Fighter

by JOHN CASWELL SMITH, JR.

POKE’S bed groaned and squeaked as he twisted spasmodically to avoid the big, faceless man in his dream who leveled a pistol at him. He shrank back, frightened and defenseless. But when the bullet hit him, he laughed to himself with the realization that it does not hurt to get shot. Just a heavy thud like a list hitting you. Poke felt a detachment from the fight that had started it all. The whole thing seemed ended and far away, now that the great noise of the gun had ended all the lesser noises. He could feel that his right leg was soaking wet, and that the sticky, warm blood was filling his shoe.

As he began to sag and drop weakly where he stood, there came the banging at the door, and the noise of feet stamping about in the hallway. A muffle of voices was trying to penetrate down through his sleep to his tired mind, calling his name: and as he heard the back window raised, he heard frightened voices saying, “They’re breaking that door in! Hurry up and jump! Never mind the dog. He’s tied up.”

The hammering at the door kept on and it seemed to Poke that it was an especial torment designed only for him, to keep him from dozing off into a peaceful sleep. It grew louder and more insistent until at last, in revengeful anger, he gave one final surge and raised his head to shout. It was only then that he heard his name called, clearly this time, and he sat up straight, gasping for breath and clutching through the bedcovers at his leg. He looked around the room and saw that it was daytime, when again there came that heavy thumping of a fist against the door.

“Poke!” The voice called him. “Poke! Wake up, man! ”

Poke grinned to himself. “Wait a minute,” he called, and drew his big frame out of bed. He stopped cautiously before putting his hand on the latch. “That you, Country Boy?” he asked.

“Yeah, man. Open up. Damn!”

As Country strode into the room, Poke was already back in bed, as though trying to recover some of the heat his body had lost during the moment he had been standing at the door in his underwear. Country was a rustic-looking, flabby youth whose clothes hung loosely on his body. “You jus’ a sleepin’ po’ boy, ain’t yuh,” he said to the hunched-up shape in the bed. Poke grunted and drew the covers tighter.

Country walked over to the window and raised the shade. The afternoon sun streamed through the window. He tapped lightly on the pane at a shapely brown girl who was passing at the moment.

She turned. “Hello, Country!” she yelled. He raised his hat in mock grandeur and bowed. The girl hurried on with a gesture of feigned impatience. He returned his hat to his head and reached into both pockets of his long, shapeless overcoat. From one pocket he drew out several partially smoked cigarettes, from the other a match. Without turning from the window, he lighted a cigarette and returned the others to his pocket. “That Hattie sho’ kin truck, you know that, Poke?” he said.

Poke turned over to squint at the figure standing by the window. “Hunk?" he groaned, still half asleep. He shaded his eyes from the winter sunlight that found its way past the window.

“I say that Hattie sho’ kin walk fine.”

“Yeah.” He saw the blue clouds of smoke floating in the sunshine. “Gimme a smoke.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ but stumps.”

“Well, gimme a stump, then! Damn, I wanna smoke. Not a lotta yo’ mouth.”

Country turned and sauntered over to the bed, groping in his pockets. He lighted the cigarette butt he placed between Poke’s lips, blew out the match, and seated himself on a chair near-by. Poke reached from the bed and flicked the first ash of his cigarette into an ash tray on a small table beside him.

“I ain’t never noticed that table before.” Country sat forward to place his hand appraisingly on the shining top of the table.

“Jessie bought that. She tryin’ to fix this place up a little.”

Country pushed his hat back on his head and looked around the small room. “Sho’ looks nice,” he said quietly. “Jessie comin’ in tonight?” He leaned forward to crush out the half inch of cigarette.

“Yeah. S’posed to, anyhow.”

“You’ll her goin’ tub th’ dance?”

“What dance?”

“What dance! You mean you ain’t heard about th’ stomp’s gonna be at the Blue Moon t’night?” Country’s face was a study in disbelief.

“Aw, that ole dance. Yeah, I ‘most fuhgot about it.” Poke looked gravely at his own cigarette stub before mashing it out on the ash tray. “Naw, man. I ain’t goin’ to no dance tonight.”

