Three Days Before the Shooting ... by Ralph Ellison Page B

like the chief celebrant of an outlandish rite, he hadheld firmly to his middle ground; too dangerously near the flaming convertible for anyone not protected by asbestos suiting to risk laying hands upon him, yet far enough away to highlight his human vulnerability to fire. But now as I watched him move to the left of the flames to a point allowing him an uncluttered view of the crowd, his white suit reflecting the flames, he was briefly obscured by a sudden swirl of smoke, and it was during this brief interval that I heard the voice.
    Strong and hoarse and typically Negro in quality, it seemed to issue with eerie clarity from the fire itself. Then I was struggling within myself for the reporter’s dedicated objectivity and holding my microphone forward as he raised both arms above his head, his long, limber fingers widespread as he waved toward us.
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “please don’t be disturbed! I don’t mean you any harm, and if you’ll just stay quiet a minute I’ll tell you what this is all about ….”
    He paused and the Senator’s voice could be heard angrily in the background.
    “Never mind him up there on top of the hill,” the driver said. “You can listen to him when I get through. He’s had too much free speech anyway. Now it’s my turn.”
    And at this a man at the other end of the crowd shouted angrily and tried to break up the hill. He was grabbed by two men, and a hysterical, dark-haired woman wearing a well-filled chemise-style dress slipped to the ground holding a leg, shouting, “No, Fleetwood, no! That crazy nigger will kill you!”
    The arsonist watched with blank-faced calm as the man was dragged protesting back into the crowd. Then a shift in the breeze whipped smoke down upon us and gave rise to a flurry of coughing.
    “Now believe me,” the arsonist continued, “I know that it’s very, very hard for you folks to look at what I’m doing and not be disturbed, because for you it’s a crime and a sin.”
    He laughed, swinging his fiddle bow in a shining arch as the crowd watched him fixedly.
    “That’s because you know that most folks can’t afford to own one of these Caddies. Not even good, hardworking folks, no matter what the pictures in the papers say. So deep down it makes you feel some larceny. You feel that it’s unfair that everybody who’s willing to work hard can’t have one for himself. That’s right! And you feel that in order to get one it’s okay for a man to lie and cheat and steal—yeah, even swindle his own mother if she’s got the cash. That’s the difference between what you say you believe and the way you act if you get the chance. Oh, yes, because words is words, but life is hard and earnest, and these here Caddies is way, way out of this world!”
    Pausing, he loosened the knot in his blue-and-white tie so that it hung down the front of his jacket in a large loop, then wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief.
    “I don’t mean to insult you,” he said, bending toward us now, the fiddle bow resting across his knee, “I’m just reminding you of the facts. Because I can see in your eyes that it’s going to cost me more to get rid of this Caddie the way I have to do it than it cost me to get it. I don’t rightly know what the price will be, but I know that when you people get scaird and shook up, you get violent. —No, wait a minute.” He shook his head. “That’s not how I meant to say it. I’m sorry. I apologize.
    “Listen, here it is: This morning,” he shouted now, stabbing his bow toward the mansion with angry emphasis. “This morning that fellow Senator Sun-raider up there started it when he shot off his mouth over the radio . That’s what this is all about! I realized that things had gotten out of control . I realized all of a sudden that the man was messing … with … my Cadillac , and that’s serious as all hell… .
    “Listen to me, y’all: A little while ago I was romping past Richmond , feeling fine. I