"Looka-year, buddy ..."
"Yes," I said, pausing to look into his reddish eyes.
"Tell me just one thing this very fine morning -- Hey! Wait a minute, daddy-o, I'm going your way!"
"What is it?" I said.
"What I want to know is," he said, "is you got the dog?"
"Dog? What dog?"
"Sho," he said, stopping his cart and resting it on its support. "That's it. Who --" he halted to crouch with one foot on the curb like a country preacher about to pound his Bible -- "got ... the ... dog," his head snapping with each word like an angry rooster's.
I laughed nervously and stepped back. He watched me out of shrewd eyes. "Oh, goddog, daddy-o," he said with a sudden bluster, "who got the damn dog? Now I know you from down home, how come you trying to act like you never heard that before! Hell, ain't nobody out here this morning but us colored -- Why you trying to deny me?"
Suddenly I was embarrassed and angry. "Deny you? What do you mean?"
"Just answer the question. Is you got him, or ain't you?"
"A dog?"
"Yeah, the dog."
I was exasperated. "No, not this morning," I said and saw a grin spread over his face.
"Wait a minute, daddy. Now don't go get mad. Damn, man! I thought sho you had him," he said, pretending to disbelieve me. I started away and he pushed the cart beside me. And suddenly I felt uncomfortable. Somehow he was like one of the vets from the Golden Day ...
"Well, maybe it's the other way round," he said. "Maybe he got holt to you."
"Maybe," I said.
"If he is, you lucky it's just a dog -- 'cause, man, I tell you I believe it's a bear that's got holt to me."
"A bear?"
"Hell, yes! The bear. Caint you see these patches where he's been clawing at my behind?"
Pulling the seat of his Charlie Chaplin pants to the side, he broke into deep laughter.
"Man, this Harlem ain't nothing but a bear's den. But I tell you one thing," he said with swiftly sobering face, "it's the best place in the world for you and me, and if times don't get better soon I'm going to grab that bear and turn him every way but loose!"
"Don't let him get you down," I said.
"No, daddy-o, I'm going to start with one my own size!"
I tried to think of some saying about bears to reply, but remembered only Jack the Rabbit, Jack the Bear ... who were both long forgotten and now brought a wave of homesickness. I wanted to leave him, and yet I found a certain comfort in walking along beside him, as though we'd walked this way before through other mornings, in other places ...
"What is all that you have there?" I said, pointing to the rolls of blue paper stacked in the cart.
"Blueprints, man. Here I got 'bout a hundred pounds of blueprints and I couldn't build nothing!"
"What are they blueprints for?" I said.
"Damn if I know -- everything. Cities, towns, country clubs. Some just buildings and houses. I got damn near enough to build me a house if I could live in a paper house like they do in Japan. I guess somebody done changed their plans," he added with a laugh. "I asked the man why they getting rid of all this stuff and he said they get in the way so every once in a while they have to throw 'em out to make place for the new plans. Plenty of these ain't never been used, you know."
"You have quite a lot," I said.
"Yeah, this ain't all neither. I got a coupla loads. There's a day's work right here in this stuff. Folks is always making plans and changing 'em."
"Yes, that's right," I said, thinking of my letters, "but that's a mistake. You have to stick to the plan."
He looked at me, suddenly grave. "You kinda young, daddy-o," he said.
I did not answer. We came to a corner at the top of a hill.
"Well, daddy-o, it's been good talking with a youngster from the old country but I got to leave you now. This here's one of them good ole downhill streets. I can coast a while and won't be worn out at the end of the day. Damn if I'm-a let 'em run me into my grave. I be seeing you again sometime -- And you know something?"
"What's that?"
"I thought you was trying to deny me at first, but now I be pretty glad to see you ..."
"I hope so," I said. "And you take it easy."
"Oh, I'll do that. All it takes to get along in this here man's town is a little shit, grit and mother-wit. And man, I was bawn with all three. In fact, I'maseventhsonofaseventhsonbawnwithacauloverbotheyesandraisedonblackcat-boneshighjohntheconquerorandgreasygreens --" he spieled with twinkling eyes, his lips working rapidly. "You dig me, daddy?"
"You're going too fast," I said, beginning to laugh.
"Okay, I'm slowing down. I'll verse you but I won't curse you -- My name is Peter Wheatstraw, I'm the Devil's only son-in-law, so roll 'em! You a southern boy, ain't you?" he said, his head to one side like a bear's.
"Yes," I said.
"Well, git with it! My name's Blue and I'm coming at you with a pitchfork. Fe Fi Fo Fum. Who wants to shoot the Devil one, Lord God Stingeroy!"
He had me grinning despite myself. I liked his words though I didn't know the answer. I'd known the stuff from childhood, but had forgotten it; had learned it back of school ...
"You digging me, daddy?" he laughed. "Haw, but look me up sometimes, I'm a piano player and a rounder, a whiskey drinker and a pavement pounder. I'll teach you some good bad habits. You'll need 'em. Good luck," he said.
"So long," I said and watched him going. I watched him push around the corner to the top of the hill leaning sharp against the cart handle, and heard his voice arise, muffled now, as he started down.
What does it mean, I thought. I'd heard it all my life but suddenly the strangeness of it came through to me. Was it about a woman or about some strange sphinxlike animal? Certainly his woman, no woman, fitted that description. And why describe anyone in such contradictory words? Was it a sphinx? Did old Chaplin-pants, old dusty-butt, love her or hate her; or was he merely singing? What kind of woman could love a dirty fellow like that, anyway? And how could even he love her if she were as repulsive as the song described? I moved ahead. Perhaps everyone loved someone; I didn't know. I couldn't give much thought to love; in order to travel far you had to be detached, and I had the long road back to the campus before me. I strode along, hearing the cartman's song become a lonesome, broad-toned whistle now that flowered at the end of each phrase into a tremulous, blue-toned chord. And in its flutter and swoop I heard the sound of a railroad train highballing it, lonely across the lonely night. He was the Devil's son-in-law, all right, and he was a man who could whistle a three-toned chord ... God damn, I thought, they're a hell of a people! And I didn't know whether it was pride or disgust that suddenly flashed over me.
At the corner I turned into a drugstore and took a seat at the counter. Several men were bent over plates of food. Glass globes of coffee simmered above blue flames. I could feel the odor of frying bacon reach deep into my stomach as I watched the counterman open the doors of the grill and turn the lean strips over and bang the doors shut again. Above, facing the counter, a blonde, sun-burned college girl smiled down, inviting all and sundry to drink a coke. The counterman came over.
"I've got something good for you," he said, placing a glass of water before me. "How about the special?"
"What's the special?"
"Pork chops, grits, one egg, hot biscuits and coffee!" He leaned over the counter with a look that seemed to say, There, that ought to excite you, boy. Could everyone see that I was southern?