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Barry said, “And she won't, either. Her working hours, remember? Jorie leaves in three weeks.”

At that moment I thought about my job and covered my fear by blurting out, “I'll be able to see you next week. I'm on notice at the club.”

“You mean you've been fired?” Disbelief raised Don's voice and widened his eyes.

Jorie said, “But, darling, you're the only talent they've got. I mean. Surely they don't think people come there to see those awful strippers in their awful sequins. I mean.”

I explained why I was fired, putting the blame on jealousy.

Barry asked what I'd do next and I could not answer. Only a small savings account stood between me and poverty.

“It's a pity you don't sing,” Barry said in his clipped accent. “The Purple Onion needs someone to take Jorie's place.”

I had not told them I could sing.

“What about folk songs?” Jorie said. “My dear, everyone, but every single soul today, knows at least one folk song. Of course, it has one thousand verses and lasts for two hours without intermission. I mean.”

Everyone laughed and I joined in. Not because I agreed, but because I was pleased to be in such clever company.

I said, “I know a calypso song.”

The men exchanged knowing looks with Jorie, then turned to me, straight-faced for a minute, and broke into a mean laughter.

“That's a good one. Oh, Rita, you're good.”

They were laughing at me and I was expected to join them. Only the secure can bear the weight of a joke and only the very secure can share in the laughter.

“Do you think calypso music isn't folk music? Folks sing it. Or do you believe because the folks are Negroes their music doesn't count, or that because they're Negroes they aren't folks?”

It was obvious that my anger was unexpected. A pale shock registered on their features. Don's eyebrows rose, making him look like a leprechaun tricked out of his burrow. Barry, having found my loss of control distasteful, averted his eyes. Jorie blinked and winked her false eyelashes. Fred Kuh, who had said little, quietly offered: “No one meant to hurt your feelings, Rita. Jorie has a passion against calypso. That's all there is to it.”

“What's wrong with calypso?” I had so strongly pulled anger to me as a defense that I could not shoo it away merely because it was no longer needed.

Fred said, “I think it's because the singers rely more on the beat than on storytelling. And Jorie's concerns are just the opposite.”

“Oh, my dear”—Jorie was back with us—“It's the god-awful thump, thump, thump. It's the ‘de man,’ ‘de girl,’ ‘de boat’ My God, haven't we got beyond ‘dis’ and ‘dat’? Really.”

It was a question of how I was to show that I was mollified without seeming to surrender my advantage.

“When you or any white person says ‘dis’ or ‘dat,’ it is certain that you intend to ridicule. When a Black person says it, it is because that's the way he speaks. There's a difference.” There was a delicious silence. For the moment, I had them and their uneasiness in the palm of my hand. The sense of power was intoxicating.

“You say you dislike calypso and that the songs have no story line. Do you know ‘Run Joe’ by Louis Jordan?”

Their heads shook, which showed they were not totally immobilized.

“It goes like this.” I stood.

“Moe and Joe ran a candy store

Telling fortunes behind the door

The police came in and as Joe ran out

Brother Moe, he began to shout

Run Joe

Hey, the man at the do'

Run Joe

The man he won't let me go

Run Joe

Run as fast as you can

Run Joe

The police holding me hand.”

I had played Louis Jordan's record until it was gun-metal gray so I knew every rest and attack of the song. I stretched my arms and waved my hands and body in a modified hula, indicating how fast Joe made his getaway. I tugged away from an imaginary policeman showing the extent of restraint imposed on Moe. I spun in place in the small area, kneeled and bowed and swayed and swung, always in rhythm.

When I finished the song, which seemed to consist