“Ya‑a‑a‑a!” yelled his friend, running up the street. “See you tonight at Cudge’s—apron-string boy!”
And that evening Sandy didn’t finish reading, as he had planned, Moby Dick, which Mr. Prentiss’s daughter had lent him. Instead he practised handling a cue-stick under the tutelage of Buster.
XXV
Pool Hall
There were no community houses in Stanton and no recreation centers for young men except the Y.M.C.A., which was closed to you if you were not a white boy; so, for the Negro youths of the town, Cudge Windsor’s pool hall was the evening meeting-place. There one could play billiards, shoot dice in a back room, or sit in summer on the two long benches outside, talking and looking at the girls as they passed. In good weather these benches were crowded all the time.
Next door to the pool hall was Cudge Windsor’s lunchroom. Of course, the best colored people did not patronize Cudge’s, even though his business was not in the Bottoms. It was located on Pearl Street, some three or four blocks before that thoroughfare plunged across the tracks into the low terrain of tinkling pianos and ladies who loved for cash. But since Cudge catered to what Mr. Siles called “the common element,” the best people stayed away.
After months of bookishness and subjection to Tempy’s prim plans for his improvement, Sandy found the pool hall an easy and amusing place in which to pass time. It was better than the movies, where people on the screen were only shadows. And it was much better than the Episcopal Church, with its stoop-shouldered rector, for here at Cudge’s everybody was alive, and the girls who passed in front swinging their arms and grinning at the men were warm-bodied and gay, while the boys rolling dice in the rear room or playing pool at the tables were loud-mouthed and careless. Life sat easily on their muscular shoulders.
Adventurers and vagabonds who passed through Stanton on the main line would often drop in at Cudge’s to play a game or get a bite to eat, and many times on summer nights reckless black boys, a long way from home, kept the natives entertained with tales of the road, or trips on side-door Pullmans, and of far-off cities where things were easy and women generous. They had a song that went:
O, the gals in Texas,
They never be’s unkind.
They feeds their men an’
Buys ’em gin an’ wine.
But these women in Stanton,
Their hearts is hard an’ cold.
When you’s out of a job, they
Denies you jelly roll.
Then, often, arguments would begin—boastings, proving and fending; or telling of exploits with guns, knives, and razors, with cops and detectives, with evil women and wicked men; out-bragging and out-lying one another, all talking at once. Sometimes they would create a racket that could be heard for blocks. To the uninitiated it would seem that a fight was imminent. But underneath, all was good-natured and friendly—and through and above everything went laughter. No matter how belligerent or lewd their talk was, or how sordid the tales they told—of dangerous pleasures and strange perversities—these black men laughed. That must be the reason, thought Sandy, why poverty-stricken old Negroes like Uncle Dan Givens lived so long—because to them, no matter how hard life might be, it was not without laughter.
Uncle Dan was the world’s champion liar, Cudge Windsor said, and the jolly old man’s unending flow of fabulous reminiscences were entertaining enough to earn him a frequent meal in Cudge’s lunchroom or a drink of licker from the patrons of the pool hall, who liked to start the old fellow talking.
One August evening when Tempy was away attending a convention of the Midwest Colored Women’s Clubs, Sandy and Buster, Uncle Dan, Jimmy Lane, and Jap Logan sat until late with a big group of youngsters in front of the pool hall watching the girls go by. A particularly pretty high yellow damsel passed in a thin cool dress of flowered voile, trailing the sweetness of powder and perfume behind her.
“Dog-gone my soul!” yelled Jimmy Lane. “Just gimme a bone and lemme be your dog—I mean your salty dog!” But the girl, pretending not to hear, strolled leisurely on, followed by a train of compliments from the pool-hall benches.
“Sweet mama Venus!” cried a tall raw-bony boy, gazing after her longingly.
“If angels come like that, lemme go to heaven—and if they don’t, lemme be lost to glory!” Jap exclaimed.
“Shut up, Jap! What you know ’bout women?” asked Uncle Dan, leaning forward on his cane to interrupt the comments. “Here you-all is, ain’t knee-high to ducks yit, an’ talkin’ ’bout womens! Shut up, all o’ you! Nary one o’ you’s past sebenteen, but when I were yo’ age—Hee! Hee! You-all want to know what dey called me when I were yo’ age?” The old man warmed to his tale. “Dey called me de ‘stud nigger’! Yes, dey did! On ’count o’ de kind o’ slavery-time work I was doin’—I were breedin’ babies fo’ to sell!”
“Another lie!” said Jap.
“No, ’tain’t, boy! You listen here to what I’s gwine tell you. I were de onliest real healthy nigger buck ma white folks had on de plantation, an’ dese was ole po’ white folks what can’t ’ford to buy many slaves, so dey figures to raise a heap o’ darky babies an’ sell ’em later on—dat’s why dey made me de breeder. … Hee! Hee! … An’ I sho breeded a gang o’ pickaninnies, too! But I were young then, jest like you-all is, an’ I ain’t had a pint o’ sense—laying wid de womens all night, ever’ night.”
“Yes, we believe you,” drawled Jimmy.
“An’ it warn’t no time befo’ little yaller chillens an’ black chillens an’ red chillens an’ all kinds o’ chillens was runnin’ round de yard eatin’ out o’ de hog-pen an’ a-callin’ me pappy. … An’ here I is today gwine on ninety-three year ole an’ I done outlived ’em all. Dat is, I done outlived all I ever were able