“How come yuh ain’t goin’? You broke?”

“Naw, I ain’t broke. I jus’ ain’ goin’, thass all.” Poke was becoming belligerent. Country stood up slowly and stretched himself without feeling any real need for it. “Le’s get outta here,” he said softly, and walked back over to the window to look aimlessly at the people walking by. He felt not a little satisfaction with himself, for now he knew at least that he didn’t have to worry about Poke going to that dance. It wouldn’t help Poke’s parole record any if he should tie up with any of those tough hombres from across town. House parties, where you knew everybody, were easier; but public dances were something else again, because nobody was in his own neighborhood, and there were always cops at public dances.

All Poke had to do was just be seen where there was a fight and back he’d go to the reformatory to do some more time. Well, he wasn’t going to the dance, and that was one worry off Country’s mind. He could tell that to Jessie when she came in off her job tonight, and she could take over from there. He often wondered to himself why he bothered about Poke, but he always told himself he just liked the guy.

Besides that, Jessie was his cousin and if he could look out for Poke during the week, it sort of helped; gave him a tie to somebody. When she put her hand on his arm each week and said, “Country, look out fo’ Poke and see he don’t get in no more trouble,” he always laughed softly at her, but he knew he was going to keep on helping. Standing at the window he smiled again to himself and turned around to look at his responsibility.

Poke was nearly dressed and had removed from his head the section of stocking, knotted at one end, that kept his hair from getting mussed while he slept. He walked to the foot of the boil and slid a necktie from the white iron rail of the bed and began knotting it around his neck. The two were silent, both thinking of the fact that it would not be very long now before they would meet Jessie at the subway station. It had become a sort of ritual on Thursdays, and from this point on there was not much need of conversation. Some lunch and a game of “61” at the poolroom would take care of their thoughts until late afternoon.

2

JESSIE pushed through the crowd that surged through the turnstiles and hurried up the stairs. She did hope Poke hadn’t got himself in any trouble; but of course he hadn’t — otherwise Country would have called her. Yet she couldn’t keep the nagging little worry out of her mind.

Poke wasn’t really bad. He didn’t even carry a knife; hadn’t ever carried one. If he could only get a good job. But he always had such bad luck, and besides, nobody wanted to hire a fellow with a prison record. Trouble always seemed to follow him around so. The cops kept such a close watch on him. He couldn’t even take a quick ride over to Jersey without asking permission to leave the state. If only she didn’t have to be away from him so much.

She reached the top of the stairs and looked anxiously at the crowd of people standing in front of the cigar store. There they were: faithful, slow-talking Country and her tall, broad-shouldered Poke. Poke saw her and walked over to meet her in the middle of the sidewalk, while Country lagged behind with a show of indifference. Poke kissed her roughly and took the small handbag she was carrying. “Hello, Baby,” he said, and made a soft, punching motion at her with his free hand.

“How’re you, Poke? Hello, Country — whatcha know good?” Relief and positive happiness flowed into her voice.

“Ev’vything’s good. ‘At’s why I knock awn wood.” Country snapped his fingers and pushed his hat forward over his eyes. Jessie laughed and took him by the arm as she walked between the two men.

Music blared at them from radio shops as they walked leisurely along, and there was loud, friendly talk all about them. Jessie liked it. Country’s easygoing languidness reassured her, too, and she could know that Poke had not been in any fights.

For his part, Poke seemed unaware of everything around him. He was frequently like this, wordless and presenting a stolid, enigmatic exterior. He never talked much under any circumstances. Silence and muscular expression were his way of life. It seemed useless to him to try to explain about the things that went on inside his head. He knew people would laugh, so he laughed it away himself and put a hardboiled front in its place.

Sometimes, all the things he felt inside would well up into his arms and hands and they would grow taut, feeling the need to strike out at something visible — something that could be solved or conquered in terms of his limited powers. Tangible energy was what he understood; and whenever he had hit a man and felt him deaden and drop, it gave him a strange sense of triumph and release. Violence offered a crazy kind of peace because he was familiar with it without understanding it.

