs burst into a spray of icy coldness that permeated his whole body and chilled him to the bone. A cramping pain shot through his stomach and shocked him into a sense of urgency that propelled him down one dull street after another, heedless of the tarnished clouds that lowered blandly overhead while the indolent traffic droned indifferently through the dead hour of the morning.

Presently he had turned into a broad street that looked familiar, and his thoughts quickened to a growing excitement caused by a subtle sense of recognition. Minutes later he was standing on a bridge looking down upon a great network of rails that glistened like a great silver cobweb. And then his eyes, in excited anticipation of his thought, beheld the great Union Station!

His face brightened with a vision of new possibilities: To be a waiter-or-a-porter-or-a-cook on the railroad!

He gazed up at the high ceiling where the great chandelier hung and realized at that instant that the station reminded him of a church, not like St. John’s, but like the ones in the books at the library with a huge lobby and great wings on either side giving onto a long center hall filled with strong rays of sunlight that streamed down through the great windows upon the little people below — moving around like ants, Ant Rose, Ant Tish, Ant Jamima —
aunt!
— and standing in long lines in front of the cages where the ticket sellers sold tickets to places
written in chalk that you could rub off with your fingers — if they wasn’t —
weren’t
— so high up — on the blackboards, numbered: One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Six-Seven-Eight-Nine-Ten.
I’m
ten. He looked up to see what route the tenth pair of rails had indicated.

Meanwhile people sat nervously or resignedly on the long wooden benches, surrounded by bags and packages, smoking cigarettes, eating fruit and candy, while redcaps pushed heavy luggage carts or followed passengers dressed up in their Sunday clothes to and from the tracks. People of all sizes, ages, and colors, he noted unconsciously, selecting one, a policeman:

“ ’Scuse me, could you tell me where to go to be a porter-or-a-waiter-or-a-cook — to ask somebody, I mean?”

“Why, you’d have to go to one of the commissaries down on the track, sonny,” he said. “Now, you go —” pointing to a staircase.

“Thanks!” he gasped over his shoulder, rushing toward the staircase, which he descended until he reached a landing covered by a roof. His eyes swept along the rails and there, on the first pair, right in front of his eyes stood a big beautiful streamlined train!

“Hot dog!” he cried out. “The Silver Streak!”

At that instant he saw its long graceful coaches speeding through the pages of the
Star
and through the red-and-black-lettered months of last year and this year and next year’s calender hanging on the walls of barbershops and pool halls.

Quietly, patiently it lay couched under the roof, eyes dim, windows dark, like a loooooooong pretty snake! A big overgrown pussycat — Grrrrrr! — waiting for the numbered blackboard upstairs to make up its signifying mind which way to go.
Go fly to the eas … t, go fly to the west, go fly to the one you love the best!… Realleh!

“Peeeeeeeeeeep — peeeeeeeeeep!”
tooted a piercing horn accompanied by the whine of a motor and the rumble of a chain of baggage wagons, causing him to jump behind a pole in order to avoid being run over.

“Uuuuuuga! Uuuuuuuuga!”
Another noisy caterpillar sped by, pinning him to the pole just as he tried to escape. And in its wake a loud swishing sound subsumed by a low rumble, rushing down through the shed, setting its steel housing a-tremble! It grew louder … like a big hot wind! — and shot out into the sun, its tail wagging under the bridge, and under the water — to France and England! Like a fish! Like a whale! Silver!

“Watch me, sonny!” A voice crashed through the worn wooden panels of a swinging door giving onto the platform. A graying brown-skinned man was pushing a tall metal rack containing many trays
laden with all sorts of pies and cakes: brown and red-pink-white-egg-whitewithcherry titties … aaaaaaw!

He pushed through the swinging doors and looked into a big steamy room full of dirty pots, baking pans, and tall metal racks like the one that had just rolled out the door and yelled at him. A young round-faced Negro with green eyes, reddish nappy hair, and pouting lips, dressed in a wet smudged-white … was white … jacket, a pair of dirty brown pants, and run-over shoes was scrubbing a big fat dirty pot.

“ ’Scuse me …”

The young man kept on scrubbing without looking up.

“Eh. Aye beg yohar pahdon, could-you-tell-me wheah theh hiah cooks, waitahs, or portahs?”

“NAW!”

He stepped quietly back through the door and onto the platform. He walked on until he came to an office. A white man sat behind the window in a summer hat that was shoved back on his small gray head. He wore metal-rimmed glasses with bifocal lenses. A long yellow pencil stuck out from behind a big red ear. He looked out over the upper lenses of his glasses and pursed his lips at him.

“Do you need a cook-or-a-waiter-or-a-porter?”

“Nope.”

“Or somebody to do somethin’ else?”

“Nope.”

“Are you the one that does the hirin’?”

“Yep.”

“Maybe next week?”

“Nope.”

“Next year!”

“Uhmn.”

He stood on the sidewalk with his back to the station and contemplated Memorial Hill. He walked through the parking lot, crossed the busy boulevard, and ascended the steps that led to the path up the hill to the terrace where the fountains were. He beheld the monumental figures on the great wall who stood in warlike attitudes.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
resounded the fierce cannon. Bayonetted, muddy-booted men with bandaged legs peered through the hollow eyes of gas masks as they clambered over the top.

He climbed the staircase on the right and peeped into the windows of the adjacent rooms where he saw plaster-of-paris no-man’s-lands hovering between barbed-wire defense positions of battles the names of which he had heard, but which he had already forgotten.

Finally the general reached the top of the stairs and stood upon the battlement in front of the towering torch of Freedom and looked down over his city. The streets south to north swept straight through to the river and were cut into neat little squares by the streets running east to west; crystal-like clusters of redbrick and gray stone buildings stood in the squares bordered by slate-gray strips of asphalt and cement.

His weary eye wandered over the skyline. It was broken by the Power & Light Building with its tower and ball of light turning lollipop-red, then off-white, like the grate of the gas stove in the front room, and then Christmas-green — but not in the daytime. A little to the west of the center of town, the Telephone Building, City Hall, and the courthouse huddled close together, as if they were in cahoots.

“Vote!”
cried Rutherford,
“for what?”

He cupped his palms and shaded his eyes like the vigilant Indian Scout atop his pinto pony to the rear and to the left of him and scanned the windows of all the buildings, row on row, square on square, east to west and north to south, in an attempt to divine the room that reverberated with the monumental question:

Now?