Jeffery Allen - Song of the Shank

He approaches the saloon. Comes through the door expecting the usual but doesn’t immediately recognize the room. Has it changed, been done over? Patrons waver in one direction then another. He can’t glimpse any pattern in their wavering. Oakley’s nigger is kneeling by the bar stools, hammer in hand, nails between his teeth, installing brass cuspidors. Careful where he places his knees and feet to avoid the many pools of brown spit (tobacco juice) covering the floor around him. The owner is there too, behind the counter, talking to one of the regulars. The scar marring his face seems to have darkened in color, as black as the derby covering his head. Perry Oliver installs himself on a stool near the owner and barges his way into the discussion. (He does not go to extremes. Only right that the sober citizen should put himself before the drunk.) The regular issues no challenge — Perry Oliver has come to stake his claim — only gets up from his seat and ambles off into the smoky gloom.

He listens to the owner’s offer. He says that it is a fair price, although he knows he has no intention of purchasing the piano. He improvises an excuse for putting off the purchase for a month. The owner accepts. They shake hands on the deal. (String him along for now.) Then he starts in on his difficulties finding a music instructor.

He is no crier. (Cry and the world will pity you. He wants no one’s pity.) So how does he come to find himself seated at the bar before the owner, drink in hand, spilling liquid onto the counter? Oakley fixes his stare on Perry Oliver’s face, and suddenly the latter feels, he doesn’t know why, like placing himself in the saloon owner’s hands. Perry Oliver goes on talking for a full half hour or more, deliberately throwing in all the details and nuances. He enjoys immensely talking about all this, with the owner seated regally on his stool, silent and motionless, and staring straight into his eyes, something aggressive and challenging in his gaze. At the most intimate passages, he notices that the owner looks a bit embarrassed.

There you have it. A fair shake is all I want.

Don’t tease my brain any more on the subject, Oakley says. You allow people to treat you like that. But you do nothing about it.

Perry Oliver says nothing at first, surprised to see Oakley showing a different side of himself. Not the customary exchange of ideas, man to man. Perhaps the owner is only sounding him out. He proceeds to try to justify his actions, his doing nothing, his tolerance of injustice.

You’re going about it all wrong. Don’t be diplomatic. Remember that you are dealing with idiots. Diplomacy is beyond their understanding.

Perry Oliver listens, taking it all in.

You have to face them head-on. Confront and complain. That’s the only way.

Later, Perry Oliver will ponder what he had actually heard the owner advise (demand). Was it “complain” or “come plain”?

Make it clear who’s in charge. And if you have to, give them your boot to lick. To that, he gives Perry Oliver another round. Leaves Perry Oliver this example of everything and nothing.

But you will not have to go that far, Oakley says. I will save you the trouble. I know someone.

Seven sits at the table carefully examining every detail of the illustrations of Paul Morphy’s exploits. He would like to be made utterly immobile. To sit forever.

Tom sits too, his hands moving, feet moving, now his head. Sits, time whizzing around his urge to move. He begins to speak, to recite, giving back word for word. Fourteen games were played in all, of which two were drawn, and three won by Herr Löwenthal. so great a disproportion evidently proves the practical superiority of the victor. How marvelous, the constant magic of Tom’s memory. His tried-and-true companion. Too incredible for words. And no less grand and impressive after repeated display. Seven sags in his chair, catches his breath. At such moments, Tom belongs to him more completely than ever. A private kitchen (parlor) occurrence that compels him to project himself, safe and sound, into foreign streets and gardens (Hyde Park) and rooms — St. George’s Chess Club, King Street, St. James’s; London Chess Club, Cornhill — Tom and Mr. Oliver silently accompanying him. That’s the way he pictures it. Maybe (his wish) he will travel to such places someday.

Tom rapidly taps his chin with two fingers. Seven perks up his ears, ready for more. Tom taps his chin again. Will he say more?

Game twenty-nine, Seven says, prodding him.

Paul Morphy, Tom said, the American, victorious in thirty-four moves!

Tom’s voice rolls pleasurably across his thoughts. How relaxed he feels. He tries returning to his journal, to Paul Morphy, but can’t see what’s there. His eyes retain Tom’s image. For now, Tom’s sheer presence will suffice.

Or will it? Tom tugs, knocks, shakes. Utters monotonous sentences about heaven knows what. Agitated, he wants to leave this place. But not everyone can leave a room anytime he feels like it. Nothing happens unless Seven says so. And he isn’t saying so now. Tom will simply have to wait.

For a good half hour, Seven tries everything conceivable-humming, whistling, helpings of water and tea, further excursions with Morphy — to quiet Tom but to no avail. Tom gets up from the table and makes his way around. Halts an arm’s length away from Seven and stands there thrusting his head in the air like a bull. Seven won’t budge. He lowers his gaze, hardly looking at Tom although Tom hovers around him, trying as hard as he can to attract Seven’s attention. Seven caught in this downward act of looking, witness to Tom’s stubborn demands, the harsh tangle of his speech. Dismayed, half fearing for himself, half wishing this odd distraction shut away. Can’t avoid glancing (in his mind) sidelong at Tom and directly at himself sitting in this chair, beset with choices, weighing departing against staying. He can stand up and oppose his charge, but it is very hard to mold a nigger once he gets riled. So, with labored care, he gets to his feet and fits his beaver cap on his own head and Tom’s furless black hat on Tom’s head, even then determined that they will return before Mr. Oliver does. Restored, Tom hugs him and keeps hugging, as is his wont.

Soon they are out in the street — it couldn’t have gone any differently — where Tom trustingly puts himself in Seven’s hands. Late afternoon light finds them walking north on the cobblestone road, away from Scaldy Bill’s, Seven hoping to avoid putting temptation in Tom’s ears and mouth. Tom follows him silently. It is only as they are drawing close to the river that words start bursting out of him.

We are walking, Tom says.

Yes.

A constitutional.

Yes.

Does the body good.

Well.

Does the body well.

Tom picks up a short branch that has fallen from a tree. He throws it into the field. A few yards later he picks up a stone. He throws it into the field. More finding and chunking as they work their way across the meadows of the city, lack of destination and light-footed energy carrying Seven along, and some immeasurable energy driving Tom. Tom walks and walks and doesn’t seem to be tiring any. In fact, Seven has to work hard to keep ahead of his charge, his ears filled with the unmistakable sound of someone carrying something. It is his own breath that he hears, his lungs struggling to bear and lug weighted air, and his already heavy chest all that heavier for his long solid ribs, like a bulky load of firewood permanently sealed up beneath his skin. If he has any say in the matter they will stop and rest soon.

Tom, he says, slow down.

Yes, suh.

I’m not a sir.

Yes, sir. But Tom doesn’t slow down.

Seven stops at the side of the road. Tom keeps walking, right past him. Seven juts forward and catches him by the arm. Let’s wait here a moment. He guides Tom roadside and proceeds to seat himself in the grass. Tom remains standing. So be it. Despite what it seems, Seven is not at odds with himself. Tom’s candid face, his quietly breathing chest, the ease in his movements, all clearly indicate to Seven that no malice, spite, or guile dwells in his body. An unquestionable fact like the hard-packed dirt beneath his buttocks.