Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone (42 page)

It went this way: my working day began around five or six in the evening, when I unlocked the restaurant. There were about eight or ten tables. At capacity, we could serve about forty people. I was the only waiter. The restaurant was set down about three steps below the sidewalk. I unlocked the door, I swept out the joint. I checked the garbage cans, both inside and outside the restaurant. If I had left pots soaking, I scoured the pots. I set up the kitchen, putting out the cleaver and the chopping board. I chopped up the salad and made the salad dressing. I peeled the potatoes, poured the water off the black-eyed peas we always left soaking overnight, and washed the rice—for our specialty was a black-eyed peas and rice dish, called Hopping John. Then, I paused and had a drink—of black Jamaican rum. Hilda always kept a bottle in the kitchen. And by this time, Hilda, the cook, who was also the nominal owner, a big, black, and, on the whole, rather mysteriously unattached lady from the islands, had arrived, and was in the kitchen, hacking away at the ribs and the chicken. Hilda and I never said a great deal to each other; this meant that Hilda liked me and trusted me. She worked hard, she worked silently. I understood her reasons, although we never discussed them. I was sure that whatever she had saved from the years of working as a cook in private houses had been invested in this restaurant; and now she was terrified, although she masked this terror very well. She had, after all, taken on something quite formidable. With or without partners—and I didn't know whether she had any partners or not—for a lone Negro woman to open a Negro joint in downtown New York was the kind of challenge that could easily lead to reprisals. For one thing,
Hilda's joint, which we called The Island, would certainly bring other Negroes downtown, and the people who ran the Village were not anxious for this to happen. Hilda and I both knew this, but there wasn't much point in discussing it. Of course, our emphasis was very heavily on the islands, mightily exotic—this may have helped; and we anticipated, if we didn't indeed help to create, the Calypso craze that was shortly to sweep the nation. Negro entertainers, working in Village clubs, very often dropped in, and this gave the place a certain “tone,” a certain vibrance, and they sometimes, if the spirit so moved them, sang or danced.

And there was something very impressive in Hilda's stolid, silent single-mindedness. I don't think she ever really liked running that restaurant—it was something she had to do. We knew nothing about her life at all. Unattached she certainly appeared to be. She spent very little money on herself. She sent nearly all of it back to Trinidad, without ever telling us who, there, was dependent on her efforts. And this gave her a black dignity, hard to assail. I think she liked me because, in my different way, I was as single-minded as she, as closed, and, in my way, as bold. We were a good team. If we hadn't been, we would never have been able to manage the tremendous amount of work we had to do each evening. I surrendered the kitchen to Hilda, and set up my tables. I always brought a book with me, and, after I had set up my tables, I poured myself another glass of rum and sat down to read until the people arrived.

We ran a rather late joint. My working day never ended before one in the morning, and sometimes not until four. Some very odd people floated through the
doors of that restaurant, and I guess I learned a lot there. One of the things I learned, without realizing that I was learning it, was how to dominate a room. I certainly dominated that one. If I hadn't, I would have been trampled to death.

Here they came: a blond girl, say, with very long hair, svelte, an uptown girl, in snooty black. Her beau, crew-cutted, gabardined. They are slumming and they more or less know it, but, nevertheless, they look rather hard at me. For very dissimilar reasons, I look rather hard at them. But, as they are now in
my
territory, and my mother raised me right, I close my book and rise and smile—I almost said, rise and shine.

“Good evening. Can I help you?”

Hilda avoided the customers as completely as possible, for she couldn't bear them; and at moments like these, I always seemed to hear the cleaver in the kitchen coming down particularly hard.

“We thought we might eat something.”

She is looking pleased, or looking bored; with some girls, it's very hard to tell. Anyway, she is certainly looking bright.

“Certainly. Would you like this table?”

They are seated. The menus are before them. She is still looking bright, but he has decided to be a regular fellow. The mother doesn't know how much I know about him. He might not make out with her, but I might know somebody, or maybe he can make out with me. I'm black, but I'm friendly, and no doubt I remind him of someone he knew in college.