As they approached a tenement entrance, the door suddenly flew open, and a short, heavy man hurtled through it, leaning dangerously forward. He lost his balance and fell face downward on the sidewalk, but scrambled to his feet cursing and started back furiously toward the building. He was met at the door by a slender, wiry black man who lifted a knee to his stomach and ripped an uppercut into his face. The stout man fell backward with a groan and rolled over into a pile of dirty paper.

Jessie screamed involuntarily and held tighter to Poke’s arm, which she felt stiffening like a steel coil. Country looked quickly up and down the street and stepped over to take hold of Poke’s other arm. “Shut up, Jessie,” he said, and pulled persistently on Poke’s arm. “Just keep awn walkin’. Goddammit, Poke, keep walkin’, willya! ‘F a cop shows up now, he’ll swear t’ Christ you hit ‘im.” Poke felt as though they were holding open the jaws of a trap, permitting him to escape. Jessie was clinging to his arm, her eyes wide and frightened. Halfway down the block they looked back. A crowd had gathered, and they couldn’t see what was going on.

At the corner, the trio turned into a side street, and halfway down the block they entered a place called “Pearly’s Bar-B-Que.” There was a bar along one side, and a long row of booths on the other. A music box near the door was sending out blues from a deep-throated contralto voice. There was a low hum of voices coming from the booths, occasionally broken into by high-pitched laughter. Somewhere, in the back of the room, a young girl was singing with the music, and at the far end of the bar a small knot of men stood talking in desultory tones.

Up near the door, the bartender brightened as the three people entered. He was a slender, yellow-skinned man with sandy-colored, woolly hair. “Whatcha know, Country?” he said. “Are you in the groove, Smooth?”

Country grinned. “Yeah, man. Groovie as a lencent movie.” He walked over and leaned on the bar. Poke and Jessie kept on into the room and slid into one of the booths at the far end.

The bartender’s face sobered for a moment and he leaned forward. “Ain’t that Poke Benson?” he whispered.

“Yeah — why?” Country kept his voice down and glanced at the booth where his two friends were seated. Jessie was facing him and talking earnestly to Poke, who sat across from her.

“Nothin’, oney I don’ want no trouble in here. The pay-off’s tough enough as it is.” The bartender looked anxiously at Country.

“ You ain’ goin’ tuh have no trouble. ’At boy’s awright.”

The bartender wiped a section of the bar with a damp cloth. “He may be awright to you, but I heard about that ghee — plenty. You git ‘im the hell outta here. I’m doin’ awright wit this little hustle I got, and don’ wanna git it all broke up.”

“Aw man, fuhgit it. ‘At boy ain’ go’ hurt nobody. I bin knowin’ Poke fuh long time. You jus’g’wan an’ sell yo’ li’l bit a whiskey, an’ ev’vything’s gonna be groovy.” Country began a rhythmic jerk of his shoulders from side to side to keep time with the music. He waved at Jessie, who had looked up at him when he had begun swaying his shoulders and snapping his fingers. She smiled and waved back at him. Country stepped closer to the bar. “Trouble is,” he said, “all you cats go bristlin’ up when Poke comes round. He ain’ go’ start nothin’ lessen somebody else starts gittin’ bad. ‘At boy ain’ never bin in no trouble he made hisself.”

A fat waitress in a maroon-colored uniform stepped up to the bar, near the small group of men. “Draw two!” she shouted. The bartender turned half toward her but lingered a moment where he stood.

“Well, you jus’ stick aroun’ an’ keep your boy straight. I do’ wanna take no chances. ‘At baby’s poison.” He turned away then, and sauntered over to the beer taps. Country walked slowly to the booth where Jessie and Poke were sitting. The fat waitress stepped across in front of him, placed two glasses of beer on the table, and looked expectantly up at Country. Ignoring her, he slid into the seat beside Poke.

“Whatchawl gonna do?” he asked, and drummed lightly on the table with his fingers. The waitress walked away and resumed her seat at the end of the room.

Jessie looked nervously at Country and tried to smile. “I dunno, Country,” she said. “ Me an’ Poke ain’t decided yet.” Country looked at Poke and decided not to say anything. He went on drumming on the table and whistling a tune that he made up as he went along.

