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We should clap, I think. But no one moves to. The spell is already woven. She croons the lyrics. Her hips roll seductively in the tight blue-sequined dress. Singing the blues, yeah. Sing it. Swing it. My eyes keep wandering to the smooth brown skin of her leg, revealed by the slit in her dress that goes up to mid-thigh. The full sleeves glitter with each ripple of her arms. It’s like she’s the conductor and every sound in the air is part of her symphony.

It’s smoky. It’s wonderful. I’m transfixed.

At the Roseland, I’d seen about every hot band, every singer with a name to know. It all astonished me for a while, sure, but then it became part of the scene. I thought I was beyond being so impressed. So captivated.

I was right about Harlem. This is where I need to be.

Every chance I get to stay in Harlem, I do. There’s always something happening.

Sometimes I just walk the streets and take it all in. The rough-and-tumble street life has an energy about it that’s unlike anything else.

At a bar called Small’s Paradise, I meet these guys who call themselves hustlers. Straight up. No pretense, which is funny since all they do outside these doors is pretend. The sly looks in their eyes remind me of Fat Frankie, hustling me out of my pocket money — only these Harlem cats are classy. They’re fine, clean guys in straight, pressed suits — well-off cats who earned their bank on the slant. Running numbers, pimping ladies, slinging reefer, moving questionable products into the hands of questionable people. A guy called Sammy the Pimp makes a show of himself from time to time, telling stories about the great hustles of his day, which seems to be more or less today. There are old-timers, too, like Frisky and Sal, who’ve already made their bank and are basically retired. Not that you ever really give up the hustle, it seems, but they delegate certain activities to young hungry up-and-comers my age. Seventeen’s old enough to grab a stake in something, sure enough. I just gotta find the right opportunity.

A lot of musicians hang out at the Braddock Hotel. Famous ones, like Lionel Hampton himself, great jazz artists like Duke Ellington, and many other familiar faces from back at the Roseland. Shorty would have been out of his mind, rubbing elbows with these guys, up close, just sitting around the bar. I hang with some of Lionel’s band, a bassist and a drummer, and I’d say there aren’t two better guys in all of Harlem to smoke reefer with.

I wake up every morning, buzzed and breathless, reminding myself that the night before wasn’t a dream. I really have hustler friends and jazz musician friends — I’m becoming part of the two corners of Harlem that fascinate me most.

Getting into the street life is easy. I can just relax. Drink. Smoke. Walk around all loose. Speak my mind.

I have to keep showing up for work, or else I’d lose my constant rides down to Harlem, but selling snacks in the aisles comes easy. Like I’d learned way back as a shoe shine and behind the counter at Townsend’s — with white people, good tips come if you entertain them. Snap that rag real loud. Do a little dance. Grin and act all cheerful. Pour some milk into their coffee with a flourish. Happy to serve.

Easier than pie. I can show up drunk or high from the night before and still manage. In fact, it makes it better. Makes the bowing and the scraping easier to tolerate.
“Yes, sir.” “Thank you, sir.” “Can I get you anything else, sir?”
A chorus of fake politeness, all the things I’ve grown to hate about trying to fit into that world. The raw brittle language of the streets makes a hell of a lot more sense to me.
“Whadda ya want?” “Here ya go.” “Just take it, why don’t ya?” “Gimme two bucks (and shove it).”
That feels better. Much better.

The train steward, my supervisor, calls me over one day during the southbound run. “Red, we’re getting some complaints about you.”

“Complaints?” I follow him back into the commissary, where he sits in a booth and motions me to sit across from him. He’s a white guy, kinda scrawny. His uniform is always loose.

“Several customers have commented on your rudeness today.”

“Is that so?”

“Now, Red,” the steward says. “I think you know what I’m talking about.”

Sure, I do. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to make it easy for him.

“You’ve been my best salesman,” he continues. “I think you like the job, and you’re good at it.”

I nod.

“You need to be more careful with your words, all right?” He looks at me, real earnest.

“Sure, yeah, all right.” I give him a big grin, like I’m supposed to do with the passengers. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir. I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“I knew I could count on you.” He smiles. Doesn’t even realize I’m playing him, hard. It’s just what white guys want to hear.

