he didn't know. He was just careful not to touch him and watched him with the zombie eyes of passion.
Suddenly Sherman began to pound on middle C, over and over.
"What's that?" asked Jester, "just middle C?"
"How many vibrations are there in the treble?"
"What kind of vibrations are you talking about?"
"The teeny infinitesimal sounds that vibrate when you strike middle C or any other note."
"I didn't know that."
"Well, I'm telling you."
Again Sherman pounded middle C, first with the right forefinger, then with the left. "How many vibrations do you hear in the bass?"
"Nothing," Jester said.
"There are sixty-four vibrations in the treble and another sixty-four in the bass," Sherman said, magnificently unaware of his own ignorance.
"What of it?"
"I'm just telling you I hear every teeniest vibration in the whole diatonic scale from here," Sherman struck the lowest bass note, "to here," the highest treble note was sounded.
"Why are you telling me all this? Are you a piano tuner?"
"As a matter of fact, I used to be, smarty. But I'm not talking about pianos."
"Well, what the hell are you talking about?"
"About my race and how I register every single vibration that happens to those of my race. I call it my black book."
"Black book?... I see, you are talking of the piano as a sort of symbol," Jester said, delighted to use the brainy word.
"Symbol," repeated Sherman, who had read the word but never used it, "yeah man, that's right... when I was fourteen years old a crowd of us got in a rage against the Aunt Jemima signs, so we suddenly decided to tear them off. We scraped and chiseled away to get the sign off. Upshot ... cops caught us in the middle and all four of the gang was sent to jail, sentenced to two years on the road for destroying public property. I wasn't caught because I was just a lookout, but what happened is in my black book. One guy died from overwork, another came back a living zombie. Have you heard of the Nigerians and that quarry in Atlanta, who broke their legs with hammers so they wouldn't be worked to death? One of them was one that was caught on the Aunt Jemima signs."
"I read that in the paper and it made me sick, but is that the solemn truth, was he one of those Golden Nigerian friends of yours?"
"I didn't say he was a Golden Nigerian, I just said he was somebody I knew, and that's what I mean by vibrations. I vibrate with every injustice that is done to my race. Vibrate ... vibrate ... and vibrate, see?"
"I would too, if I were of your race."
"No you wouldn't ... tenderhearted, chicken, sissy."
"I resent that."
"Well resent ... resent ... resent. When are you going home?"
"You don't want me?"
"No. For the last time, no ... no ... NO ." He added lowly in a venomous voice, "You fatuous, fair, redheaded boy. Fatuous," Sherman said, using a word that had been hurled at him by a brainy vocabulary-wise boy.
Jester automatically ran his hand down his rib cage. "I'm not a bit fat."
"I didn't say fat ... I said fatuous. Since you have such a putrid and limited vocabulary, that means fool ... fool ... fool."
Jester held up his hand as though warding off a blow as he backed out of the door. "Oh, sticks and stones," he screamed as he ran away.
He ran all the way to Reba's house and when he reached the door he rapped with the firm rap of anger.
The inside of the house was not like he had expected. It was an ordinary house, and a whore-lady asked him, "How old are you boy?" and Jester, who never lied, said desperately, "Twenty-one."
"What would you like to drink?"
"Thanks a million, but nothing, nothing at all, I'm on the wagon tonight." It was so easy he did not tremble when the whore-lady showed him upstairs, nor did he tremble when he lay in bed with a woman with orange hair and gold in her teeth. He closed his eyes, and having in mind a dark face and blue flickering eyes, he was able to become a man.
Meanwhile, Sherman Pew was writing a letter in ice-cold sober black ink; the letter
Suddenly Sherman began to pound on middle C, over and over.
"What's that?" asked Jester, "just middle C?"
"How many vibrations are there in the treble?"
"What kind of vibrations are you talking about?"
"The teeny infinitesimal sounds that vibrate when you strike middle C or any other note."
"I didn't know that."
"Well, I'm telling you."
Again Sherman pounded middle C, first with the right forefinger, then with the left. "How many vibrations do you hear in the bass?"
"Nothing," Jester said.
"There are sixty-four vibrations in the treble and another sixty-four in the bass," Sherman said, magnificently unaware of his own ignorance.
"What of it?"
"I'm just telling you I hear every teeniest vibration in the whole diatonic scale from here," Sherman struck the lowest bass note, "to here," the highest treble note was sounded.
"Why are you telling me all this? Are you a piano tuner?"
"As a matter of fact, I used to be, smarty. But I'm not talking about pianos."
"Well, what the hell are you talking about?"
"About my race and how I register every single vibration that happens to those of my race. I call it my black book."
"Black book?... I see, you are talking of the piano as a sort of symbol," Jester said, delighted to use the brainy word.
"Symbol," repeated Sherman, who had read the word but never used it, "yeah man, that's right... when I was fourteen years old a crowd of us got in a rage against the Aunt Jemima signs, so we suddenly decided to tear them off. We scraped and chiseled away to get the sign off. Upshot ... cops caught us in the middle and all four of the gang was sent to jail, sentenced to two years on the road for destroying public property. I wasn't caught because I was just a lookout, but what happened is in my black book. One guy died from overwork, another came back a living zombie. Have you heard of the Nigerians and that quarry in Atlanta, who broke their legs with hammers so they wouldn't be worked to death? One of them was one that was caught on the Aunt Jemima signs."
"I read that in the paper and it made me sick, but is that the solemn truth, was he one of those Golden Nigerian friends of yours?"
"I didn't say he was a Golden Nigerian, I just said he was somebody I knew, and that's what I mean by vibrations. I vibrate with every injustice that is done to my race. Vibrate ... vibrate ... and vibrate, see?"
"I would too, if I were of your race."
"No you wouldn't ... tenderhearted, chicken, sissy."
"I resent that."
"Well resent ... resent ... resent. When are you going home?"
"You don't want me?"
"No. For the last time, no ... no ... NO ." He added lowly in a venomous voice, "You fatuous, fair, redheaded boy. Fatuous," Sherman said, using a word that had been hurled at him by a brainy vocabulary-wise boy.
Jester automatically ran his hand down his rib cage. "I'm not a bit fat."
"I didn't say fat ... I said fatuous. Since you have such a putrid and limited vocabulary, that means fool ... fool ... fool."
Jester held up his hand as though warding off a blow as he backed out of the door. "Oh, sticks and stones," he screamed as he ran away.
He ran all the way to Reba's house and when he reached the door he rapped with the firm rap of anger.
The inside of the house was not like he had expected. It was an ordinary house, and a whore-lady asked him, "How old are you boy?" and Jester, who never lied, said desperately, "Twenty-one."
"What would you like to drink?"
"Thanks a million, but nothing, nothing at all, I'm on the wagon tonight." It was so easy he did not tremble when the whore-lady showed him upstairs, nor did he tremble when he lay in bed with a woman with orange hair and gold in her teeth. He closed his eyes, and having in mind a dark face and blue flickering eyes, he was able to become a man.
Meanwhile, Sherman Pew was writing a letter in ice-cold sober black ink; the letter
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