The Road to Memphis (20 page)

“Well, it sure looks good. New paint job?”

“Just a good polishing.”

The man nodded. “Got a real nice shine, all right. Can just ’bout use it for a mirror.” He grinned, then walked back toward the pump. “I’ll see how your gas doing here, then I’ll go check on that fan belt for ya.” As he pulled out the nozzle, another car pulled up on the other side of the gas isle. Two couples were in the car. The driver and another man stepped out, and the attendant, after hanging up the pump, crossed over to them. “Yes, sirs!” he said. “What can I do for y’all? Can I fill it up?”

“As much as it’ll take,” said the driver, turning and looking south down the road. “Can you tell me ’bout how far we are from New Orleans from here?”

The attendant said he had been to New Orleans himself, just as he had told us he’d been to Memphis, and was soon deep into conversation with his new customer. While the men talked the women got out of the car, said something to the attendant, who turned and pointed to the corner of the store building, where a restroom sign hung from a low lamppost. I watched as the women walked over, turned the corner at the lamppost, and disappeared. I started to mention the sign to Stacey but then saw his frown and didn’t bother. He was looking at the fan belt and I could tell he was worrying about it. For several minutes he waited for the attendant to return, but the attendant was busy with his white customers now, too busy to pay us further attention. We had to wait. Stacey knew that as well as I did. That was the way of things. Soon, though, Stacey grew impatient. “We’re losing time,” he said.

“Well, why don’t we go on in the store, man?” Little Willie suggested. “The man’ll fix the belt in another minute here. Meantime we can get ourselves a couple of Aunt Hannah’s sweet potato pies!”

“You go on. I’ll wait for him and put some air in this tire while I do.”

“Okay, then. You coming, Cassie?”

“Be there in a minute,” I said, my eyes on that restroom sign.

Little Willie went over to Moe’s window. “’Ey, Moe! Come on, get out the car and stretch your legs a bit, man. Figure it’ll be all right.”

Moe glanced at the car on the other side of the isle. Then he looked around the stop and saw only trucks. There were no police cars. Evidently figuring he could take the chance, he got out of the car and went with Little Willie. As they walked off, Stacey reached for the air hose. The attendant looked over. “I said I’d get that!” he snapped, sounding vexed that Stacey was going to put the air in the tire himself. Stacey left the hose alone. Finally the attendant came back. He took the air hose from its hook, stopped down to the left front tire, and began pressing air into it. “There. That oughta do it.” He stood again.

Stacey studied the tire. “Still looks kind of low to me.”

The attendant looked at the tire. “No, it’s enough,” he said, as if his decision closed the matter. He wiped his hands on a dirty rag and looked at the pump. “That’ll be one-sixty for your gas.”

Stacey took out his wallet. “I like to keep my air pressure in those front tires at thirty-five pounds, and doesn’t look to be thirty-five.”

The attendant gave Stacey a sharp look but took the money.
“It’s enough,” he declared all-knowingly, then turned and headed for the store. “Y’all wait here. I’ll bring your change. Also get that fan belt for ya.”

“Well, I guess he told you,” I said.

Stacey didn’t comment. He was looking at his tires. He walked around the car, studying each one. “They’re too low,” he decided. Then, as the two men headed for New Orleans also went into the store Stacey, with a cautious glance after them, took the air hose, stooped down to the left front tire, and put more air in. While he was stooped there two more cars pulled into the station. One, a Chevrolet, pulled to the other side of the isle and stopped. The other, a Hudson, pulled behind the Ford. Several young men were in each of the cars. Most of them went into the cafe, but the drivers remained. The driver of the Hudson stuck his head out, saw Stacey, and shouted at him. “’Ey, boy! That your car?”

Stacey didn’t even look up. He kept on putting air in the tire.

“’Ey, boy, you hear me talkin’ to you?”

Stacey now looked around. The man at the wheel was a ruddy-looking sort, young and big boned with a faint moustache. The driver of the other car stepped out. “Having trouble over there, Orley?”

“Don’t ’spect so,” said the man called Orley. “Just got me a nigger hard of hearing here. Either that or he got a hard head, one. That what you got, boy? You got yourself a hard head? Yeah, I’m talking to you! You see any other hardheaded niggers squatting there? One thing I can’t stand is a hardheaded nigger. Now, I said, is that your car?”