He sighs. Letting the air out like that makes him even smaller. He smacks the table, as if to say I was done and dealt with. “Great,” he says. “Keep up the good work.”

That heats me more than the whole conversation up until then. Just how small he is and still trying to tell me how to be. Maybe the reefer buzz I’m carrying doesn’t help, but the talking-to just makes me want to beat on someone.

I get up from the table and walk away from him before I say something stupid and get myself into trouble. He doesn’t know. He’s never walked these aisles. He just sits there in the back watching everybody else work. And why didn’t he go off and join the army, like everyone else white who used to work here? Too small? Too weak? Too chicken?

I strap on my sandwich tray and start off on my rounds. Rude? These white assholes are the rude ones. Sticking their big long feet into the aisle and not even moving them when I walk through. I haven’t fallen over yet, but I’ve tripped on them enough times to hate the way the men look at me afterward. Like I’d kicked them on purpose. I know what I’m supposed to say.
“Sorry, sir. Did I hurt you? Take a coffee, on the house.”
It’s enough to make me wish I really had kicked them on purpose. Maybe I oughta start doing that. Maybe it would wake them up to the kind of jackasses they’re being. Walk down the aisle and kick every one of them as I pass by.

I push it down, though. I don’t want to lose the job.

“Sandwiches, snacks, coffee,” I call out as I walk the aisle. “Ham and cheese, cake and ice cream. Anything you’re looking for.”

My foot flops against something, and I stumble. Some asshole’s foot is in my path. I’ve nearly tripped. Again.

The thing is, with the tray strapped around my neck, balanced against my middle and sticking out front, I can’t really see where I’m stepping. I can see down the aisle, but by the time I get there, they’ve moved.

I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear.

I back up far enough to see who the foot belongs to. Open my mouth to say the things I’m supposed to.
“Sorry, sir. Can I help you, sir?”
But nothing comes out. My mind stalls, steaming mad, as my gaze lands on a long booted leg extended across the aisle. No way he didn’t see me coming.

The guy looks up at me. “Clumsy nigger,” he says. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

I stand, silent. Anything I say is going to come out in red-hot rage.

Guy gets up. He’s an army man, with some kind of big coat on. Hefty guy. Not as tall as me; not many people are. But he’s as thick as a bull.

And drunk. He’s bobbing and weaving, looking none too steady on his feet above the rocking of the train. His scrubbed-looking cheeks are bright red, his pink eyes half focused and blinking.

“I’m about to fight you, nigger,” he says. “What are you going to do?”

I’m gonna bust your ass, that’s what I’m gonna do!
My mind screams it.

He puts his fists up. I’ve got the sandwich tray strapped to me, and I’m thinking.

Thinking,
Gotta get out of this situation
. This guy is nuts. I try to calm myself down off the edge. Thinking,
Just get past him. Finish your route
. Thinking of all the times I’ve seen fists flying at me, and how I always end up flat on the ground.

Philbert, trying to teach me. Richie Dixon, all in fun. Those guys at the dock, dead serious.

“What are you gonna do, nigger?” he repeats. Dead serious.

I’m going to get fired for this. This asshole is going to cost me everything. My eyes narrow. I try to hold on to it — the part of me that’s calm and sober and willing to walk away.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “Really.”

“I’m coming for you.” He takes a lurching step forward. Every face in the train car is pointed at us. A couple dozen white guys are about to watch me get handed my own ass.

Fight with your words, Malcolm
, Papa’s voice says.

“You gotta take off your coat,” I suggest, stalling for time. “How am I supposed to fight you wearing that? You can’t even get your arms up.”

Guy pauses. Looks down. Shrugs himself out of the coat. Tosses it on his seat. Under the big coat, he’s wearing a serviceman’s jacket.

“Really?” I say. “In your army jacket? All right, but I hate to get your blood on it.”

Guy starts pulling his arms out of his sleeves. He stumbles to the side with the momentum of the train. Other guys in the seats around us start grinning.

Now he’s standing there in his white jersey undershirt. I’m feeling like I’m on a roll. I shrug. Tell him, “OK. That one’s at least replaceable.”

