Slowly, haltingly, Max Disher dragged his way down the hall to the
elevator, supported on either side by an attendant. He felt terribly
weak, emptied and nauseated; his skin twitched and was dry and
feverish; his insides felt very hot and sore. As the trio walked slowly
along the corridor, a blue-green light would ever and anon blaze
through one of the doorways as a patient was taken in. There was a low
hum and throb of machinery and an acrid odor filled the air. Uniformed
nurses and attendants hurried back and forth at their tasks. Everything
was quiet, swift, efficient, sinister.
He felt so thankful that he had survived the ordeal of that horrible
machine so akin to the electric chair. A shudder passed over him at
the memory of the hours he had passed in its grip, fed at intervals
with revolting concoctions. But when they reached the elevator and he
saw himself in the mirror, he was startled, overjoyed. White at last!
Gone was the smooth brown complexion. Gone were the slightly full lips
and Ethiopian nose. Gone was the nappy hair that he had straightened
so meticulously ever since the kink-no-more lotions first wrenched
Aframericans from the tyranny and torture of the comb. There would be
no more expenditures for skin whiteners; no more discrimination; no
more obstacles in his path. He was free! The world was his oyster and
he had the open sesame of a pork-colored skin!
The reflection in the mirror gave him new life and strength. He now
stood erect, without support and grinned at the two tall, black
attendants. "Well, Boys," he crowed, "I'm all set now. That machine of
Doc's worked like a charm. Soon's I get a feed under my belt I'll be
okeh."
Six hours later, bathed, fed, clean-shaven, spry, blonde and jubilant,
he emerged from the out-patient ward and tripped gaily down the
corridor to the main entrance. He was through with coons, he resolved,
from now on. He glanced in a superior manner at the long line of
black and brown folk on one side of the corridor, patiently awaiting
treatment. He saw many persons whom he knew but none of them recognized
him. It thrilled him to feel that he was now indistinguishable from
nine-tenths of the people of the United States; one of the great
majority. Ah, it was good not to be a Negro any longer!
As he sought to open the front door, the strong arm of a guard
restrained him. "Wait a minute," the man said, "and we'll help you get
through the mob."
A moment or two later Max found himself the center of a flying wedge
of five or six husky special policemen, cleaving through a milling
crowd of colored folk. From the top step of the Sanitarium he had
noticed the crowd spread over the sidewalk, into the street and around
the corners. Fifty traffic policemen strained and sweated to keep
prospective patients in line and out from under the wheels of taxicabs
and trucks.
Finally he reached the curb, exhausted from the jostling and squeezing,
only to be set upon by a mob of newspaper photographers and reporters.
As the first person to take the treatment, he was naturally the center
of attraction for about fifteen of these journalistic gnats. They asked
a thousand questions seemingly all at once. What was his name? How did
he feel? What was he going to do? Would he marry a white woman? Did he
intend to continue living in Harlem?
Max would say nothing. In the first place, he thought to himself, if
they're so anxious to know all this stuff, they ought to be willing to
pay for it. He needed money if he was going to be able to thoroughly
enjoy being white; why not get some by selling his story? The
reporters, male and female, begged him almost with tears in their eyes
for a statement but he was adamant.
While they were wrangling, an empty taxicab drove up. Pushing the
inquisitive reporters to one side, Max leaped into it and yelled
"Central Park!" It was the only place he could think of at the moment.
He wanted to have time to compose his mind, to plan the future in this
great world of whiteness. As the cab lurched forward, he turned and was
astonished to find another occupant, a pretty girl.
"Don't be scared," she smiled. "I knew you would want to get away
from that mob so I went around the corner and got a cab for you. Come
along with me and I'll get everything fixed up for you. I'm a reporter
from _The Scimitar_. We'll give you a lot of money for your story."
She talked rapidly. Max's first impulse had been to jump out of the
cab, even at the risk of having to face again the mob of reporters and
photographers he had sought to escape, but he changed his mind when he
heard mention of money.
"How much?" he asked, eyeing her. She was very comely and he noted that
her ankles were well turned.
"Oh, probably a thousand dollars," she replied.
