As he stood there stone-still, in a silent manner, for some peculiar reason, it occurred to him, she was window-shopping, not buying anything when he first met her, why now was it crossing his mind, staring at the crumbling house in front of him? Yet she kept herself groomed well, and dressed in the style of the day. Not sure what all that meant, he told himself, just a fleeting thought at best, but if there was a hidden meaning, it must be in the due credit she deserved in looking adversity in the face, and marching on, he told himself, for the house was depressing, the surroundings were depressing. It couldn't be more than four-hundred square feet to the house, if that. And the roof was sheet metal, surely it leaked all over the place when it rained, and the sides were boards of wood, not necessary all fastened so well either. A window on three sides of the house, not sure if there was a back one. The paint was of a pale egg-white, mostly pealing. It was simply written on Elsa's face, as she said, "Aunty will be most grateful, would you like to come in for a moment?" never once looking around to see who was watching [of herself she had no fear], for that moment in her life she either didn't care, or it didn't occur to her. "No," said Chris, "possible another time, I got to get back to base and study for a test coming up soon, but I'll take a rain check on that offer." Said Aunty Rebecca again, "We gots... [Elsa interrupts]" "He dont wants ter comes back in Aunty, hes got to go back to the base..." "Ya needs to eat Elsa, com her now dhen." A smile appeared between both Elsa and Chris for the second time, and then he walked away. He knew she'd be in trouble should someone see either of them together, not that he cared for himself, the locals had a little more tolerance for the Army personnel, plus didn't want a scandal with the military base, or Military Commander, --the soldiers kept Huntsville lucrative with the business they brought it; plus, it would only endanger her as Chris turned about to leave, walking to his car, he never looked back, if he had, he was sure he'd of had that small visit, that rain check now, with a little of that 'white-lightening' and then what, who knows: --he told himself, although nothing seemed right, this one act of kindness was right, the rest, well, he couldn't change things, it just was the way it was, and better to keep walking even if every bone in your body told you to turn back". If Chris had learned anything, and possible Elsa, notwithstanding, black and white issues of the times, it possible was to value individual worthiness of each other as God-created creatures of one humanity; and playing safe was not always the best thing. 7. The Warrior's Bar There was a man standing about several feet from the left side of the corner of the bar, the bar was crowded, matter of fact, the whole bar was filled for the most part with bodies. About twenty tables and some booths, all filled; in particular, there was one table and one booth"side by side"filled with GI's, of which there were black soldiers [three of them] mingling with the white soldiers: twelve of them in all, to include Chris and the Chief his Indian friend, along with Corporal Thompson, a man named Robert Benton, Dan and Sara Hanson, whom were not military and a few others. The man standing towards the end of the bar, towards the north end corner, was a robust, beastly-hairy looking man thought Chris as he left the table of friends to get a glass of beer at the bar, the waitress was either too slow, or was avoiding their table for personal reasons; plus, Chris was impatient as he always was, and not waiting for the waitress was normal. "Thirty-five cents," said the bartender, not smiling as he moved the beer glass over to Chris"anxiously; --as the robust man about four feet to his right stared at him. Chris slapped .45-cents on the counter [.10-cents being a tip], and then noticed the man gazing at him, an opinionated kind of look, if not simply a narrow-minded gaze; he was a trifle irritating with his beady-little eyes smashed into his skull, his brow [forehead] stuck out like a Neanderthal he thought. This was Chris' first time at this bar, and had heard it was a bit, small-minded to say the least, but there was never any trouble"or so he was told; and so he told a few friends he'd stop on over for a while for a few drinks. Now he was questioning his good-will, and sensibility. The robust-diehard was now giving Chris a reactionary smile, self-righteous look"he stood about 5' 9", a muscular man, who looked about thirty to thirty-five-years old; a man of war, thought Chris but not of real war, not the Army type,--rather the coward type, one who would fight for the glory of the old south, but not for the glory of America; yes he would fight, in the name of rigorousness"that is, his southern righteousness, so he could kill a few blacks and tell his grandkids how great he was. At about this point in Chris' stay in the South, he had gotten his fill of doing things the right way, or the wrong way, or even the Army way, and didn't need anymore of doing things the Southern way, which was intolerance, for whom they didn't like the soldiers for one thing, and blacks, and especially blacks with whites. Chris could tell by the man's mannerisms this was going to be one of those intolerant moments, his body could feel the warning signs, called 'negative sensations'. The man had a flat affect on his face, no smile just plane old meanness"rotten looking teeth and an arrogance for being white, as if God himself came down and didn't make the Blackman, rather he simply spurted up accidentally from accident. As the robust man rested his turned about, resting his back and shoulders against the bar, hands on his hips, as if to say, stand down, or mind your business, or be careful, whatever his