Song of Solomon

Milkman walked in, hunching his shoulders under his wet suit jacket. “Anything to drink?”

“Now, you know better’n that.” Guitar was smiling, his golden eyes dimmed for the moment. They had not seen much of each other since that argument about Honore versus Alabama, but the quarrel had been cleansing for both of them. They were easy with each other now that they didn’t have to pretend. When in conversation they came to the battleground of difference, their verbal sparring was full of good humor. Furthermore, their friendship had been tested in more immediate ways. The last six months had been dangerous for Milkman, and Guitar had come to his aid over and over again.

“Coffee, then,” said Milkman. He sat on the bed with the heaviness of a very old man. “How long you gonna keep that up?”

“Forever. It’s over, man. No booze. How about some tea?”

“Jesus.”

“Loose too. Bet you thought tea grew in little bags.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Like Louisiana cotton. Except the black men picking it wear diapers and turbans. All over India that’s all you see. Bushes with little bitsy white tea bags blossoming. Right?”

“Gimme the tea, Guitar. Just the tea. No geography.”

“No geography? Okay, no geography. What about some history in your tea? Or some sociopolitico—No. That’s still geography. Goddam, Milk, I do believe my whole life’s geography.”

“Don’t you wash pots out for people before you cook water in them?”

“For example, I live in the North now. So the first question come to mind is North of what? Why, north of the South. So North exists because South does. But does that mean North is different from South? No way! South is just south of North….”

“You don’t put the fuckin leaves in the boiling water. You pour the water over the leaves. In a pot, man. In a teapot!”

“But there is some slight difference worth noticing. Northerners, for example—born and bred ones, that is—are picky about their food. Well, not about the food. They actually don’t give a shit about the food. What they’re picky about is the trappings. You know what I mean? The pots and shit. Now, they’re real funny about pots. But tea? They don’t know Earl Grey from old man Lipton’s instant.”

“I want tea, man. Not won-ton shredded wheat.”

“Old man Lipton dye him up some shredded New York Times and put it in a cute little white bag and northern Negroes run amok. Can’t contain themselves. Ever notice that? How they love them little white bags?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“He’s a Northerner too. Lived in Israel, but a Northerner in His heart. His bleeding heart. His cute little old bleeding red heart. Southerners think they own Him, but that’s just because the first time they laid eyes on Him, He was strung up on a tree. They can relate to that, see. Both the stringer and the strung. But Northerners know better….”

“Who you talking about? Black people or white people?”

“Black? White? Don’t tell me you’re one of those racial Negroes? Who said anything about black people? This is just a geography lesson.” Guitar handed Milkman a steaming cup of tea.

“Yeah, well, if this is tea, I’m a soft-fried egg.”

“See what I mean? Picky. Why you got to be a soft-fried egg? Why can’t you be just a fried egg? Or just a plain old egg? And why a egg anyway? Negro’s been a lotta things, but he ain’t never been no egg.”

Milkman began to laugh. Guitar had done it again. He’d come to the door sopping wet, ready to roll over and die, and now he was laughing, spilling tea, and choking out his reply: “How come? How come a nigger can’t be a egg? He can be a egg if he wants to.”

“Nope. Can’t be no egg. It ain’t in him. Something about his genes. His genes won’t let him be no egg no matter how hard he tries. Nature says no. ‘No, you can’t be no egg, nigger. Now, you can be a crow if you wanna. Or a big baboon. But not no egg. Eggs is difficult, complicated. Fragile too. And white.’”

“They got brown eggs.”

“Miscegenation. Besides, don’t nobody want ’em.”

“French people do.”

“In France, yeah. But not in the Congo. Frenchman in the Congo won’t touch a brown egg.”

“Why won’t he?”

“Scared of ’em. Might do something to his skin. Like the sun.”

“French people love the sun. They’re always trying to get in the sun. On the Riviera—”

“They try to get in the French sun, but not the Congo sun. In the Congo they hate the sun.”

“Well, I got a right to be what I want to be, and I want to be a egg.”

“Fried?”

“Fried.”

“Then somebody got to bust your shell.”

Quicker than a pulse beat, Guitar had changed the air. Milkman wiped his mouth, avoiding Guitar’s eyes