"Well, that sounds good." A thousand dollars! What a time he could have
with that! Broadway for him as soon as he got paid off.
As they sped down Seventh Avenue, the newsboys were yelling the latest
editions. "Ex--try! Ex--try! Blacks turning white! Blacks turning
white!... Read all about the gr-r-reat discovery! Paper, Mister!
Paper!... Read all about Dr. Crookman."
He settled back while they drove through the park and glanced
frequently at the girl by his side. She looked mighty good; wonder
could he talk business with her? Might go to dinner and a cabaret. That
would be the best way to start.
"What did you say your name was?" he began.
"I didn't say," she stalled.
"Well, you have a name, haven't you?" he persisted.
"Suppose I have?"
"You're not scared to tell it, are you?"
"Why do you want to know my name?"
"Well, there's nothing wrong about wanting to know a pretty girl's
name, is there?"
"Well, my name's Smith, Sybil Smith. Now are you satisfied?"
"Not yet. I want to know something more. How would you like to go to
dinner with me tonight?"
"I don't know and I won't know until I've had the experience." She
smiled coquettishly. Going out with him, she figured, would make the
basis of a rattling good story for tomorrow's paper. "Negro's first
night as a Caucasian!" Fine!
"Say, you're a regular fellow," he said, beaming upon her. "I'll get a
great kick out of going to dinner with you because you'll be the only
one in the place that'll know I'm a Negro."
Down at the office of _The Scimitar_, it didn't take Max long to come
to an agreement, tell his story to a stenographer and get a sheaf of
crisp, new bills. As he left the building a couple of hours later with
Miss Smith on his arm, the newsboys were already crying the extra
edition carrying the first installment of his strange tale. A huge
photograph of him occupied the entire front page of the tabloid. Lucky
for him that he'd given his name as William Small, he thought.
He was annoyed and a little angered. What did they want to put his
picture all over the front of the paper for? Now everybody would know
who he was. He had undergone the tortures of Doc Crookman's devilish
machine in order to escape the conspicuousness of a dark skin and now
he was being made conspicuous because he had once had a dark skin!
Could one never escape the plagued race problem?
"Don't worry about that," comforted Miss Smith. "Nobody'll recognize
you. There are thousands of white people, yes millions, that look
like you do." She took his arm and snuggled up closer. She wanted to
make him feel at home. It wasn't often a poor, struggling newspaper
woman got a chap with a big bankroll to take her out for the evening.
Moreover, the description she would write of the experience might win
her a promotion.
They walked down Broadway in the blaze of white lights to a
dinner-dance place. To Max it was like being in heaven. He had strolled
through the Times Square district before but never with such a feeling
of absolute freedom and sureness. No one now looked at him curiously
because he was with a white girl, as they had when he came down there
with Minnie, his former octoroon lady friend. Gee, it was great!
They dined and they danced. Then they went to a cabaret, where, amid
smoke, noise and body smells, they drank what was purported to be
whiskey and watched a semi-nude chorus do its stuff. Despite his
happiness Max found it pretty dull. There was something lacking in
these ofay places of amusement or else there was something present
that one didn't find in the black-and-tan resorts in Harlem. The
joy and abandon here was obviously forced. Patrons went to extremes
to show each other they were having a wonderful time. It was all so
strained and quite unlike anything to which he had been accustomed.
The Negroes, it seemed to him, were much gayer, enjoyed themselves
more deeply and yet they were more restrained, actually more refined.
Even their dancing was different. They followed the rhythm accurately,
effortlessly and with easy grace; these lumbering couples, out of
step half the time and working as strenuously as stevedores emptying
the bowels of a freighter, were noisy, awkward, inelegant. At their
best they were gymnastic where the Negroes were sensuous. He felt a
momentary pang of mingled disgust, disillusionment and nostalgia. But
it was only momentary. He looked across at the comely Sybil and then
around at the other white women, many of whom were very pretty and
expensively gowned, and the sight temporarily drove from his mind the
thoughts that had been occupying him.
