XVII
Barbershop
Mr.¬ÝLogan, hearing that Aunt Hager had an empty room since all her daughters were gone, sent her one evening a newcomer in town looking for a place to stay. His name was Wim Dogberry and he was a brickmason and hod-carrier, a tall, quiet, stoop-shouldered black man, neither old nor young. He took, for two dollars and a half a week, the room that had been Annjee‚Äôs, and Hager gave him a key to the front door.
Wim Dogberry was carrying hod then on a new moving-picture theatre that was being built. He rose early and came in late, face, hands, and overalls covered with mortar dust. He washed in a tin basin by the pump and went to bed, and about all he ever said to Aunt Hager and Sandy was ‚ÄúGood-mornin‚Äô‚Ää‚Äù and ‚ÄúGood-evenin‚Äô,‚Äù and maybe a stumbling ‚ÄúHow is you?‚Äù But on Sunday mornings Hager usually asked him to breakfast if he got up on time‚ÅÝ‚Äîfor on Saturday nights Wim drank licker and came home mumbling to himself a little later than on weekday evenings, so sometimes he would sleep until noon Sundays.
One Saturday night he wet the bed, and when Hager went to make it up on the Sabbath morning, she found a damp yellow spot in the middle. Of this act Dogberry was so ashamed that he did not even say “Good-mornin’ ” for several days, and if, from the corner, he saw Aunt Hager and her grandson sitting on the porch in the twilight when he came towards home, he would pass his street and walk until he thought they had gone inside to bed. But he was a quiet roomer, he didn’t give anyone any trouble, and he paid regularly. And since Hager was in no position to despise two dollars and a half every week, she rather liked Dogberry.
Now Hager kept the growing Sandy close by her all the time to help her while she washed and ironed and to talk to her while she sat on the porch in the evenings. Of course, he played sometimes in his own yard whenever Willie-Mae or Buster or, on Sundays, Jimmy Lane came to the house. But Jimmy Lane was running wild since his mother died, and Hager didn’t like him to visit her grandson any more. He was bad.
When Sandy wanted to go to the vacant lot to play baseball with the neighbor boys, his grandmother would usually not allow him to leave her. “Stay here, sir, with Hager. I needs you to pump ma water fo’ me an’ fill up these tubs,” she would say. Or else she would yell: “Ain’t I told you you might get hurt down there with them old rough white boys? Stay here in yo’ own yard, where you can keep out o’ mischief.”
So he grew accustomed to remaining near his grandmother, and at night, when the other children would be playing duck-on-the-rock under the arc-light at the corner, he would be sitting on the front porch listening to Aunt Hager telling her tales of slavery and talking of her own far-off youth. When school opened in the fall, the old woman said: “I don’t know what I’s gwine do all day without you, Sandy. You sho been company to me, with all my own chillens gone.” But Sandy was glad to get back to a roomful of boys and girls again.
One Indian-summer afternoon when Aunt Hager was hanging up clothes in the backyard while the boy held the basket of clothespins, old man Logan drove past on his rickety trash-wagon and bowed elaborately to Hager. She went to the back fence to joke and gossip with him as usual, while his white mule switched off persistent flies with her tail.
Before the old beau drove away, he said: “Say, Hager, does you want that there young one o’ your’n to work? I knows a little job he can have if you does,” pointing to Sandy.
“What’ll he got to do?” demanded Hager.
“Well, Pete Scott say he need a boy down yonder at de barbershop on Saturdays to kinder clean up where de kinks fall, an’ shine shoes fo’ de customers. Ain’t nothin’ hard ’bout it, an’ I was thinkin’ it would just ’bout be Sandy’s size. He could make a few pennies ever’ week to kinder help things ’long.”
“True, he sho could,” said Hager. “I’ll have him go see Pete.”
