Mules and Men

  Ole Massa told him, “Why, John, there’s no such thing as a booger.”

  “Oh, yes it is, Massa. He down at dat Spring.”

  “Don’t tell me, John. Youse just excited. Furthermore, you go git me dat water Ah sent you after.”

  “No, indeed, Massa, you and nobody else can’t send me back there so dat booger kin git me.”

  Ole Massa begin to figger dat John musta seen somethin’ sho nuff because John never had disobeyed him before, so he ast: “John, you say you seen a booger. What did it look like?”

  John tole him, “Massa, he had two great big eyes lak balls of fire, and when he was standin’ up he was sittin’ down and when he moved, he moved by jerks, and he had most no tail.”

  Long before Calvin had ended his story James had lost his air of impatience.

  “Now, Ah’ll tell one,” he said. “That is, if you so desire.”

  “Sure, Ah want to hear you tell ’em till daybreak if you will,” I said eagerly.

  “But where’s the ginger bread?” James stopped to ask.

  “It’s out in the kitchen,” I said. “Ah’m waiting for de others to come.”

  “Aw, naw, give us ours now. Them others may not get here before forty o’clock and Ah’ll be done et mine and be in Wood Bridge. Anyhow Ah want a corner piece and some of them others will beat me to it.”

  So I served them with ginger bread and buttermilk.

  “You sure going to Wood Bridge with us after Ah git thru tellin’ this one?” James asked.

  “Yeah, if the others don’t show up by then,” I conceded.

  So James told the story about the man who went to Heaven from Johnstown.

  You know, when it lightnings, de angels is peepin’ in de lookin’ glass; when it thunders, they’s rollin’ out de rain-barrels; and when it rains, somebody done dropped a barrel or two and bust it.

  One time, you know, there was going to be big doin’s in Glory and all de angels had brand new clothes to wear and so they was all peepin’ in the lookin’ glasses, and therefore it got to lightning all over de sky. God tole some of de angels to roll in all de full rain barrels and they was in such a hurry that it was thunderin’ from the east to the west and the zig-zag lightning went to join the mutterin’ thunder and, next thing you know, some of them angels got careless and dropped a whole heap of them rain barrels, and didn’t it rain!

  In one place they call Johnstown they had a great flood. And so many folks got drownded that it looked jus’ like Judgment day.

  So some of de folks that got drownded in that flood went one place and some went another. You know, everything that happen, they got to be a nigger in it—and so one of de brothers in black went up to Heben from de flood.

  When he got to the gate, Ole Peter let ’im in and made ’im welcome. De colored man was named John, so John ast Peter, says, “Is it dry in dere?”

  Ole Peter tole ’im, “Why, yes it’s dry in here. How come you ast that?”

  “Well, you know Ah jus’ come out of one flood, and Ah don’t want to run into no mo’. Ooh, man! You ain’t seen no water. You just oughter seen dat flood we had at Johnstown.”

  Peter says, “Yeah, we know all about it. Jus’ go wid Gabriel and let him give you some new clothes.”

  So John went on off wid Gabriel and come back all dressed up in brand new clothes and all de time he was changin’ his clothes he was tellin’ Ole Gabriel all about dat flood, jus’ like he didn’t know already.

  So when he come back from changin’ his clothes, they give him a brand new gold harp and handed him to a gold bench and made him welcome. They was so tired of hearing about dat flood they was glad to see him wid his harp ’cause they figgered he’d get to playin’ and forget all about it. So Peter tole him, “Now you jus’ make yo’self at home and play all de music you please.”

  John went and took a seat on de bench and commenced to tune up his harp. By dat time, two angels come walkin’ by where John was settin’ so he throwed down his harp and tackled ’em.

  “Say,” he hollered, “Y’all want to hear ’bout de big flood Ah was in down on earth? Lawd, Lawd! It sho rained, and talkin’ ’bout water!”

  Dem two angels hurried on off from ’im jus’ as quick as they could. He started to tellin’ another one and he took to flyin’. Gab’ull went over to ’im and tried to get ’im to take it easy, but John kept right on stoppin’ every angel dat he could find to tell ’im about dat flood of water.

  Way after while he went over to Ole Peter and said: “Thought you said everybody would be nice and polite?”

