Ernest Hemingway - Complete Short Stories Of Ernest Hemingway, The

“Uncle George,” the chef said. There were four other niggers sitting at a table playing cards.

“How about some food for the young gentleman and myself?”

“No sir,” said the chef. “Not until I can get it ready.”

“Could you drink?” said George.

“No sir,” said the chef.

“Here it is,” said George. He took a pint bottle out of his side pocket. “Courtesy of the young gentleman’s father.”

“He’s courteous,” said the chef. He wiped his lips.

“The young gentleman’s father is the world’s champion.”

“At what?”

“At drinking.”

“He’s mighty courteous,” said the chef. “How did you eat last night?”

“With that collection of yellow boys.”

“They all together still?”

“Between Chicago and Detroit. We call ’em the White Eskimos now.”

“Well,” said the chef. “Everything’s got its place.” He broke two eggs on the side of a frying pan. “Ham and eggs for the son of the champion?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“How about some of that courtesy?”

“Yes sir.”

“May your father remain undefeated,” the chef said to me. He licked his lips. “Does the young gentleman drink too?”

“No sir,” said George. “He’s in my charge.”

The chef put the ham and eggs on two plates.

“Seat yourselves, gentlemen.”

George and I sat down and he brought us two cups of coffee and sat down opposite us.

“You willing to part with another example of that courtesy?”

“For the best,” said George. “We got to get back to the car. How is the railroad business?”

“Rails are firm,” said the chef. “How’s Wall Street?”

“The bears are bulling again,” said George. “A lady bear ain’t safe today.”

“Bet on the Cubs,” said the chef. “The Giants are too big for the league.”

George laughed and the chef laughed.

“You’re a very courteous fellow,” George said. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Run along,” said the chef. “Lackawannius is calling you.”

“I love that girl,” said George. “Who touches a hair—”

“Run along,” said the chef. “Or those yellow boys will get you.”

“It’s a pleasure, sir,” said George. “It’s a very real pleasure.”

“Run along.”

“Just one more courteous action.”

The chef wiped his lips. “God speed the parting guest,” he said.

“I’ll be in for breakfast,” George said.

“Take your unearned increment,” the chef said. George put the bottle in his pocket.

“Good-bye to a noble soul,” he said.

“Get the hell out of here,” said one of the niggers who was playing cards.

“Good-bye, gentlemen all,” George said.

“Good night, sir,” said the chef. We went out.

We went back up to our car and George looked at the number board. There was a number twelve and a number five showing. George pulled a little thing down and the numbers disappeared.

“You better sit here and be comfortable,” he said.

I sat down in the washroom and waited and he went down the aisle. In a little while he came back.

“They’re all happy now,” he said. “How do you like the railroad business, Jimmy?”

“How did you know my name?”

“That’s what your father calls you, ain’t it?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” he said.

“I like it fine,” I said. “Do you and the chef always talk that way?”

“No, James,” he said. “We only talk that way when we’re enthused.”

“Just when you have a drink,” I said.

“Not that alone. When we’re enthused from any cause. The chef and I are kindred spirits.”

“What are kindred spirits?”

“Gentlemen with the same outlook on life.”

I did not say anything and the bell buzzed. George went out, pulled the little thing in the box and came back in the room.

“Did you ever see a man cut with a razor?”

“No.”

“Would you like to have it explained?”

“Yes.”

The bell buzzed again. “I’d better go see,” George went out.

He came back and sat down by me. “The use of the razor,” he said, “is an art not alone known to the barbering profession.” He looked at me. “Don’t you make them big eyes,” he said. “I’m only lecturing.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I should say you’re not,” said George. “You’re here with your greatest friend.”

“Sure,” I said. I figured he was pretty drunk.

“Your father got a lot of this?” He took out the bottle.

“I don’t know.”

“Your father is a type of noble Christian gentleman.” He took a drink.

I didn’t say anything.

“Returning to the razor,” George said. He reached in the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a razor. He laid it closed on the palm of his left hand.

The palm was pink.

“Consider the razor,” George said. “It toils not, neither does it spin.”

He held it out on the palm of his hand. It had a black bone handle. He opened it up and held it in his right hand with the blade out straight.

“You got a hair from your head?”

“How do you mean?”

“Pull one out. My own are very tenacious.”

I pulled out a hair and George reached for it. He held it in his left hand looking at it carefully then flicked the razor and cut it in two. “Keenness of edge,” he said. Still looking at the little end of hair that was left he turned the razor in his hand and flicked the blade back the other direction. The blade cut the hair off close to his finger and thumb. “Simplicity of action,” George said. “Two admirable qualities.”

The buzzer rang and he folded the razor and handed it to me.

“Guard the razor,” he said and went out. I looked at it and opened it and shut it. It was just an ordinary razor. George came back and sat down beside me. He took a drink. There was no more in the bottle. He looked at it and put it back in his pocket.

“The razor, please,” he said. I handed it to him. He put it on the palm of his left hand.

“You have observed,” he said, “keenness of edge and simplicity of action. Now a greater than these two. Security of manipulation.”

He picked up the razor in his right hand, gave it a little flip and the blade came open and lay back, edge out across his knuckles. He showed me his hand; the handle of the razor was in his fist, the blade was open across the knuckles, held in place by his forefinger and his thumb. The blade was solidly in place all across his fist, the edge out.

“You observe it?” George said. “Now for that great requisite skill in the use of.”

He stood up and patted out with his right hand, his fist closed, the blade open across the knuckles. The razor blade shone in the sun coming through the window. George ducked and jabbed three times with the blade. He stepped back and flicked it twice in the air. Then holding his head down and his left arm around his neck he whipped his fist and the blade back and forth, back and forth, ducking and dodging. He slashed one, two, three, four, five, six. He straightened up. His face was sweaty and he folded the razor and put it in his pocket.

“Skill in the use of,” he said. “And in the left hand preferably a pillow.”

He sat down and wiped his face. He took off his cap and wiped the leather band inside. He went over and took a drink of water.

“The razor’s a delusion,” he said. “The razor’s no defense. Anybody can cut you with a razor. If you’re close enough to cut them they’re bound to cut you. If you could have a pillow in your left hand you’d be all right. But where you going to get a pillow when you need a razor? Who you going to cut in bed? The razor’s a delusion, Jimmy. It’s a nigger weapon. A regular nigger weapon. But now you know how they use it. Bending a razor back over the hand is the only progress the nigger ever made. Only nigger ever knew how to defend himself was Jack Johnson and they put him in Leavenworth. And what would I do to Jack Johnson with a razor. It none of it makes any difference, Jimmy. All you get in this life is a point of view. Fellows like me and the chef got a point of view. Even if he’s got a wrong point of view he’s better off. A nigger gets delusions like old Jack or Marcus Garvey and they put him in the pen. Look where my delusion about the razor would take me. Nothing’s got any value, Jimmy. Liquor makes you feel like I’ll feel in an hour. You and me aren’t even friends.”