So Sandy went to see Mr.¬ÝPeter Scott at the colored barbershop on Pearl Street that evening and was given his first regular job. Every Saturday, which was the barbershop‚Äôs only busy day, when the workingmen got paid off, Sandy went on the job at noon and worked until eight or nine in the evening. His duties were to keep the place swept clean of the hair that the three barbers sheared and to shine the shoes of any customer who might ask for a shine. Only a few customers permitted themselves that last luxury, for many of them came to the shop in their working-shoes, covered with mud or lime, and most of them shined their own boots at home on Sunday mornings before church. But occasionally Cudge Windsor, who owned a pool hall, or some of the dressed-up bootleggers, might climb on the stand and permit their shoes to be cleaned by the brown youngster, who asked shyly: ‚ÄúShine, mister?‚Äù
The barbershop was a new world to Sandy, who had lived thus far tied to Aunt Hager‚Äôs apron-strings. He was a dreamy-eyed boy who had grown to his present age largely under the dominant influence of women‚ÅÝ‚ÄîAnnjee, Harriett, his grandmother‚ÅÝ‚Äîbecause Jimboy had been so seldom home. But the barbershop then was a man‚Äôs world, and, on Saturdays, while a dozen or more big laborers awaited their turns, the place was filled with loud man-talk and smoke and laughter. Baseball, Jack Johnson, racehorses, white folks, Teddy Roosevelt, local gossip, Booker Washington, women, labor prospects in Topeka, Kansas City, Omaha, religion, politics, women, God‚ÅÝ‚Äîdiscussions and arguments all afternoon and far up into the night, while crisp kinks rolled to the floor, cigarette- and cigar-butts were thrown on the hearth of the monkey-stove, and Sandy called out: ‚ÄúShine, mister?‚Äù
Sometimes the boy earned one or two dollars from shines, but on damp or snowy days he might not make anything except the fifty cents Pete Scott paid him for sweeping up. Or perhaps one of the barbers, too busy to go out for supper, would send Sandy for a sandwich and a bottle of milk, and thus he would make an extra nickel or dime.
The patrons liked him and often kidded him about his sandy hair. ‚ÄúBoy, you‚Äôs too dark to have hair like that. Ain‚Äôt nobody but white folks s‚Äôposed to have sandy-colored hair. An‚Äô your‚Äôn‚Äôs nappy at that!‚Äù Then Sandy would blush with embarrassment‚ÅÝ‚Äîif the change from a dry chocolate to a damp chocolate can be called a blush, as he grew warm and perspired‚ÅÝ‚Äîbecause he didn‚Äôt like to be kidded about his hair. And he hadn‚Äôt been around uncouth fellows long enough to learn the protective art of turning back a joke. He had discovered already, though, that so-called jokes are often not really jokes at all, but rather unpleasant realities that hurt unless you can think of something equally funny and unpleasant to say in return. But the men who patronized Pete Scott‚Äôs barbershop seldom grew angry at the hard pleasantries that passed for humor, and they could play the dozens for hours without anger, unless the parties concerned became serious, when they were invited to take it on the outside. And even at that a fight was fun, too.
After a winter of Saturday nights at Pete’s shop Sandy himself became pretty adept at “kidding”; but at first he was timid about it and afraid to joke with grown-up people, or to give smart answers to strangers when they teased him about his crinkly, sand-colored head. One day, however, one of the barbers gave him a tin of Madam Walker’s and told him: “Lay that hair down an’ stop these niggers from laughin’ at you.” Sandy took his advice.
Madam Walker‚Äôs‚ÅÝ‚Äîa thick yellow pomade‚ÅÝ‚Äîand a good wetting with water proved most efficacious to the boy‚Äôs hair, when aided with a stocking cap‚ÅÝ‚Äîthe top of a woman‚Äôs stocking cut off and tied in a knot at one end so as to fit tightly over one‚Äôs head, pressing the hair smooth. Thereafter Sandy appeared with his hair slick and shiny. And the salve and water together made it seem a dark brown, just the color of his skin, instead of the peculiar sandy tint it possessed in its natural state. Besides, he soon advanced far enough in the art of ‚Äúkidding‚Äù to say: ‚ÄúSo‚Äôs your pa‚Äôs,‚Äù to people who informed him that his head was nappy.
During the autumn Harriett had been home once to see her mother and had said that she was working as chambermaid with Maudel at the hotel. But in the barbershop that winter Sandy often heard his aunt’s name mentioned in less proper connections. Sometimes the boy pretended not to hear, and if Pete Scott was there, he always stopped the men from talking.
“Tired o’ all this nasty talk ’bout women in ma shop,” he said one Saturday night. “Some o’ you men better look after your own womenfolks if you got any.”
“Aw, all de womens in de world ain’t worth two cents to me,” said a waiter sitting in the middle chair, his face covered with lather. “I don’t respect no woman but my mother.”
“An’ neither do I,” answered Greensbury Jones. “All of ’em’s evil, specially if they’s black an’ got blue gums.”
‚ÄúI‚Äôs done told you to hush,‚Äù said Pete Scott behind the first chair, where he was clipping Jap Logan‚Äôs hair. ‚ÄúMa wife‚Äôs black herself, so don‚Äôt start talkin‚Äô ‚Äôbout no blue gums! I‚Äôs tired o‚Äô this here female talk anyhow. This is ma shop, an‚Äô ma razors sho can cut somethin‚Äô else ‚Äôsides hair‚ÅÝ‚Äîso now just keep on talkin‚Äô ‚Äôbout blue gums!‚Äù
“I see where Bryant’s runnin’ for president agin,” said Greensbury Jones.