  Peter said, “Yeah, Ah said it. Ain’t everybody treatin’ you right?”

  John said, “Naw. Ah jus’ walked up to a man as nice and friendly as Ah could be and started to tell ’im ’bout all dat water Ah left back there in Johnstown and instead of him turnin’ me a friendly answer he said, ‘Shucks! You ain’t seen no water!’ and walked off and left me standin’ by myself.”

  “Was he a ole man wid a crooked walkin’ stick?” Peter ast John.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he have whiskers down to here?” Peter measured down to his waist.

  “He sho did,” John tol’ ’im.

  “Aw shucks,” Peter tol’ ’im. “Dat was Ole Nora.3 You can’t tell him nothin’ ’bout no flood.”

  There was a lot of horn-honking outside and I went to the door. The crowd drew up under the mothering camphor tree in four old cars. Everybody in boisterous spirits.

  “Come on, Zora! Le’s go to Wood Bridge. Great toe-party goin’ on. All kinds of ’freshments. We kin tell you some lies most any ole time. We never run outer lies and lovin’. Tell ’em tomorrow night. Come on if you comin’—le’s go if you gwine.”

  So I loaded up my car with neighbors and we all went to Wood Bridge. It is a Negro community joining Maitland on the north as Eatonville does on the west, but no enterprising souls have ever organized it. They have no schoolhouse, no post office, no mayor. It is lacking in Eatonville’s feeling of unity. In fact, a white woman lives there.

  While we rolled along Florida No. 3, I asked Armetta where was the shindig going to be in Wood Bridge. “At Edna Pitts’ house,” she told me. “But she ain’t givin’ it by herself; it’s for the lodge.”

  “Think it’s gointer be lively?”

  “Oh, yeah. Ah heard that a lot of folks from Altamonte and Longwood is comin’. Maybe from Winter Park too.”

  We were the tail end of the line and as we turned off the highway we could hear the boys in the first car doing what Ellis Jones called bookooing4 before they even hit the ground. Charlie Jones was woofing5 louder than anybody else. “Don’t y’all sell off all dem pretty li’l pink toes befo’ Ah git dere.”

  Peter Stagg: “Save me de best one!”

  Soddy Sewell: “Hey, you mullet heads! Get out de way there and let a real man smoke them toes over.”

  Gene Brazzle: “Come to my pick, gimme a vaseline brown!”

  Big Willie Sewell: “Gimme any kind so long as you gimme more’n one.”

  Babe Brown, riding a running-board, guitar in hand, said, “Ah want a toe, but if it ain’t got a good looking face on to it, don’t bring de mess up.”

  When we got there the party was young. The house was swept and garnished, the refreshments on display, several people sitting around; but the spot needed some social juices to mix the ingredients. In other words, they had the carcass of a party lying around up until the minute Eatonville burst in on it. Then it woke up.

  “Y’all done sold off any toes yet?” George Brown wanted to know.

  Willie Mae Clarke gave him a certain look and asked him, “What’s dat got to do with you, George Brown?” And he shut up. Everybody knows that Willie Mae’s got the business with George Brown.

  “Nope. We ain’t had enough crowd, but I reckon we kin start now,” Edna said. Edna and a sort of committee went inside and hung up a sheet across one end of the room. Then she came outside and called all of the young women inside. She
had to coax and drag some of the girls.

  “Oh, Ah’m shame-face-ted!” some of them said.

  “Nobody don’t want to buy mah ole rusty toe.” Others fished around for denials from the male side.

  I went on in with the rest and was herded behind the curtain.

  “Say, what is this toe-party business?” I asked one of the girls.

  “Good gracious, Zora! Ain’t you never been to a toe-party before?”

  “Nope. They don’t have ’em up North where Ah been and Ah just got back today.”

  “Well, they hides all de girls behind a curtain and you stick out yo’ toe. Some places you take off yo’ shoes and some places you keep ’em on, but most all de time you keep ’em on. When all de toes is in a line, sticking out from behind de sheet they let de men folks in and they looks over all de toes and buys de ones they want for a dime. Then they got to treat de lady dat owns dat toe to everything she want. Sometime they play it so’s you keep de same partner for de whole thing and sometime they fix it so they put de girls back every hour or so and sell de toes agin.”