“Well, I guess I’ll mosey along,” he said presently, and stood up. “I got me a little run tuh make, an’ I’ll pick y’awl up later awn.” He nudged Poke gently. “Take it easy, Greasy,” he said, and started toward the door. He could tell that Poke needed woman’s talk now. There wasn’t any place in particular for him to go, but he knew he could find them later on if he wanted to. He waved at the bartender on the way out, and winked reassuringly at him.

3

JESSIE sipped at her beer and looked at Poke, who kept looking at a spot on the table. “Then what did the man say, Honey?" she asked.

“Said he didn’ need no help.”

“Did he say why?”

“Nope. Jus’ said he didn’ need no help.”

“Did yuh show ‘im that card the man gave yuh?”

“Yeah, but he didn’ even read it.” Poke made a helpless motion with his big right hand, coiled into a fist, and brought it softly down on the table.

Jessie was trying to be cheerful, but her voice was tight and tense. “ Well, maybe you c’n get somethin’ nex’ week, huh?”

Poke didn’t answer. It was always like this whenever he tried to talk. There was too much to talk about and there were no words for some of the things he felt. Besides, there was the dull pounding in him that never seemed to stop. He knew, in some vague, intuitive way, that it was all made from old childhood hurts; from the times when he first felt like crying whenever anyone spoke harshly to him. He knew it was made from the beatings his father gave him that made him run away from home, and from being chased and beaten in white boys’ neighborhoods the times he had crossed the ghetto boundaries.

Mixed with the bitter memories were all his futile yearnings; it was all stirred up in him now, each part indistinguishable, flavored with shame and fear and anger and the crushing endlessness of walking up and down in a prison cell. The power and the impotence were a distorting combination, resolving themselves into an uncertain and aimless strength.

“Poke. Ain’t you goin’ t’ speak tuh me?” She could feel his distance, and touched his hand as though to bring him back to consciousness. “Poke,” she said again, “did I say somethin’ yuh didn’ like?” He looked up at her and smiled.

“Pay it no mind, Baby,” he said, “ I jus’ don’ feel like talkin’ now, thass all. Le’s go do somethin’.”

“I gotta go get muh hair done, Poke.” It relieved her some to see him smile. This was more like him, and she wanted to hurry to the hairdresser’s so that they could go to supper. She reached into her pocketbook and took out a couple of one-dollar bills. “Pay for the beer and le’s go. Miss Sally’s gonna be lookin’ fuh me at six o’clock, an’ it’ll be six in a little bit.”

Poke picked up the money carelessly. “You g’wan over there, an’ I’ll drop by that way in about a hour,” he said.

Jessie looked uncertainly at him for an instant. “O.K.,” she said, and hurried out.

Poke took a cigarette from the package that lay in front of him. As he lighted it, the waitress came to his table to remove the two empty glasses. “Gimme another one,” Poke said. She walked away without saying anything. As she strode over to the bar, the front door opened and three men walked in.

They were all dressed alike, and were of about equal stature. Each wore an almost white, widebrimmed hat, a long, double-breasted dark blue overcoat, and in each outside breast pocket there gleamed the carefully folded points of a white silk handkerchief. All three wore bright-yellow kid gloves and all had white scarves neatly folded around their necks. They stepped up to the bar and pretended to be oblivious to the stir their entrance caused in the room. The bartender looked uneasily out of the window, and with a half smile walked to a spot directly opposite them.

“Whatchawl gonna have?” he asked quietly.

The waitress arrived at the bar and drawled, “Draw one.” The white hat in the middle, at the sound of her voice, looked around. “Hello, JellyBelly,” he said. White Hat Number One, on his left, looked at the woman and smirked. The waitress ignored them. White Hat Number Three kept looking straight at the bartender, who dropped his glance and drew a glass of beer from the tap in front of him. The other two snickered and broke finally into a guffaw as the woman walked away from them toward Poke’s table.

“Y’ole lady ain’ payin’ you no min’ t’night,” said Number One. Number Three kept looking steadily at the bartender.

