Ralph Ellison - Invisible man

"But how long has this been known?"

Brother Jack struck the table. "All we know is that he's gone. Let's get on with our business. You, Brother, are to return to Harlem immediately. We're facing a crisis there, since Brother Tod Clifton has not only disappeared but failed in his assignment. On the other hand, Ras the Exhorter and his gang of racist gangsters are taking advantage of this and are increasing their agitation. You are to get back there and take measures to regain our strength in the community. You'll be given the forces you need and you'll report to us for a strategy meeting about which you'll be notified tomorrow. And please," he emphasized with his gavel, "be on time!"

I was so relieved that none of my own problems were discussed that I didn't linger to ask if the police had been consulted about the disappearance. Something was wrong with the whole deal, for Clifton was too responsible and had too much to gain simply to have disappeared. Did it have any connection with Ras the Exhorter? But that seemed unlikely; Harlem was one of our strongest districts, and just a month ago when I was shifted Ras would have been laughed off the street had he tried to attack us. If only I hadn't been so careful not to offend the committee I would have kept in closer contact with Clifton and the whole Harlem membership. Now it was as though I had been suddenly awakened from a deep sleep.

I had been away long enough for the streets to seem strange. The uptown rhythms were slower and yet were somehow faster; a different tension was in the hot night air. I made my way through the summer crowds, not to the district but to Barrelhouse's Jolly Dollar, a dark hole of a bar and grill on upper Eighth Avenue, where one of my best contacts, Brother Maceo, could usually be found about this time, having his evening's beer.

Looking through the window, I could see men in working clothes and a few rummy women leaning at the bar, and down the aisle between the bar and counter were a couple of men in black and blue checked sport shirts eating barbecue. A cluster of men and women hovered near the juke box at the rear. But when I went in Brother Maceo wasn't among them and I pushed to the bar, deciding to wait over a beer.

"Good evening, Brothers," I said, finding myself beside two men whom I had seen around before; only to have them look at me oddly, the eyebrows of the tall one raising at a drunken angle as he looked at the other.

"Shit," the tall man said.

"You said it, man; he a relative of yourn?"

"Shit, he goddam sho ain't no kin of mine!"

I turned and looked at them, the room suddenly cloudy.

"He must be drunk," the second man said. "Maybe he thinks he's kin to you."

"Then his whiskey's telling him a damn lie. I wouldn't be his kin even if I was -- Hey, Barrelhouse!"

I moved away, down the bar, looking at them out of a feeling of suspense. They didn't sound drunk and I had said nothing to offend, and I was certain that they knew who I was. What was it? The Brotherhood greeting was as familiar as "Give me some skin" or "Peace, it's wonderful."

I saw Barrelhouse rolling down from the other end of the bar, his white apron indented by the tension of its cord so that he looked like that kind of metal beer barrel which has a groove around its middle; and seeing me now, he began to smile.

"Well, I'll be damned if it ain't the good brother," he said, stretching out his hand. "Brother, where you been keeping yourself?"

"I've been working downtown," I said, feeling a surge of gratitude.

"Fine, fine!" Barrelhouse said.

"Business good?"

"I'd rather not discuss it, Brother. Business is bad. Very bad."

"I'm sorry to hear it. You'd better give me a beer," I said, "after you've served these gentlemen." I watched them in the mirror.

"Sure thing," Barrelhouse said, reaching for a glass and drawing a beer. "What you putting down, ole man?" he said to the tall man.

"Look here, Barrel, we wanted to ask you one question," the tall one said. "We just wanted to know if you could tell us just whose brother this here cat's supposed to be? He come in here just now calling everybody brother."

"He's my brother," Barrel said, holding the foaming glass between his long fingers. "Anything wrong with that?"

"Look, fellow," I said down the bar, "that's our way of speaking. I meant no harm in calling you brother. I'm sorry you misunderstood me."

"Brother, here's your beer," Barrelhouse said.

"So he's your brother, eh, Barrel?"

Barrel's eyes narrowed as he pressed his huge chest across the bar, looking suddenly sad. "You enjoying yourself, MacAdams?" he said gloomily. "You like your beer?"

"Sho," MacAdams said.

"It cold enough?"

"Sho, but Barrel --"

"You like the groovy music on the juke?" Barrelhouse said.

"Hell, yes, but --"

"And you like our good, clean, sociable atmosphere?"

"Sho, but that ain't what I'm talking about," the man said.

"Yeah, but that's what I'm talking about," Barrelhouse said mournfully. "And if you like it, like it, and don't start trying to bug my other customers. This here man's done more for the community than you'll ever do."

"What community?" MacAdams said, cutting his eyes around toward me. "I hear he got the white fever and left ..."

"You liable to hear anything," Barrelhouse said. "There's some paper back there in the gents' room. You ought to wipe out your ears."

"Never mind my ears."

"Aw come" on, Mac," his friend said. "Forgit it. Ain't the man done apologized?"

"I said never mind my ears," MacAdams said. "You just tell your brother he ought to be careful 'bout who he claims as kinfolks. Some of us don't think so much of his kind of politics."

I looked from one to the other. I considered myself beyond the stage of street-fighting, and one of the worst things I could do upon returning to the community was to engage in a brawl. I looked at MacAdams and was glad when the other man pushed him down the bar.

"That MacAdams thinks he's right," Barrelhouse said. "He's the kind caint nobody please. Be frank though, there's lots feel like that now."

I shook my head in bafflement. I'd never met that kind of antagonism before. "What's happened to Brother Maceo?" I said.

"I don't know, Brother. He don't come in so regular these days. Things are kinda changing up here. Ain't much money floating around."

"Times are hard everywhere. But what's been going on up here, Barrel?" I said.

"Oh, you know how it is, Brother; things are tight and lots of folks who got jobs through you people have lost them. You know how it goes."

"You mean people in our organization?"

"Quite a few of them are. Fellows like Brother Maceo."

"But why? They were doing all right."

"Sure they was -- as long as you people was fighting for 'em. But the minute y'all stopped, they started throwing folks out on the street."

I looked at him, big and sincere before me. It was unbelievable that the Brotherhood had stopped its work, and yet he wasn't lying. "Give me another beer," I said. Then someone called him from the back, and he drew the beer and left.

I drank it slowly, hoping Brother Maceo would appear before I had finished. When he didn't I waved to Barrelhouse and left for the district. Perhaps Brother Tarp could explain; or at least tell me something about Clifton.

I walked through the dark block over to Seventh and started down; things were beginning to look serious. Along the way I saw not a single sign of Brotherhood activity. In a hot side street I came upon a couple striking matches along the curb, kneeling as though looking for a lost coin, the matches flaring dimly in their faces. Then I found myself in a strangely familiar block and broke out in a sweat: I had walked almost to Mary's door, and turned now and hurried away.