  Well, my toe went on the line with the rest and it was sold five times during the party. Everytime a toe was sold there was a great flurry before the curtain. Each man eager to see what he had got, and whether the other men would envy him or ridicule him. One or two fellows ungallantly ran out of the door rather than treat the girls whose toe they had bought sight unseen.

  Babe Brown got off on his guitar and the dancing was hilarious. There was plenty of chicken perleau and baked chicken and fried chicken and rabbit. Pig feet and chitterlings6 and hot peanuts and drinkables. Everybody was treating wildly.

  “Come on, Zora, and have a treat on me!” Charlie Jones insisted. “You done et chicken-ham and chicken-bosom wid every shag-leg in Orange County but me. Come on and spend some of my money.”

  “Thanks, Charlie, but Ah got five helpin’s of chicken inside already. Ah either got to get another stomach or quit eatin’.”

  “Quit eatin’ then and go to thinking. Quit thinkin’ and start to drinkin’. What you want?”

  “Coca-Cola right off de ice, Charlie, and put some salt in it. Ah got a slight headache.”

  “Aw naw, my money don’t buy no sweet slop. Choose some coon dick.”

  “What is coon dick?”

  “Aw, Zora, jus’ somethin’ to make de drunk come. Made out uh grape fruit juice, corn meal mash, beef bones and a few mo’ things. Come on le’s git some together. It might make our love come down.”

  As soon as we started over into the next yard where coon dick was to be had, Charlie yelled to the barkeep, “Hey, Seymore! fix up another quart of dat low wine—here come de boom!”

  It was handed to us in a quart fruit jar and we went outside to try it.

  The raw likker known locally as coon dick was too much. The minute it touched my lips, the top of my head flew off. I spat it out and “choosed” some peanuts. Big Willie Sewell said, “Come on, heart-string, and have some gospel-bird7 on me. My money spends too.” His Honor, Hiram Lester, the Mayor, heard him and said, “There’s no mo’ chicken left, Willie. Why don’t you offer her something she can get?”

  “Well there was some chicken there when Ah passed the table a little while ago.”

  “Oh, so you offerin’ her some chicken was. She can’t eat that. What she want is some chicken is.”

  “Aw shut up, Hiram. Come on, Zora, le’s go inside and make out we dancin’.” We went on inside but it wasn’t a party any more. Just some people herded together. The high spirits were simmering down and nobody had a dime left to cry so the toe-business suffered a slump. The heaped-up tables of refreshments had become shambles of chicken bones and empty platters anyway so that there was no longer any point in getting your toe sold, so when Columbus Montgomery said, “Le’s go to Eatonville,” Soddy Sewell jumped up and grabbed his hat and said, “I heard you, buddy.”

  Eatonville began to move back home right then. Nearly everybody was packed in one of the five cars when the delegation from Altamonte arrived. Johnny Barton and Georgia Burke. Everybody piled out again.

  “Got yo’ guitar wid you, Johnnie?”

  “Man, you know Ah don’t go nowhere unless Ah take my box wid me,” said Johnnie in his starched blue shirt, collar pin with heart bangles hanging on each end and his cream pants with the black stripe. “And what make it so cool, Ah don’t go nowhere unless I play it.”

  “And when you git to strowin’ yo’ mess and Georgy gits to singin’ her alto, man it’s hot as seven hells. Man, play dat ‘Palm Beach.’”

  Babe Brown took the guitar and Johnnie Barton grabbed the piano stool. He sung. Georgia Burke and George Thomas singing about Polk County where the water taste like wine.

  My heart struck sorrow, tears come running down.

  At about the thirty-seventh verse, something about:

  Ah’d ruther be in Tampa with the Whip-poor-will,

  Ruther be in Tampa with the Whip-poor-will

  Than to be ’round here—

  Honey with a hundred dollar bill,

  I staggered sleepily forth to the little Chevrolet for Eatonville. The car was overflowing with passengers but I was so dull from lack of sleep that I didn’t know who they were. All I knew is they belonged in Eatonville.

  Somebody was woofing in my car about love and I asked him about his buddy—I don’t know why now. He said, “Ah ain’t got no buddy. They kilt my buddy so they could raise me. Jus’ so Ah be yo’ man Ah don’t want no damn buddy. Ah hope they kill every man dat ever cried, ‘titty-mamma’ but me. Lemme be yo’ kid.”