Stacey nodded slowly.

“Then move it, then!”

“I’m waiting on the gas station man.”

“Well, you can do your waiting yonder, ’side them bushes.”

Stacey turned again to the tire. “Gas station man told me to wait here.”

“You back-lippin’ me, boy? I’m telling you to move on out the way. Now, you gonna do like I say, or I’m gonna hafta get out this car and see that you do?”

Stacey stood and went around the front of the Ford to the other side. There he stooped to press air into the right front tire. The driver of the Chevrolet stepped onto the isle and eyed the Ford. “Pretty nice car you got here, boy,” he commented. “Oughta see it close, Orley. This boy’s taken mighty fine care of it. Got it all shined up and everything, not a scratch on it.” He stepped down and walked around the Ford, inspecting it closely. “You sure this your car, boy? Don’t see too many niggers got cars all fixed up and looking new like this. Got a shine on it you can see yourself in. Orley! Come on over and take a look!”

“I come over, I’m gonna do more’n look!” replied the driver of the Hudson as he stepped out and leaned against the open door. “Now, I said move that car. You hear me, boy?”

Stacey eyed him coldly and stood up. “Cassie,” he said, keeping his eyes on the man, “move the car.” He handed me the keys.

“Naw, boy! I told
you
to move it.”

Stacey stared at the man, then took the keys back. He slammed down the hood and went around the car to the driver’s side. “Get in,” he told me. I obeyed, and he slid in beside me.

“There, now, that’s a good nigger!” commended the man standing on the isle.

“Still hardheaded, you ask me,” said Orley. “Niggers get a bit of a machine under they butt, and they start to feeling they
can back-talk a white man whenever they get a mind. Well, I don’t stand for that.”

“Good whippin’ usually fixes a smart mouth,” advised the other man.

“Yeah . . . I been thinking on that.”

Stacey started the car and drove to the edge of the lot. I glanced uneasily back at the men. “Don’t you think we ought to be leaving from here?”

Stacey watched as the Hudson pulled forward, taking our spot beside the gas tank. “We got to get that fan belt fixed first. It won’t last till Memphis. I’m going to go check and see how much longer it’ll be ’fore the man can get to it.”

“I’ll stay here.”

He glanced at Clarence, still asleep in back. “All right, but they come over here messing again, wake Clarence and try not to aggravate them. We don’t need a mess with them tonight.”

“Don’t I know.”

He tossed the keys to me. “Move it if you have to.” Then he got out, and I slid under the wheel. I put the keys back in the ignition, ready to move, then leaned my arms upon the wheel and watched the men. One of them hollered at Stacey as he went into the store, then both of them laughed. They grew quiet as the two women returned from the restroom at the side of the store building. I glanced over at the restroom door, dimly lit by a low-voltage bulb hanging outside, and noticed that the door had been left slightly ajar. Inside, the room was dark. I felt sorely tempted to go over there, for that side of the building could not be seen from the gas isle, and no one was near the restrooms. Besides, it was a long way to Memphis still and no toilet for me but bush and forest.

I made up my mind.

I took the keys, slipped them into my purse, and got out of
the car. Glancing over at the men by the gas pumps, I crossed to the side of the building. At the corner I stopped and looked back again. No one had noticed me. I saw the station attendant and the men headed to New Orleans come back to the isle and I quickly turned down the muddy path for the open door. When I reached it, I stopped again, for there was a sign on the door, a sign that said:
WHITE LADIES ONLY
. There was a second door and a second sign too. It said:
WHITE GENTLEMEN ONLY
. I knew perfectly well what the signs meant. I knew perfectly well that I should walk right on past and go down behind the bushes at the end of the path, but it made no sense to me that I had to go stooping behind a bush when there was a perfectly good toilet right behind the door. I knew perfectly well the kind of trouble I’d be in if I disobeyed the signs. I knew perfectly well that I would be breaking the law if I did. Still, as I stood there facing those signs I felt such an anger, such a hostility, such a need to defy them that I couldn’t just walk right on past. Again I looked around. Again I saw no one, and with my heart racing I placed my hand on the door and pushed it fully open.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I jumped back, as if touching the door had seared my hand. I turned quickly and saw that one of the women had come back. She glanced at the open door, then stared at me, waiting on an answer. I was too scared to give her one.

