Miss Carmelia Faye Lafayette by Katrina Parker Williams Page B

out tunes on the old Steinway piano as colored men and women in their best going out clothes—women in fitted dresses designed to attract the attention of their male suitors and men in clean shirts and dungarees, worn only for a night out on the town—strutted their stuff on the wooden plank dance floor, jiggling and twisting, bopping and dipping, their unrestrained dance movements ignited by the lightning bolt effects of the bootleg liquors and wines they consumed.  
    The owner would set out a barrel of bootleg whiskey and a chock barrel of the homemade wine, and men and women with tin cups would dip them in the barrel and partake of the mind-numbing, sense-altering brews.  One or two cups would set them up right, but more than that would knock them out.  Most folks could handle one or two cups, but not too many could handle much more than that, although many had tried.  Those crazy enough to test their mettle would fall prey and be sidelined against the wall of the barrelhouse until the effects wore off; oftentimes, it’d be late the next day before they would make their way back home.
      Some patrons made use of their time at the barrelhouse by gambling in the back of the joint: shooting craps, playing Head and Tail and Two Up and Three Card Monte, and some betting a gig at one hundred to one odds, bets as low as penny being placed; hopeful gamblers wished for the big pay out, their hopes often dashed as the odds often favored the barrelhouse owners. 
    The Hankering provided a release for the locals, but it wasn’t immune to one particular effect of the patrons’ overindulgences: a knockdown, drag out, drunken brawl.  Usually, one patron would test his limits, knocking back as much liquor as his week’s wages would allow, and wanting something or someone to vent his frustrations on, he’d seek out anyone whom he believed crossed him, the often unsuspecting offender assailed upon.  The bouncers earned their night’s keep, pulling the two combatants apart and discharging them outside where often they’d continue their altercation, or more than likely, sober up a bit and squash the issue, often unsure of what led to the dispute in the first place.
    Fights happened on a regular basis at the Hankering, but a colored man fought only if he had something against someone.  The men rarely fought for the sake of fighting.  If someone got his ass whipped, it was a deserved ass whipping.  Showing interest in a woman already taken led to an ass whipping.  Calling a man a liar warranted an ass whipping.  However, cheating a man at gambling set off an ass whipping that could last for days.  A man could dismiss a play for his woman or being called out of his name, but he couldn’t allow another man to cheat him, his very existence marred by a racist and corrupt system that cheated him on a daily basis, pervading every aspect of his life from his wages to his self-respect and even to his freedom. 
    Buford Tee and his hanging buddy Ton Stone made their way to the Hankering, located in Wayne County.  Buford Tee had never been there before, but Ton Stone had.  They entered the smoked-filled sweatbox already alive with bumping piano playing, energetic and uninhibited dancing, and more liquor than the law allowed, the floors covered with the intense, fiery potion.
    The minute Buford Tee sat down, he spotted a young, strikingly beautiful, Creole woman, her face the color of the sun and her hair, the texture of finely woven silk. 
    Buford Tee nudged Ton Stone, “Hey, man, check her out.”
    Ton Stone knew the woman.  And he knew her husband.  Her ex-husband, but still her man in every sense of the word.
    “You don’t want to mess with that,” Ton Stone warned.
    “Why, what’s up with her?” Buford Tee asked.  “You and her got—.”
    “Naw, man.  I just know she come with a lot of baggage.  Baggage no man want to carry,” Ton Stone replied.
    “What you mean?” Buford Tee asked, still mesmerized by her