* * * * *
They parted at three o'clock, after she had given him her telephone
number. She pecked him lightly on the cheek in payment, doubtless, for
a pleasant evening's entertainment. Somewhat disappointed because she
had failed to show any interest in his expressed curiosity about the
interior of her apartment, he directed the chauffeur to drive him to
Harlem. After all, he argued to himself in defense of his action, he
had to get his things.
As the cab turned out of Central Park at 110th Street he felt,
curiously enough, a feeling of peace. There were all the old familiar
sights: the all-night speakeasies, the frankfurter stands, the
loiterers, the late pedestrians, the chop suey joints, the careening
taxicabs, the bawdy laughter.
He couldn't resist the temptation to get out at 133rd Street and go
down to Boogie's place, the hangout of his gang. He tapped, an eye
peered through a hole, appraised him critically, then disappeared and
the hole was closed. There was silence.
Max frowned. What was the matter with old Bob? Why didn't he open
that door? The cold January breeze swept down into the little court
where he stood and made him shiver. He knocked a little louder, more
insistently. The eye appeared again.
"Who's 'at?" growled the doorkeeper.
"It's me, Max Disher," replied the ex-Negro.
"Go 'way f'm here, white man. Dis heah place is closed."
"Is Bunny Brown in there?" asked Max in desperation.
"Yeh, he's heah. Does yuh know him? Well, Ah'll call 'im out heah and
see if he knows you."
Max waited in the cold for about two or three minutes and then the door
suddenly opened and Bunny Brown, a little unsteady, came out. He peered
at Max in the light from the electric bulb over the door.
"Hello Bunny," Max greeted him. "Don't know me do you? It's me, Max
Disher. You recognize my voice, don't you?"
Bunny looked again, rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Yes, the voice
was Max Disher's, but this man was white. Still, when he smiled his
eyes revealed the same sardonic twinkle--so characteristic of his
friend.
"Max," he blurted out, "is that you, sure enough? Well, for cryin' out
loud! Damned 'f you ain't been up there to Crookman's and got fixed
up. Well, hush my mouth! Bob, open that door. This is old Max Disher.
Done gone up there to Crookman's and got all white on my hands. He's
just too tight, with his blond hair, 'n everything."
Bob opened the door, the two friends entered, sat down at one of the
small round tables in the narrow, smoke-filled cellar and were soon
surrounded with cronies. They gazed raptly at his colorless skin,
commented on the veins showing blue through the epidermis, stroked his
ash-blond hair and listened with mouths open to his remarkable story.
"Whatcha gonna do now, Max?" asked Boogie, the rangy, black,
bullet-headed proprietor.
"I know just what that joker's gonna do," said Bunny. "He's goin' back
to Atlanta. Am I right, Big Boy?"
"You ain't wrong," Max agreed. "I'm goin' right on down there, brother,
and make up for lost time."
"Whadayah mean?" asked Boogie.
"Boy, it would take me until tomorrow night to tell you and then you
wouldn't understand."
The two friends strolled up the avenue. Both were rather mum. They had
been inseparable pals since the stirring days in France. Now they were
about to be parted. It wasn't as if Max was going across the ocean to
some foreign country; there would be a wider gulf separating them: the
great sea of color. They both thought about it.
"I'll be pretty lonesome without you, Bunny."
"It ain't you, Big Boy."
"Well, why don't you go ahead and get white and then we could stay
together. I'll give you the money."
"Say not so! Where'd you get so much jack all of a sudden?" asked Bunny.
"Sold my story to _The Scimitar_ for a grand."
"Paid in full?"
"Wasn't paid in part!"
"All right, then, I'll take you up, Heavy Sugar." Bunny held out his
plump hand and Max handed him a hundred-dollar bill.
They were near the Crookman Sanitarium. Although it was five o'clock
on a Sunday morning, the building was brightly lighted from cellar to
roof and the hum of electric motors could be heard, low and powerful.
A large electric sign hung from the roof to the second floor. It
represented a huge arrow outlined in green with the words BLACK-NO-MORE
running its full length vertically. A black face was depicted at the
lower end of the arrow while at the top shone a white face to which the
arrow was pointed. First would appear the outline of the arrow; then,
BLACK-NO-MORE would flash on and off. Following that the black face
would appear at the bottom and beginning at the lower end the long
arrow with its lettering would appear progressively until its tip was
reached, when the white face at the top would blazon forth. After that
the sign would flash off and on and the process would be repeated.
