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“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.”

“Yes we are.”

“Good old Jimmy,” he said. “Look at the deal they gave this poor old Tiger Flowers. If he was white he’d have made a million dollars.”

“Who was he?”

“He was a fighter. A damn good fighter.”

“What did they do to him?”

“They just took him down the road in one way or another all the time.”

“It’s a shame,” I said.

“Jimmy, there’s nothing to the whole business. You get syphed up from women or if you’re married your wife’ll run around. In the railroad business you’re away from home nights. The kind of a girl you want is the kind of a girl that’ll jig you because she can’t help it. You want her because she can’t help it and you lose her because she can’t help it