When I said nothing, the woman abruptly turned on black leather pumps and went back to the corner of the building. “Sam! Sam, come here!” she called. “And bring that gas station man with you!”

All I could think to do was run. I backed away, but she turned and made me stop. She pointed a finger straight at me and ordered, “You just stay right there!”

“Please . . .” I pleaded. “Please . . .”

“Nora, what is it?” asked the woman’s escort as he and the other man bound for New Orleans came hurrying over with the attendant right behind him.

The woman turned an accusing finger my way. “That nigger there, she was using the restroom.”

The man in the suit looked at the gas station attendant. “What kind of place you running here, letting colored gals use white ladies’ restrooms?”

The attendant looked apologetically at the couple, then moved over to me. “Now, ain’t I told you we ain’t had toilets for y’all? Y’all wanna pee, y’all best find y’allselves some weeds and do your business.”

“Th-that’s what I was doing . . . looking for some bush—”

“Up here?” he questioned. “Here I try and treat y’all niggers decent, give you good service and make y’all welcome, and this here how ya do. Go sneaking ’round trying to use white ladies’ restrooms!” He acted as if I had personally insulted him. “‘Round here putting your black butt where white ladies got t’ sit. Oughta call the sheriff and have him take you down to that jail. Maybe then you learn what happen you go breakin’ the law!”

“But I—I didn’t go in. I didn’t!” I looked frantically at the woman. She met my eyes, and I believe she felt my fear. Her lips parted, and she looked at the attendant. “I . . . I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Well, I sure do it, ma’am. I don’t want y’all to get the wrong idea ’bout our place here. We runs a good place—”

“Just leave her be,” said the woman and turned.

“Nora, sweetheart?” called her escort.

The woman walked away, leaving me in the hands of the men.

“I sure do apologize to you folks for this,” said the attendant. “It won’t be happening again.” Then he turned back to me. “You, gal, you be thankful to these good folks I don’t have your black butt put in jail. Now, you get them other niggers, and y’all get on outa my place, and don’t let me catch y’all back here again. I do, I’ll have all of y’all throw’d in jail. Now, get! Get fast ’fore I change my mind!”

I hurried past him and up the muddy path. I glanced back and was so scared, I began to run, and that was a mistake, for I slipped and fell. My stockings ripped, and my knees skinned back. My purse hit the ground, popped opened, and everything spilled out. The attendant stalked over. “Nigger, I said get!” he shouted.

I scrambled to my knees and tried to gather my things.

“Now!”

“But—but my purse—”

The attendant squashed the purse under his foot, then he kicked at me with his other foot, like somebody with no heart would kick a dog. His shoe struck me sharply, but that’s not what wounded me. It was my pride that suffered. I was stunned by the humiliation. “Leave it and get!” he cried.

I saw the car keys through blurry eyes, grabbed them, and leaving everything else, I jumped up and ran for the Ford. But then I saw that Orley, the man from the Hudson, and the rest of the riders were gathered there now. They had surrounded the car. I saw no sign of Clarence.

“I got me a good mind to show that nigger—” expounded Orley to his listeners, and I didn’t wait to hear more. I turned and ran to the store.

“Cassie, what—” said Stacey as I dashed in.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him aside, away from the storekeeper and her son. “Those men from the Hudson, they’re over there by the car, and Clarence, I think he’s still inside sleeping. They’re talking about getting you!”

Stacey looked at me hard. He looked at the torn stockings, at the muddy coat, and grabbed my arm. “What happened to you? They touch you?”

“No . . . I wasn’t even at the car. I . . . I went down to check out those bushes that man was talking about, and I . . . I fell on the path. Saw those men by the car when I came back.”

He stared at me, as if not wholly believing me. I didn’t like lying to him, but I knew I could not tell him the truth, not if we were going to get away from here. I was afraid of what he would do if he knew the truth.

Moe hurried over. “What’s wrong? Cassie, what happened to you?”

“I’m all right.”

Stacey glanced out the window, then called to Willie, who was standing at the counter with two pies in his possession. “Willie! Come on! We’re going!”

Little Willie looked around. “What ’bout the fan belt, man?”