Walkin The Dog

them

and the white man.

Socrates liked Kelly and Billings. They were friendly and courteous. They asked after your health when you'd been sick and listened to what was going on with you. Marty didn't hate those men but he knew, Socrates did too, that colored men had suffered under white disapproval where when a brown man was angry it was spit in the wind.

“So what do I do?” Socrates asked.

“You take off that blue apron and put on a green one,” Marty said. “I'll have the papers in my office tomorrow morning. Just practice your signature tonight and tomorrow make it plain.”

“It's a man's world,” Leon Spellman said that Wednesday night at the Saint-Paul Mortuary. “From the president on down, from Martin Luther King on down, from Al Capone on down—it's a man sits on top and say what's what and who's who.”

“And that's just why the world is in such a mess,” Cynthia said with disgust. “We got a man in the driver's seat and he's drunk as a skunk.”

“That's not fair, Cyn,” Nelson the undertaker said. “The boy said Martin Luther King. You cain't call Martin Luther King no drunkard or fool.”

“He was a good man but he was a man, Topper,” Cynthia replied. “And a man wanna rattle his sword and shake his fist. A man wanna lead and the rest wanna follow. But when that man is cut down, we're lost. The head is gone, the man is gone and all the plans is gone too. A man, no matter how good he is, makes a mess.”

“You know Cynthia's right there,” Veronica agreed. “I don't want no man out there yellin' and fightin' when he could be home wit' me. It's the Bible tell me what's right. It's the Lord lead me. It breaks my heart when they kill our men like that, or when they kill each other. It breaks my heart.”

“But what else can we do?” Socrates thought but he said it out loud too.

“Say what?” Chip Lowe asked.

“It's like nobody listens,” Socrates said. “It's like you always alone. Most of the time it's like you got to yell or hit or somethin' 'cause nobody's listenin'. You got to do somethin'. You got to let somebody know. Other people don't have that problem. One of 'em look to the other one and they both nod and they know.”

“What you talkin' 'bout, Socrates?” Nelson Saint-Paul asked.

“I don't know,” Socrates said. “But it's somethin'. Cynthia's right. Other people don't have a leader you could point to and they seem okay. You got your Chinese in Chinatown and your Koreans with their language all over billboards and stores up on Olympic. And the Jews all over the country help each other without sayin' they need another Moses to set 'em free.”

“What that supposed to mean?” Chip Lowe asked.

“It means that I'm tired, man. Tired,” Socrates said. “We dyin' out here.”

“I don't understand, Socrates,” Veronica said as she lit her stogie. “What do you mean?”

“I don't know, baby. It's like there's somethin' missin'. Somethin' I ain't got in my head. I know what's wrong but I don't know what's right. You know what I mean?”

Veronica nodded slowly but the gesture seemed to say,

No, but I'd like to understand.

Cynthia and Leon and Chip Lowe were all frowning.

“We all know what's right, Socrates,” Nelson Saint-Paul said.

“All of us?” Socrates asked.

Nelson nodded while sticking out his pudgy lower lip with conviction.

“Then why do we have it so bad out here? Why don't we all get out in the street an' clean up what we got and then get together to take back what's been stolen?” Socrates' voice cracked and he blinked.

“It's complex,” Nelson Saint-Paul answered. “Black people have been—”

“I know what it is stop me,” Socrates said interrupting his host. “It's 'cause I'd be alone out there. I'd be crazy because I'm the only one and how can one man matter? It's like a butterfly in a hurricane.”

For a few moments there was silence that befitted a mortuary. But soon there was talk again. Socrates listened. He heard what his friends had to say but he was thinking too.

He was thinking about the first time he heard Hoagland Mars play his coronet in the alley outside his door at three in the morning. The music was beautiful but it woke him up and gave him a scare. He was still scared and he was foolish. That combination of thoughts was enough to make Socrates smile.

Six weeks later Socrates had a telephone installed in his home. He was produce manager at Bounty. He had a new pair of shoes and a watch made from steel.

He walked to Marvane Street up to Luvia's front door. Even half a block away he could hear the jazz man playing out of the fourth floor window.

“He's upstairs,” Luvia said, not frowning. “I'm sure you could hear it.”

Hoagland put down his horn when Socrates walked into the room. He was wearing black jeans and a blue T-shirt, his feet were bare and his stiff hair was combed straight back.

“Yes?” Hoagland asked, not recognizing his patron.

“My name is Socrates.”

“Oh yeah,” Hoagland said. “You the one fount me and brought me over here.”

Socrates nodded. Hoagland did too.

“You know,” Hoagland said. “I have to thank you for bringin' me to Luvia. She just the kinda woman I need to keep my shit straight. I know she said that you thought I was dyin' out there, that I was hopeless and a drunk but you know it was just the intestinal flu.”

“What?”

“I got put outta my place and then I come down with flu. That's what was goin' on. Just sick. But I thank you anyway. Even when I got better I prob'ly wouldn't'a found my way here.”

“You need anything?” Socrates asked.

Hoagland shook his head to say no. “Luvia's church got a social club. They hired me to play 'em some jazz on Wednesdays. You could come on by and listen if you want. It only cost three dollars and you know I can blow.”

“I'm busy on Wednesdays but good luck to you.”

Hoagland Mars nodded and smirked. Socrates smiled to himself and said, “Well I better get goin'.”

He turned and left the room without shaking hands.

walkin' the dog

O

n a clear day in August, when the hot air seemed to be boiling with flies, Socrates decided to take his dog for a walk. The ex-convict put on black sweatpants and a white T-shirt. He thought about putting a knife in his sock but, for a reason he couldn't explain, he went unarmed into the yard. There he found Killer capering expectantly with the help of the harness attached to his legless backside.

Socrates unhooked the short leader that connected Killer's halter to the suspension rope. He wrapped the bright yellow cord twice around his big fist and said, “Okay, boy. Let's go show 'em what you could do.”

They walked a few blocks down the alley, Killer prancing proudly on his two powerful front legs. He was a heavy dog, seventy pounds easily. He had weighed more before the accident on the day Socrates saved him in the streets of West L.A.

Killer survived the amputations and, earlier on that summer, he made it through two operations. He was strong and brave too. Socrates would have said that he loved that dog if he ever said those two words about anyone or anything.

His right biceps bulged as the hot sun came down on his bald black head but Socrates didn't acknowledge the strain of his labors. Killer was the first pet that he'd ever owned. Other men in the penitentiary kept garden snakes, rats and pigeons for pets. Some of them swore that they had favorite cockroaches who returned each night for special crumbs they'd hoarded. But Socrates didn't love in prison. Love was weakness and Socrates' armor had nary a chink.