Nelson Algren - A Walk on the Wild Side

‘Beginnin’, maties!’ he called over the side, ‘Beginnin’!’ That should show them he was no coward.

Something tugged at the chair and he understood the foreman had had a change of mind – he could come down any time now. Dove whipped the rope fast around the stack, and knotted it with the last of his strength. By God, the man had sent him up, he wasn’t going to get him down without a day’s pay in hand.

Once fastened, the chair steadied and so did Dove. Not enough to stand upright, but enough to get the lid off the paint can. Just as he got it off, the wind tilted the chair and the tinned oil spilled. He dabbed it off his jeans. ‘Lucky it didn’t get my shoes,’ he took the happier view.

No use taking a chance on ruining his shoes altogether with a wind that tricky sneaking around. He clamped the lid back on and glanced at his watch: 11:04. By God, just because a man couldn’t read didn’t mean he couldn’t count. That was a dime he’d made already today or he’d know the reason why.

That was when he looked right over the edge and down and saw the little circle of grinning faces looking up. He closed his eyes to keep from heaving. That would never do the first day on the job.

When his stomach had steadied he remembered something and found, in the bottom of a Bull Durham sack, just what he was looking for: a palm-full of light green potoguaya and a couple of brown papers. ‘Wasn’t told nothin’ about not smokin’ on the job,’ he argued sensibly. And at the first drag felt the chair rise an inch.

‘Let her rise,’ he thought, ‘the higher we go the higher the pay.’

Scraper, thinner, bucket and brush lay at his feet forgotten; as he had apparently been forgotten by those below. When he looked at his watch again it was almost two. My, how time did fly.

‘Lunch!’ he shouted over the side, ‘bring her up!’

But saw no one climbing the rigging one-handed, tray in the other, to ask whether he took sugar and cream in his coffee.

‘Bunch of hogs are at chow,’ he thought sullenly, ‘stuffin’ theirselves like a set of sows. Struck me right off as a sorry lookin’ crew.’

All through the treetop afternoon Dove dozed, and every time he woke, woke hungrier.

‘Chow!’ he tried for his dinner one more time. But all he got was a wave from a deck-hand far below.

‘I know your play,’ he finally informed the foreman aloud, ‘you’re tryin’ to starve me down. But you wont do it till I got a full day comin’, friend.’ And went right back on the nod.

It was almost five when he wakened again, feeling a chill breeze pass. He unlooped the draw-rope. ‘Good thing I didn’t have lunch,’ Dove thought going down, and hopped out onto the deck, pale and swaying. Two of the crew had to hold him up and every man but the foreman looked pleased with his work.

‘Not a damn dime, boy!’ the foreman let him know right off. ‘Mention money and I’ll heave you right over the side!’

Dove got his landlegs under him.

‘Mister, I went up in your fool chair like you asked me. We made a bargain.’

‘Now you listen here to me, son. I’m Chief-by-Jesus foreman of this everlastingly damned dry dock, I’ll have you under-goddamn-stand that. I’m not to be dic-hellfire-tated to by you or anyone. Is that the Christian-Killing-Moses clear or not? I can make it mother-murdering clearer if you want.’

‘A bargain , mister.’

‘Talk sense, boy.’

‘I’m a-talkin’ sense, mister,’ n you leave mothers out of this. I were aloft six hour, not chargin’ you for overtime because I realize I didn’t do too well my first day. But I tried six dollar worth.’

The foreman took Dove by the arm, led him to one side and whispered, ‘Take this and get off my God-by-Jesus deck.’ Dove looked down. It was a two dollar bill.

‘I got six comin’, mister.’

‘As high as I go.’ He had changed it for a fiver.

‘I’ll settle.’ Dove took it. The foreman went wearily to the rail, looking downriver and out to sea.

Down on the dock Dove took one last look up. The little man at the rail was grinning down. He waved the big brush at Dove. ‘Be work on time tomorrow, matey!’ he called. Dove waved back. Mighty mannerable fellow.

Yet felt a lingering sadness as he left the big river to know he wasn’t going to sea after all.

Later that day he discovered the door of the men’s room in the Southern Railway Station barred by a white-haired Negro porter. ‘Excuse me, pappy,’ Dove tried to get past.

‘Country boy, you got colored blood?’ Pappy demanded.

‘Naturally it aint white,’ Dove told him.

‘No funny business,’ the old Negro warned him, ‘I’m responsible here.’

Dove didn’t know what was wrong. He just felt wrong. And left the REST ROOM FOR COLORED in retreat.

He was bending above the water-fountain when he saw the porter coming at him again. The old man had been searching for someone like this in dreams for years.

‘You got colored blood, you caint drink this water.’

‘Aint everybody got colored blood, mister?’ By this time Dove really wanted to know.

‘You think you make a fool of me with fool questions,’ the old man answered, ‘but all you make a fool of is yourself. Boy, if you white, stay white. If you black, stay black and die. Now get out of my station and out of my sight.’

‘It purely wonders me,’ Dove brooded thoughtfully, ‘Why, a Christian don’t scarcely stand a chance for a drink of water in town no more. Looks like my crazy little pappy was right after all.’

His throat felt parched and he turned into the first doorway he saw with a Coca Cola sign over it. Coca Cola signs went all around this shady nook with nothing on its shelves but empty cokes. He rapped the counter with a dime.

A little brassiereless beauty, a real fence-corner peach all of nineteen appeared, opened a coke on a nail hooked to the counter, and let her shoulder strap slip to bare her left breast to its tinted nipple. Under the breast was tattooed the single word – Whiskey .

‘Aint this the By-Goddest weather you ever seen?’ Dove asked.

‘I’ve seen By-Godder,’ the fence-corner peach replied.

‘Now I reckon I got a nickel change comin’, m’am,’ Dove reckoned.

‘Reckon you awready got your change’ – and replaced the strap, looking bored.

‘You don’t feel maybe you made a slight errow, m’am?’

‘ Right sure.’

‘How much fer a stror?’

‘Help yourself, country boy.’

‘Now there’s another funny thing,’ Dove marveled, taking four straws in an effort to get even, ‘you’re the second person in the past hour noted that. However do folks tell?’

The peach merely looked blank. When the straws would draw no more he bent each carefully and put down another dime.

This time she wiped the bottle with a counter cloth and slipped in a single straw. He took it from her with his eyes glued to that left strap.

It didn’t slip an inch.

But she rang up his dime and slammed the register so fast, just as the right strap fell away, that he thought she had punched the machine with the nipple. Now she merely leaned on the machine, resting the breast on the NO SALE sign.

Underneath this one was tattooed – Beer . Dove studied the word solemnly. ‘Do you mind if I spend an opinion, Miss? Somethin’ a bit personal?’ he asked at last.

‘Nothing you could tell me could possibly be personal.’

‘Why it strikes me you got a mite too much whitenin’ on,’ he told her all the same, ‘it make you look plumb puny.’

The blankness of her regard surpassed itself. She didn’t so much as blink. Just tipped the bottle’s last drop out, put the bottle away and replaced her strap.