“Would you like a drink?”

And
wham!
goes the cleaver, and I go behind the bar
to prepare their martinis. I am also, I forgot to say, the only bartender. From my position behind the bar, I look into the kitchen at black and surly Hilda. The first of our signals are exchanged.
Just the usual fools,
I silently inform her,
no trouble.
I wink at her, and she winks back. Then she raises the cleaver again.
Wham!

“You make a pretty good martini.”

“Thank you. Do you want to order now, or—well—have another martini?” And it was on this line I managed my most artless and dazzling smile.

“Well. We'll see.”

“Okay. Just make yourself at home.”

Here they came: she middle-aged, fretful, all in green and orange, he balding, harried, in dark blue.

“What's the name of this place?”

“We call it The Island. Good evening.”

“Your food any good?”

“Some people like it.
Some
people are addicted to it.”

Looking back, I suspect that one of the reasons they looked at me so hard was that I really didn't give a damn if they never ate another meal again, anywhere in the world. I certainly wasn't drumming up trade, and that was the secret behind my carefully open smile.

“Well, I guess we might as well try it. What do you think, Anita?”

They look at the other couple, look at me. I leave them in their valley of decision, and light a few candles. They sit down—at a table very near the door. I give them their menus.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Can you make a Manhattan?”

“I believe I still remember. Two?”

“Yeah. And make it snappy.”

Distrustfully, they taste their drinks. The cleaver continues to fall, and the pots are boiling, Hilda rings the bell which informs me that the first couple's meal is ready. I serve it. He smiles at me, and winks. I smile. Then, back to my other couple.

“Would you like to order now?”

“Yeah. We'll try the chicken. We don't like no spices.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

Here they came: two boys, certainly under age, certainly from the Bronx, in the Village for the first time.

“Hi. Can we eat?”

“If you can't, you won't live long. How about this table?”

I light their candles.

“Are the ribs good?”

“I like them.”

“You the cook?”

“No. I'm the waiter. The cook is in the kitchen.”

“What's your name?”

“My name is Leo.”

“Can we have a couple of beers?”

They are probably under age, but, on the other hand, so am I. I don't know what Hilda is paying for protection, but I know it's a lot.

“Okay. And two ribs?”

“Right.”

“Thank you.”

Here they came: four Southern sailors, a little drunk. This can be very tricky, but Hilda and I have this set of
signals, and I always maneuver myself at such moments so that I am near the poker in the fireplace.

“Good evening. Would you like to eat?”

“Yeah. We're hungry.”

“You've come to the right place, then. This table suit you?”

“Yeah. Can we get a drink?”

This is also rather tricky, for one doesn't want sailors getting drunk in the joint. But I can't really claim that they are too drunk to be served.

“What would you like?”

They would like boiler-makers, all around.

“Hey, where you from? You from around here?”

“I'm from New York.”

“You know where we can find some pussy?”

“All over the street. I guess.”

“Man, we been looking and we ain't found nothing. This town is full of fagots.”

“Cheer up. It's early. What do you want to eat?”

Looking back, I have to recognize that most of the Southerners who came into that joint surprised me. It was the Northerners who were dangerous.

“Might have me some pigs' feet. They
smell
like pussy.”

“Man, they look just like a prick.”

“Now, where did you ever come across a prick with claws?”

Laughter.

