Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

So they remained for several hours, Tom playing. Then the attentive Negress barmaid came over and sat a pitcher of iced tea on top of the piano, the diversion Seven had been waiting for.

Time to go home now, Tom, he said. Time for food, he said, strategic. Long minutes had worn by; Tom would obey hunger and taste. Tom nestled against him. Tenderly close, the two of them got up from the piano and made their way to the bar. Seven received their dinner basket from the Negress. Handed Mr. Oakley the money due. The owner seemed to be giving serious thought to the changes in Seven’s behavior, today’s standoffishness, aloofness. (The mind twists and turns as it sees fit.) Seven was transgressing a simple rule of propriety with his silence. Even so, the owner didn’t express his feelings, only issued Seven a message that he instructed him to pass on to Mr. Oliver. Then he enclosed the two boys in his arms like sons, with more of the family, a sparkling pair of green glasses, awaiting their kinship on the counter.

Discreetly, Seven made as if reaching for one of the glasses and by such deceptive means managed to rearrange his limbs and create some elbow room. Tom, his welcome accomplice, was not so discreet. Dropped right to the floor free of Mr. Oakley’s skin. Seven hastily apologized — no telling what a nigger will do — then stooped down and helped Tom back to his feet in a nonclaimed space, three bar stools of distance between them and the owner. The owner showed no reaction beyond breathing. Seven mentally filed away the owner’s message, but found an excuse to refuse the green liquid, quick to forestall any objection by saying that they were already late in meeting Mr. Oliver back at their residence.

Outside, they encountered the usual stares and disavowals. Pure fantasy to expect anything less. Seven was fully prepared. These petty figures underestimated his strength. Just by looking at them or refusing to look he could switch them on and off. Tom, his natural cohort, fluttering along behind him, leaving reflections in the store windows.

Perry Oliver dreams of walking in a deserted and silent street. But the city is overpopulated, swarming like flies on kill, no matter what the time of day or what the season. It resounds with their footsteps and voices. Buzzes with their wings and working tongues. He shrilly struggles for breath. With what joy he would like to send them all to hell.

Face it, he is living among barbarians. Nothing can change that fact, alter the immovable difference between him and them. How is it that of the many people he knows in this city only Tom and Seven and Oakley meet his expectations? So many frauds, failures, and incompetents. He has come to expect the worst. (Experience is fact.) Has to be overly cautious in his dealings because the local good citizens offer the world, but what they can actually provide is insufficient to help him get on with his work. To expect good craft, care, is an excessive demand. Nothing is done thoroughly enough, everything is rushed and imperfect.

He strikes out along a new road, trying to get his bearings so that he’ll know how to behave once he arrives. Trying his best not to think about what may await him. All of his business may be there. Perhaps. Wouldn’t bet on it one way or the other. So far this has been a ridiculous, hideous, preposterous day. He no longer knows where he is, where he stands. This sense of confusion disorientation is why — no other explanation — he feels surrender rising in his blood.

And why shouldn’t he? What has he to show for his efforts? One after another he interviews those instructors whose names have been put forth. From each he gets the same response. No. Always looks so promising at first. Anxious to earn a fee, they hurry him inside their homes, but after he makes his request, they refuse him flatly, impatient for him to go. Turn down good money. So he must try another approach. If money can’t persuade them, perhaps his words can. (His mouth the organ.) He puts forward his case. (Indeed, he has learned that he can make a fine fresh impression when he pushes ahead in order to be the first to say something out loud. No matter what he says.) But they don’t care if Tom is an exception, a rare breed, a nigger like no other. You see, Tom’s skin is definitive. His blindness is end of the road. His idiocy a mockery, an insult — the brutality of fact — to culture and civilization. Perry Oliver tries again, backing up rational speech with firm gestures, raising a finger here and there to underscore a point. A doomed approach. Those who listen and entertain the possibility of Tom’s difference quickly decide this nigger boy is incapable of benefiting from instruction, and even go so far as to warn that I will summon the authorities , sensing a confidence scheme. Some don’t even consider him worthy of formal address. No matter. He knows he has to be prepared for such reactions. Not his place to argue. Silly to worry one’s head about something that can’t be changed, something beyond one’s control. Still, he is upset at this moment, tugging along, heavy with a thousand sensations. His thoughts muddled, only residual traces of the original motive. He needs to restore his confidence, faith.

When he returns to the apartment for dinner, angry nausea rising up the column of his body, he barely looks at Seven and Tom, who are seated at the table facing each other. He bypasses food (no appetite) and closes himself off inside his room, seeking ease (release) after a rough morning. Gives vent to his confusion, having lost his form, the door shut to Seven and Tom. (He will meet them across supper.) Starts to read his newspaper by candle — drapery shuts the light out — only to put the newspaper aside and reinforce his plans through the tedium of preparation. (Who will I see this afternoon? Who tomorrow morning?) The flat calm of Time that kills in silence. A silence where he is afraid that everything will remain as it is. Not that his fear alters his conviction. (Doesn’t in the least.) To cloak his feelings, he tells himself that the word no is a beginning, not an end. The start of a new conversation. His opponents cannot block his way forever. The knowledge makes him feel strangely fortified, even though his quest is undeniably something of a guessing game. He feels that he is on the right track. His daily failures, stalled efforts, can’t cancel out all that he has achieved up to this point in his life. So he must face the truth of what he hopes to accomplish through Tom, face the absolute nature of his work. In this way he can go out into the world again.

He makes his way into the parlor. An hour has passed.

From the table Seven turns his bright splotch of skin toward him and brings word that Mr. Oakley offers to sell us the piano outright, and charge nothing for its delivery.

Now there’s a thought. (Tom reaches out and chokes Seven’s beaver cap in one hand and starts caressing it with the other.) The price is fair. And perhaps it makes perfect sense to purchase the piano. The apartment has enough space for it. (Right over there.) And it would help to remove Tom from public view. But he has no desire to own a piano. Has sufficient possessions already. No, that is not quite what he has in mind.

Say nothing, he says. I will speak to him.

Yes, sir.

They have nothing more to tell each other. (Why waste words?) He leaves without saying good-bye.

Out in the street, he admits an important truth to himself. This city impresses him. That is, he is reluctantly impressed by the limits he pushes against in an attempt to expand beyond them. His mental mettle is sagging, although it hasn’t broken yet. Tense to the point of pain, of his beginnings, he is incapable of deciding what to do next and incapable of holding on to whatever he might decide. He is open to suggestions, open to anything and everything, no matter where it comes from. Perhaps Oakley can help. The saloon owner dares to do what others merely promise. He must tell Oakley about the troubles he has been having. He will seek his advice.