Invisible man - Ralph Ellison [70]
Legs like a frog -- Lawd, Lawd!
But when she starts to loving me
I holler Whoooo, God-dog!
Cause I loves my baabay,
Better than I do myself . . ."
And as I drew alongside I was startled to hear him call to me:
"Looka-year, buddy . . ."
"Yes," I said, pausing to look into his reddish eyes.
"Tell me just one thing this very fine morning -- Hey! Wait a minute, daddy-o, I'm going your way!"
"What is it?" I said.
"What I want to know is," he said, "is you got the dog?"
"Dog? What dog?"
"Sho," he said, stopping his cart and resting it on its support. "That's it. Who --" he halted to crouch with one foot on the curb like a country preacher about to pound his Bible -- "got . . . the . . . dog," his head snapping with each word like an angry rooster's.
I laughed nervously and stepped back. He watched me out of shrewd eyes. "Oh, goddog, daddy-o," he said with a sudden bluster, "who got the damn dog? Now I know you from down home, how come you trying to act like you never heard that before! Hell, ain't nobody out here this morning but us colored -- Why you trying to deny me?"
Suddenly I was embarrassed and angry. "Deny you? What do you mean?"
"Just answer the question. Is you got him, or ain't you?"
"A dog?"
"Yeah, the dog."
I was exasperated. "No, not this morning," I said and saw a grin spread over his face.
"Wait a minute, daddy. Now don't go get mad. Damn, man! I thought sho you had him," he said, pretending to disbelieve me. I started away and he pushed the cart beside me. And suddenly I felt uncomfortable. Somehow he was like one of the vets from the Golden Day . . .
"Well, maybe it's the other way round," he said. "Maybe he got holt to you."
"Maybe," I said.
"If he is, you lucky it's just a dog -- 'cause, man, I tell you I believe it's a bear that's got holt to me."
"A bear?"
"Hell, yes! The bear. Caint you see these patches where he's been clawing at my behind?"
Pulling the seat of his Charlie Chaplin pants to the side, he broke into deep laughter.
"Man, this Harlem ain't nothing but a bear's den. But I tell you one thing," he said with swiftly sobering face, "it's the best place in the world for you and me, and if times don't get better soon I'm going to grab that bear and turn him every way but loose!"
"Don't let him get you down," I said.
"No, daddy-o, I'm going to start with one my own size!"
I tried to think of some saying about bears to reply, but remembered only Jack the Rabbit, Jack the Bear . . . who were both long forgotten and now brought a wave of homesickness. I wanted to leave him, and yet I found a certain comfort in walking along beside him, as though we'd walked this way before through other mornings, in other places . . .
"What is all that you have there?" I said, pointing to the rolls of blue paper stacked in the cart.
"Blueprints, man. Here I got 'bout a hundred pounds of blueprints and I couldn't build nothing!"
"What are they blueprints for?" I said.
"Damn if I know -- everything. Cities, towns, country clubs. Some just buildings and houses. I got damn near enough to build me a house if I could live in a paper house like they do in Japan. I guess somebody done changed their plans," he added with a laugh. "I asked the man why they getting rid of all this stuff and he said they get in the way so every once in a while they have to throw 'em out to make place for the new plans. Plenty of these ain't never been used, you know."
"You have quite a lot," I said.
"Yeah, this ain't all neither. I got a coupla loads. There's a day's work right here in this stuff. Folks is always making plans and changing 'em."
"Yes, that's right," I said, thinking of my letters, "but that's a mistake. You have to stick to the plan."
He looked at me, suddenly grave. "You kinda young, daddy-o," he said.
I did not answer. We came to a corner at the top of a hill.
"Well, daddy-o, it's been good talking with a youngster from the old country but I got to leave you now. This here's one of them good ole downhill streets. I can coast a while and won't be worn out at the end of the day. Damn