Ralph Ellison - Invisible man

"Get in, boo'ful, 'n take me to Harlem ..."

I shook my head, feeling it heavy and sad. "No," I said, "I've got work to do, Sybil. You'd better go home ..."

"No, boo'ful, take me with you."

I turned to the driver, my hand upon the door. He was small, dark-haired and disapproving, a glint of red from the traffic light coloring the tip of his nose.

"Look," I said, "take her home."

I gave him the address and my last five-dollar bill. He took it, glumly disapproving.

"No, boo'ful," she said, "I want to go to Harlem, be with you!"

"Good night," I said, stepping back from the curb.

We were in the middle of the block and I saw them pull away.

"No," she said, "no, boo'ful. Don't leave ..." Her face, wild-eyed and white, showed in the door. I stood there, watching him plunge swiftly and contemptuously out of sight, his tail light as red as his nose.

I walked with eyes closed, seeming to float and trying to clear my head, then opened them and crossed to the park side, along the cobbles. High above, the cars sailed round and round the drive, their headlights stabbing. All the taxies were hired, all going downtown. Center of gravity. I plodded on, my head awhirl.

Then near 110th Street I saw her again. She was waiting beneath a street lamp, waving. I wasn't surprised; I had become fatalistic. I came up slowly, hearing her laugh. She was ahead of me and beginning to run, barefoot, loosely, as in a dream. Running. Unsteadily but swift and me surprised and unable to catch up, lead-legged, seeing her ahead and calling, "Sybil, Sybil!" running lead-legged along the park side.

"Come on, boo'ful," she called, looking back and stumbling. "Catch Sybil ... Sybil," running barefoot and girdleless along the park.

I ran, the brief case heavy beneath my arm. Something told me I had to get to the office ... "Sybil, wait!" I called.

She ran, the colors of her dress flaring flamelike in the bright places of the dark. A rustling motion, legs working awkwardly beneath her and white heels flashing, her skirts held high. Let her go, I thought. But now she was crossing the street and running wildly only to go down at the curb and standing and going down again, with a bumped backside, completely unsteady, now that her momentum was gone.

"Boo'ful," she said as I came up. "Damn, boo'ful, you push me?"

"Get up," I said without anger. "Get up," taking her soft arm. She stood, her arms flung wide for an embrace.

"No," I said, "this isn't Thursday. I've got to get there ... What do they plan for me, Sybil?"

"Who, boo'ful?"

"Jack and George ... Tobitt and all?"

"You ran me down, boo'ful," she said. "Forget them ... bunch of dead-heads ... unhipped, y'know. We didn't make this stinking world, boo'ful. Forget --"

I saw the taxi just in time, approaching swiftly from the corner, a double-decker bus looming two blocks behind. The cabbie looked over, his head out of the window, sitting high at the wheel as he made a swift U-turn and came alongside. His face was shocked, disbelieving.

"Come now, Sybil," I said, "and no tricks."

"Pardon me, old man," the driver said, his voice concerned, "but you're not taking her up in Harlem are you?"

"No, the lady's going downtown," I said."Get in Sybil."

"Boo'ful's 'n ole dictator," she said to the driver, who looked at me silently, as though I were mad.

"A game stud," he muttered, "a most game stud!"

But she got in.

"Just 'n ole dictator, boo'ful."

"Look," I told him, "take her straight home and don't let her get out of the cab. I don't want her running around Harlem. She's precious, a great lady --"

"Sure, man, I don't blame you," he said. "Things is popping up there."

The cab was already rolling as I yelled, "What's going on?"

"They're taking the joint apart," he called above the shifting of the gears. I watched them go and made for the bus stop. This time I'll make sure, I thought, stepping out and flagging the bus and getting on. If she comes back, she'll find me gone. And I knew stronger than ever that I should hurry but was still too foggy in my mind, couldn't get myself together.

I sat gripping my brief case, my eyes closed, feeling the bus sailing swift beneath me. Soon it would turn up Seventh Avenue. Sybil, forgive me, I thought. The bus rolled.

But when I opened my eyes we were turning into Riverside Drive. This too I accepted calmly, the whole night was out of joint. I'd had too many drinks. Time ran fluid, invisible, sad. Looking out I could see a ship moving upstream, its running lights bright points in the night. The cool sea smell came through to me, constant and thick in the swiftly unfolding blur of anchored boats, dark water and lights pouring past. Across the river was Jersey and I remembered my entry into Harlem. Long past, I thought, long past. I was as if drowned in the river.

To my right and ahead the church spire towered high, crowned with a red light of warning. And now we were passing the hero's tomb and I recalled a visit there. You went up the steps and inside and you looked far below to find him, at rest, draped flags ...

One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street came quickly. I stumbled off, hearing the bus pull away as I faced the water. There was a light breeze, but now with the motion gone the heat returned, clinging. Far ahead in the dark I saw the monumental bridge, ropes of lights across the dark river; and closer, high above the shoreline, the Palisades, their revolutionary agony lost in the riotous lights of roller coasters. "The Time Is Now ..." the sign across the river began, but with history stomping upon me with hobnailed boots, I thought with a laugh, why worry about time? I crossed the street to the drinking fountain, feeling the water cooling, going down, then dampened a handkerchief and swabbed my face, eyes. The water flashed, gurgled, sprayed. I pressed forward my face, feeling wet cool, hearing the infant joy of fountains. Then heard the other sound. It was not the river nor the curving cars that flashed through the dark, but pitched like a distant crowd or a swift river at floodtide.

I moved forward, found the steps and started down. Below the bridge lay the hard stone river of the street, and for a second I looked at the waves of cobblestones as though I expected water, as though the fountain above had drawn from them. Still I would enter and go across to Harlem. Below the steps the trolley rails gleamed steely. I hurried, the sound drawing closer, myriad-voiced, humming, enfolding me, numbing the air, as I started beneath the ramp. It came, a twitter, a coo, a subdued roar that seemed trying to tell me something, give me some message. I stopped, looking around me; the girders marched off rhythmically into the dark, over the cobblestones the red lights shone. Then I was beneath the bridge and it was as though they had been waiting for me and no one but me -- dedicated and set aside for me -- for an eternity. And I looked above toward the sound, my mind forming an image of wings, as something struck my face and streaked, and I could smell the foul air now, and see the encrusted barrage, feeling it streak my jacket and raising my brief case above my head and running, hearing it splattering around, falling like rain. I ran the gantlet, thinking, even the birds; even the pigeons and the sparrows and the goddam gulls! I ran blindly, boiling with outrage and despair and harsh laughter. Running from the birds to what, I didn't know. I ran. Why was I here at all?

I ran through the night, ran within myself. Ran.

When I reached Morningside the shooting sounded like a distant celebration of the Fourth of July, and I hurried forward. At St. Nicholas the street lights were out. A thunderous sound arose and I saw four men running toward me pushing something that jarred the walk. It was a safe.