Idiots First Read online

  Clinging to Ginzburg in his last agony, Mendel saw reflected in the ticket collector’s eyes the depth of his terror. But he saw that Ginzburg, staring at himself in Mendel’s eyes, saw mirrored in them the extent of his own awful wrath. He beheld a shimmering, starry, blinding light that produced darkness.

  Ginzburg looked astounded. “Who me?”

  His grip on the squirming old man slowly loosened, and Mendel, his heart barely beating, slumped to the ground.

  “Go.” Ginzburg muttered, “take him to the train.”

  “Let pass,” he commanded a guard.

  The crowd parted. Isaac helped his father up and they tottered down the steps to the platform where the train waited, lit and ready to go.

  Mendel found Isaac a coach seat and hastily embraced him. “Help Uncle Leo, Isaakil. Also remember your father and mother.”

  “Be nice to him,” he said to the conductor. “Show him where everything is.”

  He waited on the platform until the train began slowly to move. Isaac sat at the edge of his seat, his face strained in the direction of his journey. When the train was gone, Mendel ascended the stairs to see what had become of Ginzburg.

  BLACK IS MY FAVORITE COLOR

  Charity Sweetness sits in the toilet eating her two hardboiled eggs while I’m having my ham sandwich and coffee in the kitchen. That’s how it goes only don’t get the idea of ghettoes. If there’s a ghetto I’m the one that’s in it. She’s my cleaning woman from Father Divine and comes in once a week to my small three-room apartment on my day off from the liquor store. “Peace,” she says to me, “Father reached on down and took me right up in Heaven.” She’s a small person with a flat body, frizzy hair, and a quiet face that the light shines out of, and Mama had such eyes before she died. The first time Charity Sweetness came in to clean, a little more than a year and a half, I made the mistake to ask her to sit down at the kitchen table with me and eat her lunch. I was still feeling not so hot after Ornita left but I’m the kind of a man—Nat Lime, forty-four, a bachelor with a daily growing bald spot on the back of my head, and I could lose frankly fifteen pounds—who enjoys company so long as he has it. So she cooked up her two hardboiled eggs and sat down and took a small bite out of one of them. But after a minute she stopped chewing and she got up and carried the eggs in a cup in the bathroom, and since then she eats there. I said to her more than once, “Okay, Charity Sweetness, so have it your way, eat the eggs in the kitchen by yourself and I’ll eat when you’re done,” but she smiles absentminded, and eats in the toilet. It’s my fate with colored people.

  Although black is still my favorite color you wouldn’t know it from my luck except in short quantities even though I do all right in the liquor store business in Harlem, on Eighth Avenue between 110th and 111th. I speak with respect. A large part of my life I’ve had dealings with Negro people, most on a business basis but sometimes for friendly reasons with genuine feeling on both sides. I’m drawn to them. At this time of my life I should have one or two good colored friends but the fault isn’t necessarily mine. If they knew what was in my heart towards them, but how can you tell that to anybody nowadays? I’ve tried more than once but the language of the heart either is a dead language or else nobody understands it the way you speak it. Very few. What I’m saying is, personally for me there’s only one human color and that’s the color of blood. I like a black person if not because he’s black, then because I’m white. It comes to the same thing. If I wasn’t white my first choice would be black. I’m satisfied to be white because I have no other choice. Anyway, I got an eye for color. I appreciate. Who wants everybody to be the same? Maybe it’s like some kind of a talent. Nat Lime might be a liquor dealer in Harlem, but once in the jungle in New Guinea in the Second War, I got the idea when I shot at a running Jap and missed him, that I had some kind of a talent, though maybe it’s the kind where you have a marvelous idea now and then but in the end what do they come to? After all, it’s a strange world.