I didn’t think it would happen. But now the guy’s all confused, twisting and turning and rocking in the aisle. He pulls the undershirt up out of his belt and tugs it over his head, exposing his bare furry chest to the entire train. He holds the cloth high, triumphant, and charges toward me, then stalls. Looks down, like he’s realizing just now that he’s half naked.

The entire train car erupts in laughter. I try not to grin too hard myself. Don’t want to make it too obvious that I outsmarted him.

One of his buddies steps up and gets the guy to sit back in his seat. He puts his clothes back on, cheeks even redder than they had been. I have all kinds of names for him in my head, but I keep them to myself. Keep moving along my route.

“Sandwiches, coffee, ice cream,” I hawk.

As I make my way past the big guy through the train car, I sell a whole bunch of sandwiches. Best tips I’ve ever gotten on the Yankee Clipper. The steward might not be too happy about the result, but at least I’m watching what I say.

At the Braddock Hotel, I sit down beside a girl called Jean, a hopeful lounge singer. Our paths have crossed before. Sometimes she’s good for a little company in the evenings. I like her well enough, and she takes my mind off Sophia and the distance between us.

“Look,” Jean says. “That’s Billie Holiday.”

Sure enough, the famous jazz singer is sitting at the bar. “I’ve seen her here before,” I say, real casual. Trying to sound impressive.

“She’s singing at the Cotton Club tonight.” Jean looks at me through her lashes, on the slant.

“You want to go?” I can pick up a cue as well as the next guy.

“Well, sure,” she answers.

So I take her on down there, and we have a few drinks and share a tray of snacks while Billie’s voice floats its magic over the room.

I try to catch the waiter to bring another round, but he disappears into the back just as I signal to him. The lights click down. The room plunges into all black.

A single spotlight comes up. Billie’s smooth, wide face is all that can be seen. It seems like she’s wiped the rouge from her lips. Or maybe it’s an effect of the stark white light, illuminating just her face. Her eyes are closed.

Slight rustles of anticipation among the crowd. The first mournful strains squeeze out. She’s known for this song, “Strange Fruit.” It’s a slow, haunting melody about the horror and the senselessness of lynching innocent Negroes. She sings of the swinging bodies, how they hang among the branches like unnatural, disturbing fruit. Negro men, women, and children hanging from the tree limbs, blowing in the wind.

Amid her words, I’m caught in a flashback, to the image of a body dangling from a tree in rural Pennsylvania.

Avert your eyes, son
.

I avert them now. Gaze off into the darkness. The ache and the beauty of Billie’s words captivate me, despite the ugly images they bring to mind.

When the song ends, Billie strides off the stage in the dark. She doesn’t return for a bow or a curtain call or an encore.

We all sit in motionless silence. Stunned by the power of her words and the haunting melody. So spare. So stark.

After a moment, the audience stirs enough to clap. Light taps at first, then full-fledged stomping and whooping. The cheers go on, rousing, hoping to urge Billie back for just one more song. But the stage stays dark.

Got to have some reefer after that. A little whiskey. Something to counteract the shakes and the cold. The song stays with me through the night. It evokes, really evokes, the lynched body I saw. The lifeless bodies Billie sang about. Hanging there, blowing in the wind. The song never says why they were lynched. There is no why. What did they do? Blackness is reason enough.

It was some time ago, my bus ride through the night, when the sun came up to that dreadful sight. But at the moment it doesn’t seem like that long ago. Certainly not two whole years. It seems like yesterday. I can feel the rough sleeve of that cropped green suit, like an emblem of the green boy wearing it.

Look at me then. Look at me now. How far I have come.

The music starts up again, off a record this time, and couples take to the floor. “You wanna dance?” I say to the girl I’m with. Jean. The whiskey is flowing, and I’m definitely in the mood to just shake off my thoughts and let my body loose.

She shrugs. “Sounds good.”

So I take her hand and lead her right to the middle of things. I’m no sideline dancer anymore. I want people to see my moves, my skills. And for the first time in . . . maybe ever, I’m glad it’s not Sophia with me tonight. I don’t know if I could shake that song off so easy if I had to look into her beautiful white face and remember what almost happened to us. As it is, I throw back drink after drink to take the edge off.

We party till they close the place down, and we find ourselves stumbling into the streets, half out of our minds on reefer and drink.