Here they came: the nice blond girl from Minneapolis, who lived in the Village with her black musician husband. Eventually, he went mad and she turned into a lush. I don't know what happened to their little boy. Here they came: Rhoda and Sam, the happiest
young couple in the Village. She committed suicide, and he vanished into Spain. Here they came: two girls who worked in advertising and who lived together in fear and trembling, who told me all about their lives one drunken night. One of them found a psychiatrist, married a very fat boy in advertising, and moved to California and they are now very successful and vocal Fascists. I don't know what happened to the other girl. Here they came: the black man from Kentucky, who called himself an African prince and had some ridiculous name, like Omar, and his trembling Bryn Mawr girl-friend, whose virginity he wore like a flag. Her family eventually had him arrested, and the girl married somebody from Yale. Here they came, the brilliant, aging Negro lawyer who lived on whiskey and benzedrine and fat white women, here they came, the bright-eyed boy from the South, who was going to be a writer and who turned into a wino, here they came, the boy who had just fled from his rich family in Florida and who was going to live a different life than theirs (“I don't need all that money, I just want to be me”) and who turned into a junkie, here they came, the fagot painter and his Lesbian wife, who had an understanding with each other which made them brutally cruel to all their playmates and which welded them, hatefully, to each other. Here they came, the lost lonely man who worked in the shipyards and lived with his mother, who loved young boys and feared them and who jumped off a roof, here they came, the nice, middle-aged couple everyone was always glad to see, the husband of which couple, weeping and sweating, once threw me down among the garbage cans and tried to blow me—“Don't tell Marcia. Please don't tell my wife!”—here they came, the beautiful girl who painted and who ended up in Bellevue, here
they came, the beautiful girl who was going to be a dancer and who ended up in prison, here they came, the brilliant Boston scion who liked to get fucked in the ass, and who threw himself before a subway train—which chopped off his head—here they came, my God, the wretched, the beautiful, lost and lonely, trying to live, though death's icy mark was on them, trying to speak, though they had learned no language, trying to love although the flesh was vile, hoping to find in all the cups they tasted that taste which was joy,
their
joy, without which no life is worth living. Yes, I learned a lot. They frightened me, but I learned a lot. Here, one night, came Sally, with whom I was to live for nearly two years, very cool and sleek and distant, with two white, male NYU students. They were talking sociology, I thought they were full of shit, and eventually I said so, and Sally and I had a fight. Then, I haunted the NYU campus until I found her again and I made her speak to me again, like a person this time, and not like a poor relation, the object of sociological research. Here, one night, came Steve, from Pennsylvania, the wayward son of a famous general, and he fell in love with me. I have to put it that way because that's what happened, although I know I didn't handle it very well. But he meant a lot to me and he taught me something very valuable, a certain humility before the brutal and mysterious facts of life. Sally eventually married a Negro lawyer, a very nice man, and we're still friendly—I guess we cost each other enough for that. Steve went off to Tangiers, and I am told that he is drinking himself to death there. Yes. My days of anger.

By and by, around about midnight, the room would be under control, the last couples sipping their coffee. The
room would be rather nice then. The candles made the room seem warmer, and the people looked gentler than they were. I ate my own meals at no particular time, it depended on the traffic and on my own mood, and it didn't matter, since I always closed the joint. Many times, I ate my supper at about two in the morning, sitting in the locked restaurant alone. Around midnight, Hilda would come out of the kitchen and sit down at her table, near the fireplace. She always brought knitting with her, I remember her hands as always busy—I think it was because she wanted most of the people who came in there to stay far away from her. Sometimes, Barbara came to pick me up, or other friends might be there. Steve spent a lot of his time there for awhile, and so did Sally—I still remember some moments, still remember Sally and Hilda, sitting at that corner table, laughing. Sally and Hilda liked each other very much, and Hilda was very disappointed when I failed to marry Sally. She felt that Sally had real class, and that I very much needed Sally's stability. I still remember Steve, rawboned, curly-haired, slouching in, his eyes coming always directly to rest on me. It's painful, sometimes, to look back on a life and wonder if anything you did could have made any difference. So much is lost; and what's lost is lost forever. Was it destined to be lost, or could we have saved it? People rather made fun of Steve in those days, and I was more sensitive about this than I should have been. He was certainly exceedingly forthright, and I found this awkward as well as frightening. I must say for Sally that, later on, when she realized that Steve and I had been lovers, and might become lovers again, she did everything she could to understand it, and to understand him. But he frightened her. He frightened her in much the same way I did,
for, though Sally was bright and beautiful, she was, at bottom, thoroughly respectable. That was really the trouble between us, though we may not have realized it then, and I was far too young to realize that a lone, black girl, operating in the Village then,
had
to be respectable or risk being destroyed.