Native Son - Richard Wright [14]
“Yessuh,” Gus said again.
“I could fly a plane if I had a chance,” Bigger said.
“If you wasn’t black and if you had some money and if they’d let you go to that aviation school, you could fly a plane,” Gus said.
For a moment Bigger contemplated all the “its” that Gus had mentioned. Then both boys broke into hard laughter, looking at each other through squinted eyes. When their laughter subsided, Bigger said in a voice that was half-question and half-statement:
“It’s funny how the white folks treat us, ain’t it?”
“It better be funny,” Gus said.
“Maybe they right in not wanting us to fly,” Bigger said. “’Cause if I took a plane up I’d take a couple of bombs along and drop ’em as sure as hell….”
They laughed again, still looking upward. The plane sailed and dipped and spread another word against the sky: GASOLINE….
“Use Speed Gasoline,” Bigger mused, rolling the words slowly from his lips. “God, I’d like to fly up there in that sky.”
“God’ll let you fly when He gives you your wings up in heaven,” Gus said.
They laughed again, reclining against the wall, smoking, the lids of their eyes drooped softly against the sun. Cars whizzed past on rubber tires. Bigger’s face was metallically black in the strong sunlight. There was in his eyes a pensive, brooding amusement, as of a man who had been long confronted and tantalized by a riddle whose answer seemed always just on the verge of escaping him, but prodding him irresistibly on to seek its solution. The silence irked Bigger; he was anxious to do something to evade looking so squarely at this problem.
“Let’s play ‘white,’ ” Bigger said, referring to a game of play-acting in which he and his friends imitated the ways and manners of white folks.
“I don’t feel like it,” Gus said.
“General!” Bigger pronounced in a sonorous tone, looking at Gus expectantly.
“Aw, hell! I don’t want to play,” Gus whined.
“You’ll be court-martialed,” Bigger said, snapping out his words with military precision.
“Nigger, you nuts!” Gus laughed.
“General!” Bigger tried again, determinedly.
Gus looked wearily at Bigger, then straightened, saluted and answered:
“Yessuh.”
“Send your men over the river at dawn and attack the enemy’s left flank,” Bigger ordered.
“Yessuh.”
“Send the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Regiments,” Bigger said, frowning. “And attack with tanks, gas, planes, and infantry.”
“Yessuh!” Gus said again, saluting and clicking his heels.
For a moment they were silent, facing each other, their shoulders thrown back, their lips compressed to hold down the mounting impulse to laugh. Then they guffawed, partly at themselves and partly at the vast white world that sprawled and towered in the sun before them.
“Say, what’s a ‘left flank’?” Gus asked.
“I don’t know,” Bigger said. “I heard it in the movies.”
They laughed again. After a bit they relaxed and leaned against the wall, smoking. Bigger saw Gus cup his left hand to his ear, as though holding a telephone receiver; and cup his right hand to his mouth, as though talking into a transmitter.
“Hello,” Gus said.
“Hello,” Bigger said. “Who’s this?”
“This is Mr. J. P. Morgan speaking,” Gus said.
“Yessuh, Mr. Morgan,” Bigger said; his eyes filled with mock adulation and respect.
“I want you to sell twenty thousand shares of U.S. Steel in the market this morning,” Gus said.
“At what price, suh?” Bigger asked.
“Aw, just dump ’em at any price,” Gus said with casual irritation. “We’re holding too much.”
“Yessuh,” Bigger said.
“And call me at my club at two this afternoon and tell me if the President telephoned,” Gus said.
“Yessuh, Mr. Morgan,” Bigger said.
Both of them made gestures signifying that they were hanging up telephone receivers; then they bent double, laughing.
“I bet that’s just the way they talk,” Gus said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Bigger said.
They were silent again. Presently, Bigger cupped his hand to his mouth and spoke through an imaginary telephone transmitter.
“Hello.”
“Hello,” Gus answered. “Who’s this?”
“This is the President of the United States speaking,” Bigger said.
“Oh, yessuh,