Several people got up to put their wraps on in preparation for leaving. The knot of men at the bar had become tense and silent. The bartender spoke politely again to the three. “ Y’awl gonna have something?” he asked. Number Two looked astonished and turned to Number Three.

“Yalla Boy wants tuh know do we wants somethin’,” he said. “Whyn’t yuh tell the man we don’ drinks nothin’?” Number One snickered, but Number Three continued to hold the bartender with his impudent stare.

The bartender shifted his feet and prepared to walk away from the position he had taken in front of the three. “Gimme a glassa whiskey,” said Number One suddenly, and leaned farther forward.

The harassed man selected a bottle and poured a drink from it into a small glass. He poured some ginger ale into a larger glass and placed it alongside the whiskey. Number One picked up the small glass and was about to drink when Number Two reached over and knocked the glass out of his hand. It went clattering over the bar with a loud noise, breaking other glasses in the process.

Everyone in the room came to a sudden and watchful silence. Poke turned carelessly to follow the anxious glances he saw on every face around him. The white hats were all laughing and taking in the attention of the rapt audience they had created, noting that everyone seemed not a little uneasy. Poke turned back to his glass of beer.

The middle white hat began apologizing, with feigned seriousness, to his companion. The bartender was wiping up the moisture and tossing pieces of broken glass into a trash can at his feet. Someone had started the music box going again and the shrill, high sound of a clarinet screeched into the smoky air of the room.

“Give muh frien’ another glassa whiskey, Yalla Boy,” said the offending white hat.

The bartender turned an injured look upon him. “Who’s goin’ tuh pay for th’ first drink?” he asked.

Number Two, a malicious grin on his face, said, “Yalla Boy, you git him another drink, an’ don’ be so busy with yo’ mouth.” He flashed his right hand toward the white handkerchief in his breast pocket, and there suddenly appeared in his gloved hand a long, slender knife, with an open gleaming blade. He kept grinning and looking at the bartender while he fondled the weapon, as though it had nothing to do with his conversation.

“Now listen, fellas, you-all treat me right, an’ ev’vything’s gonna be awright,”said the bartender in a placating tone.

“Ev’vything’s gonna be awright anyhow, Yalla Boy,” said Number Two. “Git muh buddy anothuh drink.” He closed the knife and slipped it back into his pocket as the bartender turned and reached for the bottle again. At that moment, Country appeared at the doorway. He peered in, opened the door, and started for the booth where he had left Poke and Jessie. Just at that moment, the nearest white hat stepped backward to brush off his coat, and the two collided gently.

“’Scuse me, pal,’ said Country, and started forward again, but found himself facing the other two, who had stepped over to block his path. Country was surprised for a moment, and somewhat bewildered as he found himself surrounded by the three men. He smiled and tried to walk past the two in front of him, but one of them pushed him back.

4

COUNTRY was trying to think of an easier way of dealing with this situation when suddenly he saw the big form of Poke walking purposefully toward him. The bartender, stung to action, was moving swiftly around the bar in an attempt to intercept Poke. One of the two men facing Country wheeled to follow this movement and found himself face to face with Poke, who stopped just short of the group.

“Now where in hell you think you’re goin’!” the white hat facing Poke challenged. Poke paid no attention to him. Instead, he looked over his head and said easily, “Whatsa matter, Country?” The bartender had reached a spot just behind Poke and was attempting to keep peace.

“Take it easy, Poke. Ev’vything’s gonna be awright,” he said, and tried to take Poke by the arm. But he was a minor character in the play by now, and Poke flung him off. Country was terrified as he saw the situation gaining more and more momentum.

“You betta keep the hell outta this, Big Boy,” said the white hat, but Poke kept his attention on Country. The devils in him were turning the screws now, tightening the drumhead, and slowly they began to beat out an impelling cadence. He swept the three with a disdainful glance.

“You goddamn punks betta let ‘at boy alone,”he said, and looked back at his friend. “C’mere, Country. Walk awn over heah.”

“Aw, Poke, these ole boys ain’ go’ hurt nobody. Dey jus’ playin’ aroun’, man.” There was no conviction in Country’s voice. The bartender was still trying weakly to avoid trouble.

