Nelson Algren - A Walk on the Wild Side

But all it was was a little round man with something glistening in his hand. Dove elbowed in to see what glistened so nicely.

Cawfee pot.

Hello, pot.

Shor a purty old pot.

‘Wreneger’s the name,’ the little round man was telling his crew, ‘but you boys call me plain old “Smiley” because that’s what all my goodbuddies call me. And you know what I tell my goodbuddies? I tell them, “Goodbuddies, if you aint sellin’ you just aint tryin’,” that’s what I tell my goodbuddies. And that’s what I’m tellin’ every one of you,’ cause you all my goodbuddies too.’

Little old red ’n green cawfee pot. Well I be dawg. Bet you make right good cawfee.

‘The idea aint to see how many doors you can rap of a morning – that aint sellin’. That aint even tryin’. If you only rap two doors a whole morning and sell both, then you’re tryin’.’

I had me a cawfee pot like you, cawfee pot, I’d know where to get the chicory for you.

‘Heed the housewife’s woes, boys. Give ear to her trials and little cares. Make her joys your joys, her tears your tears. If you listen long enough sooner or later she’s going to ask, “Young man, whatever is that contraption in your hand?”’

‘Look like a cawfee pot to me,’ Dove helped the man out.

‘Thank you, Red. You work with me. The rest of you men split up two to a block, one down one side and one down the other and meet me back here at noon. If you aint sellin’ you just aint tryin’, all you good old goodbuddy buddies.’

‘Dirt-eatin’ buggers, every one,’ Smiley assured Dove the moment they’d scattered. ‘Don’t you think I know what they’re up to? Got a pencil and a receipt book so they’re going to make out five or six phony orders with addresses of empty lots ’n then go drink derail in Lafayette Square thinkin’ Old Dominion pays off on their lousy word.’ He banged Dove’s big back good-naturedly – ‘They’ll find out better soon enough, won’t they goodbuddy?’

‘They sure will, mister,’ Dove agreed gleefully.

‘That’s why I was so careful about choosing you,’ Smiley grew serious. ‘I told myself, “There now is one face I can truly trust.”’

‘I truly trustes you too, Mister,’ Dove replied, feeling happier by the minute.

‘I want you right beside me while I pitch, Red. Because when you pitch for Old Dominion you’re pitchin’ for the red, white and blue!’

‘Mister,’ Dove stopped short to offer Smiley his hand, ‘you’re talkin’ about my team now!’

Smiley shook perfunctorily. He wasn’t used to being taken literally, it made him unsure of himself. ‘The first thing to remember, son, is our own Confederate dead. When the housewife asks you how much coffee does she have to buy before the pot is legally redeemed – some are sharper than you might expect – tell her you’re J. E. B. Stuart’s grandson and your daddy is dying in Memphis. Tell her anything except that she has to take fifty pounds before she owns the pot. If she wants to know what percent of chicory we use say something about Chancellorsville.’

‘I’LL SAY I WORK FOR OLD DOMINION!’ Dove cried with so genuine a pride that Wreneger, one of those men who like to say ‘It can’t get hot enough for me,’ felt curiously wilted.

‘Stand to one side, son, I’ll show you how it’s done,’ he invited Dove into the shade of a small unpainted porch, allowing him to guard one of the pots.

‘We aint buying no coffee pot, mister,’ the housewife assured Smiley the moment she saw the hardware in his hand.

Smiley fixed his face as if to eat mush out of a churn. ‘It’s not a pot, Madam. And it’s strictly not for sale. It’s a French Dripolator and it’s a goodwill gift, no strings attached, from Old Dominion to you. Take it. It belongs to you.’

‘I’m greatly obliged, but we already got a pot.’ The woman’s eyes shifted to the lopsided figure in the yellow-knob shoes.

‘Jeb Stuart’s grandson!’ Dove came to attention.

‘At ease,’ Smiley ordered below his breath and hurried into his pitch. ‘Madam, this here genuine French Dripolator is shortly goin’ on the market nationally for three-dolla-eighty-five cents with a national campaign behind it. What we need now is kindly folks who won’t be selfish about it when they find they got the best cup of coffee in town. The kind who’ll want to share with their neighbors and spread the word about our offer. That’s the friendly sort of thing is going to give our national campaign a headstart – I said at ease – of course if you don’t care to cooperate I’m sure the lady next door will be interested.’

She’d sooner risk the black death than have her next-door neighbor own something she didn’t. Dove watched her sign for receipt of the pot wistfully.

‘Just a mere formality,’ Smiley explained the need of her signature to the woman, ‘so’s the company won’t think I sold it to my wife.’ Even to Dove the laugh that followed sounded hollow.

The fraud consummated, Smiley handed Dove a pencil, receipt book and pot. ‘But don’t let go of that thing till you got that signature,’ was his parting warning. And off he went to lie in the shade and dream up new ways to beat Old Dominion.

Dove was relieved that his goodbuddy hadn’t asked him if he knew how to use the pencil. It was real nice to have it to carry behind his ear all the same.

He came to an intersection where one road led to town and the other away. The town road was festooned, street lamp to street lamp, with welcoming pennants; it was wide and newly paved. The other was lampless and pennantless and plainly led nowhere at all. Without hesitation Dove chose the nowhere road. For that was the only place, in his heart of hearts, that he really wanted to go.

Shuffling loosely along in his proud bright shoes, occasionally tucking in his sea-colored tie, he came to an iron-wrought fence where a Negro woman was shearing a bush; and waited in hope she would look up and ask, ‘How do I get a pot like that?’

But all she did was study him, shears in hand, as if Old Dominion might have sent him out to rape and rob her and she was nicely put together at that. He shifted the pot to his other hand. It was hanging so heavy he scolded it, ‘Pot, you give me the wearies.’ And his shoes gave him such a punishing pinch, as though they were on the side of the pot.

He came to a four-story tenement built flush to the broken walk to get the last inch of space, where another Negro girl, her face still full of an easy sleep, leaned an arm against a patched and rusted screen.

Dove held up the pot to catch the sun.

‘Little ol’ cawfee pot. Git it fer free.’

She opened the door and grasped the pot’s handle, taking his word as fast as that. But Dove was a little too smart for her. He kept hold of the spout.

‘Got to sign your name for you gits it.’

‘Signs you anythin’, cawfee pot man.’ She plucked the pencil off his ear and scribbled a name on a receipt blank. Old Dominion was going to like his work, Dove knew.

‘Awntie and Mothaw might like pots too,’ the girl told Dove, and hollered up the stair.

Two older women, as if waiting for just such a call, came clumping so eagerly down the steps that they wedged in the narrow way – for a moment neither could gain an inch. Then worked themselves free and the winner came up breathlessly.

‘Whut you got now , lucky girl?’

‘Got me a goddamn pot.’

‘You write for us, Minnie-Mae, then we gits too.’

‘My own handwrite is so poorly, Miss,’ Dove confessed, ‘I’d be most obliged if you’d do just that.’

Minnie-Mae snatched his receipt book, tore out two order blanks, scribbled on both and handed them back.