message was he was scooping out the bar scene"testing the water, playing the captain courage's game. As did Chris, watching the GI's drink, others eat, the waitress deliver shots of whisky, then out of the blue he said [turning his bulldog face to Chris]: "You like dhem blackies haw, --dhem niggers? All you northern GI's like dhem, why? Why are you a nagger lover soldier, and bring dhem down here for us to deal with?" Stumped for a moment at his remarks, Chris simply tried to put together his composure, and absorb what he just heard, at the same time he looked at a nearby empty bottle in case he needed to grab it for a weapon"for a battle was brewing. "What's the matter," said Chris in a cocky voice, "Nobody's causing you trouble?" "Listen buddy, this is the south, not the north where niggers run the place, they don't run it here;" both looked at each other as if a volcano was ready to bust, the bartender shaking his head as if to say, 'here we go again,' then added, "I should kick your young ass for loving them blackies." Said Chris with a secured voice: "First of all, they never did me any harm, second, you couldn't kick my ass, old man, --matter of fact, I'm still standing, if you think you can, throw your best, I'll bury you before in your southern soil." The dogmatist got a little nervous, not sure where he stood now, and not daring to try to out punch Chris, he knew he was a fighter as well [and Chris knew he was also, he had 2 years of karate by the best teacher in the world"out of San Francisco, and anyone willing to fight a fighter out right is crazy, fighting is a daily thing for a professional fighter, it's second nature, and to an armature, it is simply a waste of time"in the sense of, if he thought he'd out punch him, or fight him; much like an electrician, who knows where, and how and when to put the wires on, and turn the juice on]. There was a long, very long pause, as Chris leaned over his glass of beer sipping on it, watching the bigot from the side of his eye"figuring if he leaped toward him or on him, trying at the same time to throw a punch, or tried to kick him: he'd need only make a step or two back, forward, or to the side, block the punch, and once he made his move he was open, thus, he could produce his combination before he could get back into an offense or defensive posture. Plus, at thirty-some year old, his stemma was normally weaker, and his reflexes slower, unless he was a professional fighter, he'd never think about closing up all his posture, and would most likely leave a good opening either in his mid section, groin area or face; one of the three would be open. Thus, an elbow, kick or punch in any of those sections would disrupt the man's thinking and again produce a second opening, where he'd again take advantage of it, and this would be the end of the show. Said the angering man, "Then you best leave this bar stranger, we don't want nigger lovers here. You see I got about forty-friends here, all I need to do is yell for help, or nod my head, and they'll be fighting with knifes, clubs, you name it they got it; so clear your ass out of here, now!" Said Chris, with a steady voice, and a little bullheaded-bluff, "I'll finish my drink, and yaw, I'll go, but not before;" Chris for some reason, disarmed the bigot for a moment, he didn't expect that answer"and both he and the dogmatist held their breaths, a few eyes at a few tables looking up at the bar, as if waiting for a signal. "I said now," responded the extremist again. "I paid for the drink, and I'll drink it," commented Chris. The bigot was now looking about, nodding his head to a group of people sitting at a table; then shifting his eyes elsewhere, Chris took his third gulp, and the beer was gone. Then looking at the man, Chris gave him a smirk, and a "Yaw..." and walked over to the two groups of GI's, told them he was leaving, that if they stayed beware, that a number of people in the bar didn't like the idea of the blacks chumming with the whites. The Chief jumped up, "Who da are, wher tha? I'll fight the muder-futers [with slurred speech]." Chris, like always, had to calm his friend down, he was half lit. "I'm going back to base Henry, if you want to come, let's go, I get the feeling people are going to jail tonight, and I don't need any trouble if I can avoid it." "Ya, sure, l-its go." As Chris and his friend walked out the door, before it closed, all the GI's had stood up, and a taxi was waiting outside: for someone, anyone, and they jumped in it [and in the bar you could hear the chairs being thrown], "Back to Red Stone," said Chris [and the music in the bar was turned up, and the fighting started, and the cab took off]. 8. The Negro Bar Henry St. Clair and Chris came up the street, following a group of GI's, as they were hitting the bars in Huntsville. Chris noticed in the big bay widow beside him as they both stopped to check out the neon lights across the street that read: "Cold Ice Beer," seven black people sitting around table's playing cards and drinking wine and beer; the bar was kind of plane and discolored. This evening both Henry St. Clair and Christopher Wright had civilian cloths on. The few people standing outside the bar across the street surely noticed the white boy and the Indian lounging about like stray dogs, looking in on the Negro bar. There was a chill in the evening air, and as always, Chris did the unthinkable, walk into the bar saying to Henry as he opened the door, "I'm tired, worn out from drinking and walking, let's warm up and have a beer." Henry, drank like a needy fish out of water, falling a bit to his right and left, couldn't really see if the folks were white or black in the bar, or if he could, he wasn't making an issue of it; --"Sure pal, let's get a drink here," he said with a drawn out 'errrrrrrr'. --All the customers to Chris' anticipation