  Where Charity Sweetness eats her eggs makes me think about Buster Wilson when we were both boys in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. There was this long block of run-down dirty frame houses in the middle of a not-so-hot white neighborhood full of pushcarts. The Negro houses looked to me like they had been born and died there, dead not long after the beginning of the world. I lived on the next street. My father was a cutter with arthritis in both hands, big red knuckles and swollen fingers so he didn’t cut, and my mother was the one who went to work. She sold paper bags from a second-hand pushcart in Ellery Street. We didn’t starve but nobody ate chicken unless we were sick or the chicken was. This was my first acquaintance with a lot of black people and I used to poke around on their poor block. I think I thought, brother, if there can be like this, what can’t there be? I mean I caught an early idea what life was about. Anyway I met Buster Wilson there. He used to play marbles by himself. I sat on the curb across the street, watching him shoot one marble lefty and the other one righty. The hand that won picked up the marbles. It wasn’t so much of a game but he didn’t ask me to come over. My idea was to be friendly, only he never encouraged, he discouraged. Why did I pick him out for a friend? Maybe because I had no others then, we were new in the neighborhood, from Manhattan. Also I liked his type. Buster did everything alone. He was a skinny kid and his brothers’ clothes hung on him like worn-out potato sacks. He was a beanpole boy, about twelve, and I was then ten. His arms and legs were burnt out matchsticks. He always wore a brown wool sweater, one arm half unraveled, the other went down to the wrist. His long and narrow head had a white part cut straight in the short woolly hair, maybe with a ruler there, by his father, a barber but too drunk to stay a barber. In those days though I had little myself I was old enough to know who was better off, and the whole block of colored houses made me feel bad in the daylight. But I went there as much as I could because the street was full of life. In the night it looked different, it’s hard to tell a cripple in the dark. Sometimes I was afraid to walk by the houses when they were dark and quiet. I was afraid there were people looking at me that I couldn’t see. I liked it better when they had parties at night and everybody had a good time. The musicians played their banjos and saxophones and the houses shook with the music and laughing. The young girls, with their pretty dresses and ribbons in their hair, caught me in my throat when I saw them through the windows.

  But with the parties came drinking and fights. Sundays were bad days after the Saturday night parties. I remember once that Buster’s father, also long and loose, always wearing a dirty gray Homburg hat, chased another black man in the street with a half-inch chisel. The other one, maybe five feet high, lost his shoe and when they wrestled on the ground he was already bleeding through his suit, a thick red blood smearing the sidewalk. I was frightened by the blood and wanted to pour it back in the man who was bleeding from the chisel. On another time Buster’s father was playing in a crap game with two big bouncy red dice, in the back of an alley between two middle houses. Then about six men started fist-fighting there, and they ran out of the alley and hit each other in the street. The neighbors, including children, came out and watched, everybody afraid but nobody moving to do anything. I saw the same thing near my store in Harlem, years later, a big crowd watching two men in the street, their breaths hanging in the air on a winter night, murdering each other with switch knives, but nobody moved to call a cop. I didn’t either. Anyway, I was just a young kid but I still remember how the cops drove up in a police paddy wagon and broke up the fight by hitting everybody they could hit with big nightsticks. This was in the days before LaGuardia. Most of the fighters were knocked out cold, only one or two got away. Buster’s father started to run back in his house but a cop ran after him and cracked him on his Homburg hat with a club, right on the front porch. Then the Negro men were lifted up by the cops, one at the arms and the other at the feet, and they heaved them in the paddy wagon. Buster’s father hit the back of the wagon and fell, with his nose spouting very red blood, on
top of three other men. I personally couldn’t stand it, I was scared of the human race so I ran home, but I remember Buster watching without any expression in his eyes. I stole an extra fifteen cents from my mother’s pocketbook and I ran back and asked Buster if he wanted to go to the movies. I would pay. He said yes. This was the first time he talked tome.

  So we went more than once to the movies. But we never got to be friends. Maybe because it was a one-way proposition—from me to him. Which includes my invitations to go with me, my (poor mother’s) movie money, Hershey chocolate bars, watermelon slices, even my best Nick Carter and Merriwell books that I spent hours picking up in the junk shops, and that he never gave me back. Once he let me go in his house to get a match so we could smoke some butts we found, but it smelled so heavy, so impossible, I died till I got out of there. What I saw in the way of furniture I won’t mention—the best was falling apart in pieces. Maybe we went to the movies all together five or six matinees that spring and in the summertime, but when the shows were over he usually walked home by himself.