“C’mon, you guys,” he said anxiously, “lay offa this stuff. You-all gonna git me in trouble. Look — whyn’t you-all take a drink awn th’ house, an’ fuhgit this mess.”

Nobody even looked at him. Poke was standing silently, watching the whole array in front of him; and as the pounding inside him reached a crashing crescendo, the taut spring in him snapped and he sent his hard, angry fist smashing into the leering, confident face in front of him. The man’s eyes went back, showing only whites, and as his body sped backward it crashed into the bar, upsetting glasses and a cardboard cigarette advertisement. Country turned to attack the man behind him, but was met by a vicious kick in the groin that doubled him over in excruciating pain.

The man who now faced Poke reached toward his white handkerchief, but Poke grabbed the hand, and as he twisted the fist in his vise-like grip, the unopened knife it held rattled to the floor. Having lost his weapon, the white hat lifted his knee to kick at this devil of a man, but as he did so, Poke sidestepped adroitly, grasped the uplifted leg, and lifted the cursing man off the floor to send him crashing down beside his unconscious companion.

He had only time to throw up his hand to ward off the blow he saw coming at him, out of the corner of his eye, as he turned toward the man who had kicked Country. The bottle glanced off his upthrown elbow and crashed to the floor as he lunged forward and grasped the man by the collar of his coat with one hand. With his free hand he drove a hammer-like blow into the terrified face, and as he reversed the direction of his fist he crooked his arm and hit the bloody mouth a hard blow with his elbow and again with his fist as it followed the elbow outward and down in a piston action that rained blows all over the broken face he held before him.

And as he pounded, the release came suddenly in him and he felt free and satisfied. He let the man fall from his grip and for the first time became aware that Country and the bartender were pulling at his arms, attempting to stop him.

By this time the room was full of excited people, and fear came suddenly on the heels of the great peace he had begun to feel. Country was pleading with him, almost crying. “Poke, he was saying, “Poke, c’mon an’ le’s git outta here. Damn, man, the law gonna be all ovuh this place.”He turned dazedly to look at Country, whose face had been kicked in the fracas. Blood was streaking the corner of his mouth, and there were deep lines of pain around his eyes.

The bartender was cursing and groaning over the damage. Outside, a police whistle sounded, and as though it were a special signal, the crowd ran out into the street to disperse. Instantly, Poke too was alert and ready for flight, and at last gave himself over to Country’s urging.

They were running toward the back of the room even as the police ear’s siren lowered to a growl at the front door. They heard the hammering on the locked door of the lavatory as they slid over the window sill and dropped to the ground. Somewhere a dog was barking, and as Poke ran through the alley he had a vague feeling that he had done all this before, in precisely the same way. A pistol shot should come next, he thought, and as he and Country separated at the end of the alley, he heard a shot and the bullet pinged off the bricks overhead. He reached down to his thigh and was surprised to find he had not been hit. In daylight the police might not have missed.

When he reached the avenue, Poke slowed to a steady, panther-like gait. He crossed the street against the lights and carefully moved toward the next avenue. He tried to formulate a plan as he walked along, but flight was too strong in him still for his imagination to call up anything but the most familiar of faces and feelings.

He reached up to pull his hat further down. Something in the gesture made him halt, burning him with the impossibility and futility of hiding. He turned and looked up and down the dark street and then moved again, aimlessly now and with less purposefulness in his stride, certain that the police would be alert and hunting for him everywhere. The heat and drive of the fight had dwindled now and gone out of him; and the old fears and confusions were flooding back into his consciousness, taking the place that the opiates of anger had so briefly filled.

He began to hear the arrogant voice of the judge droning blamefully through the courtroom, Jessie’s repressed weeping, and the clumsy, mumbled words of Country’s indignation and sympathy. Already he could feel the terrifying loneliness of the womanless prison cell. He kept walking, and the dead click of his heels was accompaniment to his old, cruel sorrow; and as he huddled away from the chilly night air, he shrank deeply into himself, feeling small like a child, and hurt, and wanting somehow to find a way to let himself cry.