Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [131]
She laughed gaily and I went down the hall to my room and closed the door. Pulling on my overcoat I got down my prized brief case from the closet. It was still as new as the night of the battle royal, and sagged now as I placed the smashed bank and coins inside and locked the flap. Then I closed the closet door and left.
The knocking didn't bother me so much now. Mary was singing something sad and serene as I went down the hall, and still singing as I opened the door and stepped into the outside hall. Then I remembered, and there beneath the dim hall light I took the faintly perfumed paper from my wallet and carefully unfolded it. A tremor passed over me; the hall was cold. Then it was gone and I squinted and took a long, hard look at my new Brotherhood name.
The night's snowfall was already being churned to muck by the passing cars, and it was warmer. Joining the pedestrians along the walk, I could feel the brief case swinging against my leg from the weight of the package, and I determined to get rid of the coins and broken iron at the first ash can. I needed nothing like this to remind me of my last morning at Mary's.
I made for a row of crushed garbage cans lined before a row of old private houses, coming alongside and tossing the package casually into one of them and moving on -- only to hear a door open behind me and a voice ring out,
"Oh, no you don't, oh, no you don't! Just come right back here and get it!"
Turning, I saw a little woman standing on the stoop with a green coat covering her head and shoulders, its sleeves hanging limp like extra atrophied arms.
"I mean you," she called. "Come on back an' get your trash. An' don't ever put your trash in my can again!"
She was a short yellow woman with a pince-nez on a chain, her hair pinned up in knots.
"We keep our place clean and respectable and we don't want you field niggers coming up here from the South and ruining things," she shouted with blazing hate.
People were stopping to look. A super from a building down the block came out and stood in the middle of the walk, pounding his fist against his palm with a dry, smacking sound. I hesitated, embarrassed and annoyed. Was this woman crazy?
"I mean it! Yes, you! I'm talking to you! Just take it right out! Rosalie," she called to someone inside the house, "call the police, Rosalie!"
I can't afford that, I thought, and walked back to the can. "What does it matter, Miss?" I called up to her. "When the collectors come, garbage is garbage. I just didn't want to throw it into the street. I didn't know that some kinds of garbage were better than others."
"Never mind your impertinence," she said. "I'm sick and tired of having you southern Negroes mess up things for the rest of us!"
"All right," I said, "I'll get it out."
I reached into the half-filled can, feeling for the package, as the fumes of rotting swill entered my nostrils. It felt unhealthy to my hand, and the heavy package had sunk far down. Cursing, I pushed back my sleeve with my clean hand and probed until I found it. Then I wiped off my arm with a handkerchief and started away, aware of the people who paused to grin at me.
"It serves you right," the little woman called from the stoop.
And I turned and started upward. "That's enough out of you, you piece of yellow gone-to-waste. Unless you still want to call the police." My voice had taken on a new shrill pitch. "I've done what you wanted me to do; another word and I'll do what I want to do --"
She looked at me with widening eyes. "I believe you would," she said, opening the door. "I believe you would."
"I not only would, I'd love it," I said.
"I can see that you're no gentleman," she called, slamming the door,
At the next row of cans I wiped off my wrist and hands with a piece of newspaper, then wrapped the rest around the package. Next time I'd throw it into the street.
Two blocks further along my anger had ebbed, but I felt strangely lonely. Even the people who stood around me