Who knows, he might luck up tonight, he thought. The bartender mixed his drink. “Looks like a hit, Mr. Ball. Congratulations.” Ball smiled and sat at the stool of the bar, which had been set up in the lobby. He slowly imbibed. He could tell by the loud cheers and screams that the lawyer’s speech was over. God, he was getting nervous. He went outside and walked around the block. When he returned he went back to the workshop space and listened in at the door. Cora Mae’s lawyer was making her closing statement to the judge and jury.
“And when she felt his hot and dirty eyes on her she felt as though the scum of the world was taking an X-ray of her body. The men in this country think that all of the women are available to them, and so they use their eyes to scout in the same way that a predator stalks its prey. And though my distinguished opponent argues that Mr. Hill’s only crime was that of having his eyes in the wrong place at the wrong time, I disagree. This man knew what his eyes were doing. He was raping her, in a manner of speaking, ladies and gentlemen. No, he didn’t struggle with her or molest her with his hands; he did it with his eyes. He undressed her with his eyes. He accosted her with his eyes, he penetrated her with his eyes. He eyeraped her, ladies and gentlemen. For him, all she was was a cunt.” Ball walked over to the bar and had another drink. He sat there for about ten minutes. Suddenly, there was wild applause mixed with a few boos. The people began to pour from the theater. They began to collect in the lobby and almost immediately the well-wishers came up and shook his hand, the ordinary black and white everyday people, that is. They had obviously enjoyed themselves. Even some feminists he’d seen on the art scene from time to time, including a few who’d given him problems in some of these little fly-by-night drama magazines, were congratulating him. The New York black avant-garde was leaning against the wall, grumbling, their jaws all tight. The men were dressed in an unorthodox way, anything to be different, and the women were wearing bizarre attire. There was this tall one who looked like she always wanted to fight and was always writing articles cussing white folks out, and would go up to Harlem and denounce the brothers who were with Anne — the American white woman — but next night she’d be in one of the downtown lesbian clubs dancing with Anne. The fellas said that this must have meant that she wanted to have all of the white women for herself. A bunch of backbiters and verbal scorpions, still back there with Malcolm X and John Coltrane when everybody knew that the greatest black militant they’d produced was Koffee Martin, who was from the South. Anyway, if they really wanted to embrace some politically far out position, let them go and mix it up with Pol Pot or the cynical and mean regime that runs Ethiopia.
This snit, who in his books was always dusting this politically incorrect person or that backslider and traitor, came toward Ball, leaving his group against the wall sulking. He rudely pushed through the crowd of well-wishers, and when he got to where Ball was standing he said: “White women elected Ronald Reagan, twice.” Ball stamped his foot. The little fellow scampered back to his friends, to the amusement of the people who were gathered about Ball. A feminist came up and elbowed her way through the people who were telling him how great he was.
“Mr. Ball. I have an apology to make,” she said.
“What apology, Ms.?”
“I was chairperson of women’s studies at a small obscure university in Cincinnati and…” She broke down; it took a few seconds for her to regain her composure. “One of my students wanted to write a dissertation on your plays and I–I.”
“Go on,” Ball said.
“I turned her down. I said that you were a notorious sexist even though I hadn’t seen any of your work.” Ball smiled and put his arm around her. She began crying on his chest.
“I understand,” he said. “Sometimes we feel that our goals are so righteous, so necessary for the benefit of personkind, that we in our haste make mistakes that we later regret. Don’t give it a second thought.” The people gathered around murmured their approval. A woman whose shape revealed her to be a lover of animal fat and starches stepped forward.
“Me too, me too,” she said. Ball and his admirers turned to her. “Do you remember a few years ago when you tried to get a one-acter staged at the theater I ran, and you got turned down? It was my fault. Now that I’ve seen Reckless Eyeballing, I feel so…so…I feel so bad.” She too broke down and began sobbing like an infant. Ball had his arms about each in his attempt to console the two women. Suddenly a loud challenge came from the top of the stairs leading to the restrooms. “Ian. You ain’t nothin’ but a gangster and a con artist.” It was Brashford — Ball and the people with him were shocked as Brashford began to descend the stairs. Uh oh, Ball thought. Brashford was going to imitate James Mason’s drunken entrance in A Star Is Born. This classic beauty, a woman some would describe as “olive skinned,” started up the stairs toward him and grabbed his arm. She was dressed in a black silk dress and wore some fine jewelry. She could not deter Brashford, who kept walking down the stairs and behaving like a Cossack in a succoth, as Isaac Babel would say.
“Tricking these people. You ain’t nothin’ but a trickologist with your fuzzy quick lines. You mischievous malicious bastard.”
“Come on, dear,” the woman said. He yanked his elbow from her grip and waved her away. “Ain’t no way in the world for a jury to bring in a verdict of guilty against that corpse. In the version you gave me he’s acquitted, after a confession from Cora Mae that she realized that she and the boy were in the same boat. Fellow sufferers. They made you change it. These vain, conniving bitches made you do it.” The two feminists that Ball had been comforting glared at Brashford, and some of the patrons who remained to congratulate Ball looked at Brashford with utter disgust. The woman with Brashford said, “Dear.”
“You keep out of it,” he said. He wore a light blue suit that must have cost a grand and one of those Mike Hammer hats, which slid about his head as he came down the stairs. He also wore one of those British coats that intellectuals of the fifties favored. It was kind of like part of the existentialist’s uniform. Camus wore one like it. It had shoulder straps, pockets, belts, and other features of little discernible use. A couple of Brashford’s old-time liberal buddies, now neo-conservatives, who’d written little and had fallen hook, line, and sinker for the major intellectual, political and cultural trends of Europe only to be disillusioned time and again, started up the stairs to try to restrain their friend, the only colored in their club.
He punched the two, who already seemed out on their feet, and they fell down the stairs. The effort had placed Brashford off balance also, and he came tumbling down. Their friends helped them up, and Brashford sat up on the bottom stair, pulled a flask from his suit pocket, and took a long swig of something. He made a grunt, offending some of the first-nighters.
“I’m your literary father, you shit. And look at what you’ve done to me. A pitiful old man who has only one play to his name. But you wait. I’ll show you. Wait until my masterpiece about the Armenians is staged. Lengthy Struggle Toward the Borders of Darkness. It’s about this alcoholic father, see, with these two sons, who are real losers, and the mother, well she’s a hophead and injects herself offstage — and…and…” Some of the people started to leave. Others shook their heads in sadness.
“These bitches had better not touch my play. Fucking twats. They hate the black man worst of all because they’re sleeping with these other guys and are afraid to take a shot at them. Shit. Hey, that’s not bad. I’m beginning to miss the old days when you were just hated because you were black.” He began to laugh at his own joke. Others began to leave. He shouted after them.