were Negroes, mostly black men with brick hard looking faces. Some with yellowish teeth, others with hands that was as big as his face. As he faded into the center of the barroom, a few faces followed his every step, wondering what a white boy was doing in their restricted haven, for Chris noticed there were not many black bars in town, matter of fact, this was the second one he had seen, and the other one was more of a shed than a bar"which was down the block, to the right up another two blocks, kind of out of sight said the old white haired Negro behind a make-shift bar, with a low sounding baritone voice, standing about 5', 11", "What ya white boys want herre, you done got lost [he laughed, 'ha,ahhah'], I just knows there's agona be trouble now; ya be staying, iss hopes not"don't needs any trouble here, ya-see?" "Just to warm up, and a beer please, "said Chris. The black bartender shaking his head as if to say, 'what's next'? "All's we got here is glass beer, and yous white folks don't like glass beer from a nigger, now does ya?" Chris shook his head 'yes' and the bartender went and poured two beers for the white folks. Said the old bartender, politely, almost scared to repeat himself, "Yous know therees a bar, white GI bar, across the street?" "Yaw, we know, just one beer and we're going." There were a couple of fine looking black women walking around a pool table in a backroom, nice shapes, one did a double-take [looking hard at Chris], when she saw the white boys standing at the bar, then she smiled, and quickly turned about; as if she was saying, '...you can't have this sugar, baby"not today, not any day,' but she liked showing what she had. There was one other black man standing at the other end of the bar, and a few heads of the ten or so black men at the tables keeping 'check-mate' with their eyes, to see what Chris and Henry were up to. "Hay boys, watt's ya-all up to herr for?" said a tall lengthy looking black man sitting at table playing cards. His head twisted around at a 45-degree angle, as his body continued to face his three friends, while holding the cards in his hands. "Just warming up a bit, and a beer, any problem with that, sir?" The man paid Chris not heed"but liked being called 'sir,' and looked at the bartender, then back at Chris. If anything, he had gotten respect from a white boy, not used to that. The man next to him had a snuff-box open, putting some into his lower lip. His eyes had followed Chris when he first came through the doors. He reminded Chris of his grandpa, who smoked pipes, cigars, and chewed snuff. The tall man now looked out the window to see if there was anyone looking in, or possible trouble"brewing. "Well," Chris said to Chief, "I reckon we should be getting out of here---you see, I'm getting to speak just like these southerners." As they both walked out the door, the old bartender pulled the shades down, and locked the front door. Then within a matter of minutes, Chris and Henry flagged-down a taxi to go back to the base. 9. Indian Fight Upon arrival at Red Stone, the Taxi let them off at the front gates, and both Henry and Chris walked along the edge of the road towards their barracks. A few lights were reflecting here and there, but the 1/3 mile walk was sobering, thought Chris. As they got about halfway to the barracks, Henry stopped: "I should punch your lights out boy...!" said Henry with a rough sounding fury. "For what?" asked Chris, knowing Chief liked to fight when he got drunk but usually with someone other than him, and the few fights he got into he was normally drunk, and didn't win many. Chief was strong, but too damn drunk all the time, and as far as fighting, he was really no match, possible in a bar scene when all were drunk, if he threw the first punch. For surely Henry could take a punch, but often times had such a long delay in producing the second and third, so if his first wasn't good enough, and the other guy was more sober, and faster Chief would normally end up on the loosing end of the stick. "You pulled me out of the last bar and I don't, didn't-finish my drink," said the Chief, getting madder. "Let's just get back to the barracks, talk about it tomorrow," said Chris. "No, we talk now," said Henry. Henry then threw a sloppy punch at Chris, and another, as Chris was trying to back away"back step as Chief leaped forward, "...get over here, I'm going to kick your ass?" the Chief shouted. Then as a third punch came, Chris went into a karate stance, blocked his left hand punch, with his left hand, and put a right blow into the left side of his ribs, knocking Henry off balance, but he got his balance back in a second, and then Chris threw a kick to his groin"as he was cocking his fist apparently leaving his midsection open, and legs separated, and as he went down, a sold blow to the left side of his face"with his palm made its connection; then he stumbled, cramping over trying to avoid another blow"but Chris had stopped, he knew he was done"Henry fell in the grass and mud along side the road,"on one knee he got back up but that was it he was too afraid to get up the rest of the way. "Why'd you hit me so hard for," said Henry, extending his arm for Chris to get up. "You're supposed to be my friend." "Yaw, I guess I did, sorry old buddy, I kind of lost it, over kill..." and Chris extended his hand and pulled Henry up in the nick of time, the Military Police just drove by, looked at them, as Chris put Henry's arm around his shoulder to help carry him back to the barracks. The Policeman simply smiled. "You fight well," said Henry to Chris. "Yaw, I do I guess, my mother once told me, after five kids beat the shit out of me and I came home crying, telling her the story, anyway, she said: "Either learn how to fight, or learn how to run." I guess I learned both pretty well. They both started to laugh. |
