“I don’t have to start work before tomorrow evening,” he was telling Henry. He had found out that the job was an evening job. They were sitting at a round, salt-splattered beer-ringed black shining table in the Paramount, fifteen minutes later.
“Boy, you’re goddamn lucky.”
“But the man, Old Man Jonesy want me down there tomorrow morning to show me the ropes. He leaving for Jamaica the day after tomorrow.”
“You are goddamn lucky, I say.”
“That is the kind o’ job I always was looking for in this fucking city, man.”
“And it have enough room for two people to live in, too, judging by what you tell me on the phone. That place you just told me about, man, that apartment have enough space for two people to live in comfortable. And when you realize that you’re not paying rent for that, nor for the place in the attick, man, Boysie, you’re in a goddamn good position.”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t feel a man should have to pay rent any-goddamn-how! Not in this socialistical day and age. And this place you talking ’bout is centrally located at Bloor and Sin George, ain’t it, boy? Man, that will be a great place for the rest o’ the summer, till Old Man Jonesy come back from Jamaica. Be-Christ, you should even wish that Old Man Jonesy drop dead down there … imagine the parties you could have! Jesus Christ, Boysie! You imagine that, yet? A big place. Nobody there at night to get in your arse, worrying you, or to see which goddamn broad you’re taking in for the night. You could take in a broad at five in the afternoon, work on her for a few hours, take in a second goddamn skins at eight o’clock, and you will still have the rest o’ the fucking night for Brigitte.” Boysie’s eyes began to reflect the sweetness of this conspiracy. He was beginning for the first time to see new large dimensions and universes of sexual activity surrounding his job. “You have the best goddamn job of the year. You deserve a goddamn medal, too!”
“I have to take Brigitte there, man! At least once! I not telling Dots ’bout the apartment before I get organized.”
“What a person don’t know …”
“Can’t have bad-feels about!”
“For-fucking-sure, pardner!”
“And nowadays, my kiss-me-arse wife, Dots, having ideas about leaving Mistress Hunter … in a week or so. And she may want to move into the place with me, and live there till Old Man Jonesy come back from Jamaica.”
“Don’t let Dots move in.”
“God, no.”
“Do not tell Dots any-goddamn-thing ’bout this apartment, and free accommodation, man.”
“God, no!”
“Don’t let her know that the free apartment goes with the job, neither.”
“God, no, man!”
“And if you haven’t already tell Dots that an apartment exists, well this ain’t the time to give her that information.”
“God!”
“Think o’ the parties, man! And the women! You will be free!”
“Jesus!”
“There’s nothing like goddamn freedom for a man. A man have to be free. The word, ‘man,’ sometimes means freedom. And you is a man who should be free.”
“Christ!”
“You strike me as a man who, if he ain’t goddamn free may as well be dead. And I want to say that you, Boysie Cumberbatch, is one man with a goddamn great desire o’ freedom in your whole body and anatomy, in your entire make-up, in your head.”
“Freeness, that is what I like!”
“Jesus Christ, Boysie, not freeness, but freedom!”
“Sorry, man, I make a mistake. I did mean freedom, though.”
“I hope so.”
“Yeah. Freedom. I am a man who must have a piece o’ freedom.”
“Not a piece, Boysie Cumberbatch. ’Cause I couldn’t say to you, or to anybody behind your back, that you are a piece o’ man, or a half o’ man, even. I would have to confess that if you is the Boysie Cumberbatch I have known for almost twelve months now, I got to admit even if it hurts my arse, that you is a man. You is man. You are a man. All man.”
“And I want all freedom.”
“Right! Yeah!”
“Freedom like rass! as the Jamaicans would say.”
“Jamaicans is men.”
“And I is one, too, Godblindyou!”
“You talking like a man, now. God!”
“Freeness is what every man should have, and …”
“Jesus Christ, man, you slipping again. Free-dom, free-dom, free-dom!”
“I make a little slip, man. This beer going to my fucking head.”
“That does happen.”
And Henry stopped talking to concentrate on his beer. There were two full glasses and three empty ones before each of them. A ring of froth was extinguishing itself, bead by bead, from round Boysie’s mouth. The beer was working a certain recklessness and a certain brand of courage into his system. He wanted Brigitte at that moment, very badly. Henry was observing.
A huge beautifully black, black man entered. He entered silently. Like a cat. But something surrounding him caused both Boysie and Henry to look up and notice. Other drinking drunkards noticed too. The mountain of a man walked as if each time his soles hit the sanded sandy floor, footprints of rubber were miraculously placed under each footfall. He bounced and he walked. His hair was slicked down and back and black with murmurs of waves. If you looked carefully, you would have seen that something like golden thoughts were whispering up from the blackness of his hair, in between the waves and some of the crests also. In the middle of this silent arrival, the huge beautifully black black man shouted across the room (to no one in particular, so far as Boysie and Henry could guess, at the moment of the shout), “Hey! Atlasssss, baby!” The words came out in a beautiful, sonorous, kissing Harlem American inflection. “Atlas, baby! Shit, man, when’d you get outta jail?”
And eyes turned. For a man was walking through the sets of tables