  “Why don’t you wait for me, Buster?” I said. “We’re both going in the same direction.”

  But he was walking ahead and didn’t hear me. Anyway he didn’t answer.

  One day when I wasn’t expecting it he hit me in the teeth. I felt like crying but not because of the pain. I spit blood and said, “What did you hit me for? What did I do to you?”

  “Because you a Jew bastard. Take your Jew movies and your Jew candy and shove them up your Jew ass.”

  And he ran away.

  I thought to myself how was I to know he didn’t like the movies. When I was a man I thought, you can’t force it.

  Years later, in the prime of my life, I met Mrs. Ornita Harris. She was standing by herself under an open umbrella at the bus stop, crosstown 110th, and I picked up her green glove that she had dropped on the wet sidewalk. It was in the end of November. Before I could ask her was it hers, she grabbed the glove out of my hand, closed her umbrella, and stepped in the bus. I got on right after her.

  I was annoyed so I said, “If you’ll pardon me, Miss, there’s no law that you have to say thanks, but at least don’t make a criminal out of me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I don’t like white men trying to do me favors.”

  I tipped my hat and that was that. In ten minutes I got off the bus but she was already gone.

  Who expected to see her again but I did. She came into my store about a week later for a bottle of scotch.

  “I would offer you a discount,” I told her, “but I know you don’t like a certain kind of a favor and I’m not looking for a slap in the face.”

  Then she recognized me and got a little embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry I misunderstood you that day.”

  “So mistakes happen.”

  The result was she took the discount. I gave her a dollar off.

  She used to come in about every two weeks for a fifth of Haig and Haig. Sometimes I waited on her, sometimes my helpers, Jimmy or Mason, also colored, but I said to give the discount. They both looked at me but I had nothing to be ashamed. In the spring when she came in we used to talk once in a while. She was a slim woman, dark but not the most dark, about thirty years I would say, also well built, with a combination nice legs and a good-size bosom that I like. Her face was pretty, with big eyes and high cheek bones, but lips a little thick and nose a little broad. Sometimes she didn’t feel like talking, she paid for the bottle, less discount, and walked out. Her eyes were tired and she didn’t look to me like a happy woman.

  I found out her husband was once a window cleaner on the big buildings, but one day his safety belt broke and he fell fifteen stories. After the funeral she got a job as a manicurist in a Times Square barber shop. I told her I was a bachelor and lived with my mother in a small three-room apartment on West Eighty-third near Broadway. My mother had cancer, and Ornita said she was very sorry.

  One night in July we went out together. How that happened I’m still not so sure. I guess I asked her and she didn’t say no. Where do you go out with a Negro woman? We went to the Village. We had a good dinner and walked in Washington Square Park. It was a hot night. Nobody was surprised when they saw us, nobody looked at us like we were against the law. If they looked maybe they saw my new lightweight suit that I bought yesterday and my shiny bald spot when we walked under a lamp, also how pretty she was for a man of my type. We went in a movie on West Eighth Street. I didn’t want to go in but she said she had heard about the picture. We went in like strangers and we came out like strangers. I wondered what was in her mind and I thought to myself, whatever is in there it’s not a certain white man that I know. All night long we went together like we were chained. After the movie she wouldn’t let me take her back to Harlem. When I put her in a taxi she asked me, “Why did we bother?”

  For the steak, I wanted to say. Instead I said, “You’re worth the bother.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Kiddo, I thought to myself after the taxi left, you just found out what’s what, now the best thing is forget her.