But one Saturday, while the proprietor was out to snatch a bite to eat, a discussion came up as to who was the prettiest colored girl in town. Was she yellow, high-brown, chocolate, or black? Of course, there was no agreement, but names were mentioned and qualities were described. One girl had eyes like Eve herself; another had hips like Miss Cleopatra; one smooth brown-skin had legs like‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike‚ÅÝ‚Äîlike‚ÅÝ‚Äî
“Aw, man! De Statue of Liberty!” somebody suggested when the name of a famous beauty failed the speaker’s memory.
‚ÄúBut, feller, there ain‚Äôt nothin‚Äô in all them rainbow shades,‚Äù a young teamster argued against Uncle Dan Givens, who preferred high yellows. ‚ÄúGimme a cool black gal ever‚Äô time! They‚Äôs too dark to fade‚ÅÝ‚Äîand when they are good-looking, I mean they are good-looking! I‚Äôm talkin‚Äô ‚Äôbout Harrietta Williams, too! That‚Äôs who I mean! Now, find a better-looking gal than she is!‚Äù
‚ÄúI admits Harrietta‚Äôs all right,‚Äù said the old man; ‚Äúall right to look at but‚ÅÝ‚Äîsput-t-tsss!‚Äù He spat contemptuously at the stove.
‚ÄúO, I know that!‚Äù said the teamster; ‚Äúbut I ain‚Äôt talkin‚Äô ‚Äôbout what she is! I‚Äôm talkin‚Äô ‚Äôbout how she looks. An‚Äô a songster out o‚Äô this world don‚Äôt care if she is a‚ÅÝ‚Äî!‚Äù
‚ÄúS‚Äës‚Äës‚Äësh! Soft-pedal it brother.‚Äù One of the men nudged the speaker. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs one o‚Äô the Williamses right here‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat kid over yonder shinin‚Äô shoes‚Äôs Harriett‚Äôs nephew or somethin‚Äô ‚Äônother.‚Äù
“You niggers talks too free, anyhow,” one of the barbers added. “Somebody gwine cut your lips off some o’ these days. De idee o’ ole Uncle Dan Givens’ arguin’ ’bout women and he done got whiskers all round his head like a wore-out cheese.”
“That’s all right, you young whip-snapper,” squeaked Uncle Dan heatedly. “Might have whiskers round ma head, but I ain’t wore out!”
Laughter and smoke filled the little shop, while the winter wind blew sleet against the big plate-glass window and whistled through the cracks in the doorway, making the gas lights flicker overhead. Sandy smacked his polishing cloth on the toes of a gleaming pair of brown button shoes belonging to a stranger in town, then looked up with a grin and said: “Yes, sir!” as the man handed him a quarter.
“Keep the change,” said the newcomer grandly.
‚ÄúThat guy‚Äôs an actor,‚Äù one of the barbers said when the man went out. ‚ÄúHe‚Äôs playin‚Äô with the Smart Set at the Opery House tonight. I bet the top gallery‚Äôll be full o‚Äô niggers sence it‚Äôs a jig show, but I ain‚Äôt goin‚Äô anear there myself to be Jim-Crowed, ‚Äôcause I don‚Äôt believe in goin‚Äô nowhere I ain‚Äôt allowed to set with the rest of the folks. If I can‚Äôt be the tablecloth, I won‚Äôt be the dishrag‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs my motto. And if I can‚Äôt buy the seats I want at a show, I sure God can keep my change!‚Äù
“Yes, and miss all the good shows,” countered a little red-eyed porter. “Just as well say if you can’t eat in a restaurant where white folks eat, you ain’t gonna eat.”
“Anybody want a shine?” yelled Sandy above the racket. “And if you don’t want a shine, stay out of my chair and do your arguing on the floor!”
A brown-skin chorus girl, on her way to the theatre, stepped into the shop and asked if she could buy a Chicago Defender there. The barber directed her to the colored restaurant, while all the men immediately stopped talking to stare at her until she went out.
‚ÄúWhew!‚ÅÝ‚Ää‚Å݂Ķ Some legs!‚Äù the teamster cried as the door closed on a vision of silk stockings. ‚ÄúHow‚Äôd you like to shine that long, sweet brown-skin mama‚Äôs shoes, boy?‚Äù
“She wouldn’t have to pay me!” said Sandy.
“Whoopee! Gallery or no gallery,” shouted Jap Logan, “I’m gonna see that show! Don’t care if they do Jim-Crow niggers in the white folks’ Opery House!”
‚ÄúYes,‚Äù muttered one of the barbers, ‚Äúthat‚Äôs just what‚Äôs the matter now‚ÅÝ‚Äîyou ain‚Äôt got no race-pride! You niggers ain‚Äôt got no shame!‚Äù