Song of Solomon

“You can’t marry.”

“No.”

“Have children.”

“No.”

“What kind of life is that?”

“Very satisfying.”

“There’s no love in it.”

“No love? No love? Didn’t you hear me? What I’m doing ain’t about hating white people. It’s about loving us. About loving you. My whole life is love.”

“Man, you’re confused.”

“Am I? When those concentration camp Jews hunt down Nazis, are they hating Nazis or loving dead Jews?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Only because they have money and publicity.”

“No; because they turn them over to the courts. You kill and you don’t kill the killers. You kill innocent people.”

“I told you there are no—”

“And you don’t correct a thing by—”

“We poor people, Milkman. I work at an auto plant. The rest of us barely eke out a living. Where’s the money, the state, the country to finance our justice? You say Jews try their catches in a court. Do we have a court? Is there one courthouse in one city in the country where a jury would convict them? There are places right now where a Negro still can’t testify against a white man. Where the judge, the jury, the court, are legally bound to ignore anything a Negro has to say. What that means is that a black man is a victim of a crime only when a white man says he is. Only then. If there was anything like or near justice or courts when a cracker kills a Negro, there wouldn’t have to be no Seven Days. But there ain’t; so we are. And we do it without money, without support, without costumes, without newspapers, without senators, without lobbyists, and without illusions!”

“You sound like that red-headed Negro named X. Why don’t you join him and call yourself Guitar X?”

“X, Bains—what difference does it make? I don’t give a damn about names.”

“You miss his point. His point is to let white people know you don’t accept your slave name.”

“I don’t give a shit what white people know or even think. Besides, I do accept it. It’s part of who I am. Guitar is my name. Bains is the slave master’s name. And I’m all of that. Slave names don’t bother me; but slave status does.”

“And knocking off white folks changes your slave status?”

“Believe it.”

“Does it do anything for my slave status?”

Guitar smiled. “Well, doesn’t it?”

“Hell, no.” Milkman frowned. “Am I going to live any longer because you all read the newspaper and then ambush some poor old white man?”

“It’s not about you living longer. It’s about how you live and why. It’s about whether your children can make other children. It’s about trying to make a world where one day white people will think before they lynch.”

“Guitar, none of that shit is going to change how I live or how any other Negro lives. What you’re doing is crazy. And something else: it’s a habit. If you do it enough, you can do it to anybody. You know what I mean? A torpedo is a torpedo, I don’t care what his reasons. You can off anybody you don’t like. You can off me.”

“We don’t off Negroes.”

“You hear what you said? Negroes. Not Milkman. Not ‘No, I can’t touch you, Milkman,’ but ‘We don’t off Negroes.’ Shit, man, suppose you all change your parliamentary rules?”

“The Days are the Days. It’s been that way a long time.”

Milkman thought about that. “Any other young dudes in it? Are all the others older? You the only young one?”

“Why?”

“Cause young dudes are subject to change the rules.”

“You worried about yourself, Milkman?” Guitar looked amused.

“No. Not really.” Milkman put his cigarette out and reached for another one. “Tell me, what’s your day?”

“Sunday. I’m the Sunday man.”

Milkman rubbed the ankle of his short leg. “I’m scared for you, man.”

“That’s funny. I’m scared for you too.”

Chapter 7

Truly landlocked people know they are. Know the occasional Bitter Creek or Powder River that runs through Wyoming;