  Some voice from somewhere else in the car commented, “You sho’ Lawd is gointer have a lot of hindrance.”

  Then somehow I got home and to bed and Armetta had Georgia syrup and waffles for breakfast.

  TWO

  The very next afternoon, as usual, the gregarious part of the town’s population gathered on the store porch. All the Florida-flip players, all the eleven-card layers.1 But they yelled over to me they’d be over that night in full. And they were.

  “Zora,” George Thomas informed me, “you come to de right place if lies is what you want. Ah’m gointer lie up a nation.”

  Charlie Jones said, “Yeah, man. Me and my sworn buddy Gene Brazzle is here. Big Moose done come down from de mountain.”2

  “Now, you gointer hear lies above suspicion,” Gene added.

  It was a hilarious night with a pinch of everything social mixed with the story-telling. Everybody ate ginger bread; some drank the buttermilk provided and some provided coon dick for themselves. Nobody guzzled it—just took it in social sips.

  But they told stories enough for a volume by itself. Some of the stories were the familiar drummer-type of tale about two Irishmen, Pat and Mike, or two Jews as the case might be. Some were the European folk-tales undiluted, like Jack and the Beanstalk. Others had slight local variations, but Negro imagination is so facile that there was little need for outside help. A’nt Hagar’s son, like Joseph, put on his many-colored coat an paraded before his brethren and every man there was a Joseph.

  Steve Nixon was holding class meeting across the way at St. Lawrence Church and we could hear the testimony and the songs.3So we began to talk about church and preachers.

  “Aw, Ah don’t pay all dese ole preachers no rabbit-foot,”4 said Ellis Jones. “Some of ’em is all right but everybody dats up in de pulpit whoopin’ and hollerin’ ain’t called to preach.”

  “They ain’t no different from nobody else,” added B. Moseley. “They mouth is cut cross ways, ain’t it? Well, long as you don’t see no man wid they mouth cut up and down, you know they’ll all lie jus’ like de rest of us.”

  “Yeah; and hard work in de hot sun done called a many a man to preach,” said a woman called Gold, for no evident reason. “Ah heard about one man out clearin’ off some new ground. De sun was so hot till a grindstone melted and run off in de shade to cool off. De man was so tired till he went and sit down on a log.
‘Work, work, work! Everywhere Ah go de boss say hurry, de cap’ say run. Ah got a durn good notion not to do nary one. Wisht Ah was one of dese preachers wid a whole lot of folks makin’ my support for me.’ He looked back over his shoulder and seen a narrer li’l strip of shade along side of de log, so he got over dere and laid down right close up to de log in de shade and said, ‘Now, Lawd, if you don’t pick me up and chunk me on de other side of dis log, Ah know you done called me to preach.’

  “You know God never picked ’im up, so he went off and tol’ everybody dat he was called to preach.”

  “There’s many a one been called just lak dat,” Ellis corroborated. “Ah knowed a man dat was called by a mule.”

  “A mule, Ellis? All dem b’lieve dat, stand on they head,” said Little Ida.

  “Yeah, a mule did call a man to preach. Ah’ll show you how it was done, if you’ll stand a straightenin’.”

  “Now, Ellis, don’t mislay de truth. Sense us into dis mule-callin’ business.”

  Ellis: These was two brothers and one of ’em was a big preacher and had good collections every Sunday. He didn’t pastor nothin’ but big charges. De other brother decided he wanted to preach so he went way down in de swamp behind a big plantation to de place they call de prayin’ ground, and got down on his knees.

  “O Lawd, Ah wants to preach. Ah feel lak Ah got a message. If you done called me to preach, gimme a sign.”

  Just ’bout dat time he heard a voice, “Wanh, uh wanh! Go preach, go preach, go preach!”

  He went and tol’ everybody, but look lak he never could git no big charge. All he ever got called was on some sawmill, half-pint church or some turpentine still. He knocked around lak dat for ten years and then he seen his brother. De big preacher says, “Brother, you don’t look like you gittin’ holt of much.”

  “You tellin’ dat right, brother. Groceries is scarce. Ah ain’t dirtied a plate today.”

  “Whut’s de matter? Don’t you git no support from your church?”