The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [12]
What I do in my apartment is my business, see? I don’t like people looking at what I do.”
It was at the bottom of the alley with its roots in the air.
“I only tell people once,” the man said and left the window.
The Barber (1947)
IT IS trying on liberals in Dilton.
After the Democratic White Primary, Rayber changed his barber. Three weeks before it, while he was shaving him, the barber asked, “Who you gonna vote for?”
“Darmon,” Rayber said.
“You a nigger-lover?”
Rayber started in the chair. He had not expected to be approached so brutally. “No,” he said. If he had nut been taken off-balance, he would have said, “I am neither a Negro—nor a white—lover.” He had said that before to Jacobs, the philosophy man, and—to show you how trying it is for liberals in Dilton—Jacobs—a man of his education—had muttered, “That’s a poor way to be.”
“Why?” Rayber had asked bluntly. He knew he could argue Jacobs down.
Jacobs had said, “Skip it.” He had a class. His classes frequently occurred, Rayber noticed, when Rayber was about to get him in an argument.
“I am neither a Negro—nor a white lover,” Rayber would have said to the barber.
The barber drew a clean path through the lather and then pointed the razor at Rayber. “I’m tellin’ you,” he said, “there ain’t but two sides now, white and black. Anybody can see that from this campaign. You know what Hawk said? Said a hunnert and fifty years ago, they was runnin’ each other down eatin’ each other—throwin’ jewel rocks at birds—skinnin’ horses with their teeth. A nigger come in a white barber shop in Atlanta and says, ‘Gimme a haircut.’ They throwed him out but it just goes to show you. Why listen, three black hyenas over in Mulford last month shot a white man and took half of what was in his house and you know where they are now? Settin’ in their county jail eatin’ like the President of the United States—they might get dirty in the chain gang; or some damn nigger-lover might come by and be heart-broke to see ‘em pickin’ rock. Why, lemme tell you this—ain’t uothin’ gonna be good again until we get rid of them Mother Hubbards and get us a man can put these niggers in their places. Shuh.”
“You hear that, George?” he, shouted to the colored boy wiping up the floor around the basins.
“Sho. do,” George said.
It was time for Rayber to say something but nothing appropriate would come. He wanted to say something that George would understand. He was startled that George had been brought into the conversation. He remembered Jacobs telling about lecturing at a Negro college for a week. They couldn’t say Negro—nigger—colored—black. Jacobs said he had come home every night and shouted, “NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER” out the back window. Rayber wondered what George’s leanings were. He was a trim-looking boy.
“If a nigger come in my shop with any of that haircut sass, he’d get it cut all right.” The barber made a noise between his teeth. “You a Mother Hubbard?” he asked.
“I’m voting for Darmon, if that’s what you mean,” Rayber said.
“You ever heard Hawkson talk?”
“I’ve had that pleasure,” Rayber said.
“You heard his last one?”
“No, I understand his remarks don’t alter from speech to speech,” Rayber said curtly.
“Yeah?” the barber said. “Well, this last speech was a killeroo! Ol’ Hawk let them Mother Hubbards have it.”
“A good many people,” Rayber said, “consider Hawkson a demagogue.” He wondered if George knew what demagogue meant. Should have said, “lying politician.”
“Demagogue!” The. barber slapped his knee and whooped. “That’s what Hawk said!” he howled. “Ain’t that a shot! ‘Folks,’ he says, ‘them Mother ‘Hubbards says I’m a demagogue.’ Then he rears back and says sort of soft-like, ‘Am I a demagogue, you people?’ Alld they yells, ‘Naw, Hawk, you ain’t no demagogue!’ And he comes forward shouting, ‘Oh yeah I am, I’m the best damn demagogue in this state!’ And you should hear them people roar! Whew!”
“Quite a show,” Rayber said, “but what is it but a…”
“Mother Hubbard,” the barber muttered. “You been