  It’s easy to say. In August we went out the second time. That was the night she wore a purple dress and I thought to myself, my God, what colors. Who paints that picture paints a masterpiece. Everybody looked at us but I had pleasure. That night when she took off her dress it was in a furnished room I had the sense to rent a few days before. With my sick mother, I couldn’t ask her to come to my apartment, and she didn’t want me to go home with her where she lived with her brother’s family on West 115th near Lenox Avenue. Under her purple dress she wore a black slip, and when she took that off she had white underwear. When she took off the white underwear she was black again. But I know where the next white was, if you want to call it white. And that was the night I think I fell in love with her, the first time in my life though I have liked one or two nice girls I used to go with when I was a boy. It was a serious proposition. I’m the kind of a man when I think of love I’m thinking of marriage. I guess that’s why I am a bachelor.

  That same week I had a holdup in my place, two big men—both black—with revolvers. One got excited when I rang open the cash register so he could take the money and he hit me over the ear with his gun. I stayed in the hospital a couple of weeks. Otherwise I was insured. Ornita came to see me. She sat on a chair without talking much. Finally I saw she was uncomfortable so I suggested she ought to go home.

  “I’m sorry it happened,” she said.

  “Don’t talk like it’s your fault.”

  When I got out of the hospital my mother was dead. She was a wonderful person. My father died when I was thirteen and all by herself she kept the family alive and together. I sat shive for a week and remembered how she sold paper bags on her pushcart. I remembered her life and what she tried to teach me. Nathan, she said, if you ever forget you are a Jew a goy will remind you. Mama, I said, rest in peace on this subject. But if I do something you don’t like, remember, on earth it’s harder than where you are. Then when my week of mourning was finished, one night I said, “Ornita, let’s get married. We’re both honest people and if you love me like I love you it won’t be such a bad time. If you don’t like New York I’ll sell out here and we’ll move someplace else. Maybe to San Francisco where nobody knows us. I was there for a week in the Second War and I saw white and colored living together.”

  “Nat,” she answered me, “I like you but I’d be afraid. My husband woulda killed me.”

  “Your husband is dead.”

  “Not in my memory.”

  “In that case I’ll wait.”

  “Do you know what it’d be like—I mean the life we could expect?”

  “Ornita,” I said, “I’m the kind of a man, if he picks his own way of life he’s satisfied.”

  “What about children? Were you looking forward to half-Jewish polka dots?”

  “I was looking forward to children.”

  “I can’t,” she said.


  Can’t is can’t. I saw she was afraid and the best thing was not to push. Sometimes when we met she was so nervous that whatever we did she couldn’t enjoy it. At the same time I still thought I had a chance. We were together more and more. I got rid of my furnished room and she came to my apartment—I gave away Mama’s bed and bought a new one. She stayed with me all day on Sundays. When she wasn’t so nervous she was affectionate, and if I know what love is, I had it. We went out a couple of times a week, the same way—usually I met her in Times Square and sent her home in a taxi, but I talked more about marriage and she talked less against it. One night she told me she was still trying to convince herself but she was almost convinced. I took an inventory of my liquor stock so I could put the store up for sale.

  Ornita knew what I was doing. One day she quit her job, the next she took it back. She also went away a week to visit her sister in Philadelphia for a little rest. She came back tired but said maybe. Maybe is maybe so I’ll wait. The way she said it it was closer to yes. That was the winter two years ago. When she was in Philadelphia I called up a friend of mine from the Army, now a CPA, and told him I would appreciate an invitation for an evening. He knew why. His wife said yes right away. When Ornita came back we went there. The wife made a fine dinner. It wasn’t a bad time and they told us to come again. Ornita had a few drinks. She looked relaxed, wonderful. Later, because of a twenty-four hour taxi strike I had to take her home on the subway. When we got to the 116th Street station she told me to stay on the train, and she would walk the couple of blocks to her house. I didn’t like a woman walking alone on the streets at that time of the night. She said she never had any trouble but I insisted nothing doing. I said I would walk to her stoop with her and when she went upstairs I would go back to the subway.

  On the way there, on 115th in the middle of the block before Lenox, we were stopped by three men—maybe they were boys. One had a black hat with a half-inch brim, one a green cloth hat, and the third wore a black leather cap. The green hat was wearing a short coat and the other two had long ones. It was under a street light but the leather cap snapped a six-inch switchblade open in the light.