In front of the sanitarium milled a half-frozen crowd of close to four
thousand Negroes. A riot squad armed with rifles, machine guns and tear
gas bombs maintained some semblance of order. A steel cable stretched
from lamp post to lamp post the entire length of the block kept the
struggling mass of humanity on the sidewalk and out of the path of the
traffic. It seemed as if all Harlem were there. As the two friends
reached the outskirts of the mob, an ambulance from the Harlem Hospital
drove up and carried away two women who had been trampled upon.
Lined up from the door to the curb was a gang of tough special guards
dredged out of the slums. Grim Irish from Hell's Kitchen, rough Negroes
from around 133rd Street and 5th Avenue (New York's "Beale Street") and
tough Italians from the lower West Side. They managed with difficulty
to keep an aisle cleared for incoming and outgoing patients. Near the
curb were stationed the reporters and photographers.
The noise rose and fell. First there would be a low hum of voices.
Steadily it would rise and rise in increasing volume as the speakers
became more animated and reach its climax in a great animal-like roar
as the big front door would open and a whitened Negro would emerge.
Then the mass would surge forward to peer at and question the ersatz
Nordic. Sometimes the ex-Ethiopian would quail before the mob and jump
back into the building. Then the hardboiled guards would form a flying
squad and hustle him to a waiting taxicab. Other erstwhile Aframericans
issuing from the building would grin broadly, shake hands with friends
and relatives and start to graphically describe their experience while
the Negroes around them enviously admired their clear white skins.
In between these appearances the hot dog and peanut vendors did a
brisk trade, along with the numerous pickpockets of the district. One
slender, anemic, ratty-looking mulatto Negro was almost beaten to death
by a gigantic black laundress whose purse he had snatched. A Negro
selling hot roasted sweet potatoes did a land-office business while the
neighboring saloons, that had increased so rapidly in number since the
enactment of the Volstead Law that many of their Italian proprietors
paid substantial income taxes, sold scores of gallons of incredibly
atrocious hootch.
"Well, bye, bye, Max," said Bunny, extending his hand. "I'm goin' in
an' try my luck."
"So long, Bunny. See you in Atlanta. Write me general delivery."
"Why, ain't you gonna wait for me, Max?"
"Naw! I'm fed up on this town."
"Oh, you ain't kiddin' me, Big Boy. I know you want to look up that
broad you saw in the Honky Tonk New Year's Eve," Bunny beamed.
Max grinned and blushed slightly. They shook hands and parted. Bunny
ran up the aisle from the curb, opened the sanitarium door and without
turning around, disappeared within.
For a minute or so, Max stood irresolutely in the midst of the
gibbering crowd of people. Unaccountably he felt at home here
among these black folk. Their jests, scraps of conversation and
lusty laughter all seemed like heavenly music. Momentarily he felt
a disposition to stay among them, to share again their troubles
which they seemed always to bear with a lightness that was yet not
indifference. But then, he suddenly realized with just a tiny trace of
remorse that the past was forever gone. He must seek other pastures,
other pursuits, other playmates, other loves. He was white now. Even
if he wished to stay among his folk, they would be either jealous
or suspicious of him, as they were of most octoroons and nearly all
whites. There was no other alternative than to seek his future among
the Caucasians with whom he now rightfully belonged.
And after all, he thought, it was a glorious new adventure. His eyes
twinkled and his pulse quickened as he thought of it. Now he could
go anywhere, associate with anybody, be anything he wanted to be. He
suddenly thought of the comely miss he had seen in the Honky Tonk on
New Year's Eve and the greatly enlarged field from which he could
select his loves. Yes, indeed there were advantages in being white. He
brightened and viewed the tightly-packed black folk around him with a
superior air. Then, thinking again of his clothes at Mrs. Blandish's,
the money in his pocket and the prospect for the first time of riding
into Atlanta in a Pullman car and not as a Pullman porter, he turned
and pushed his way through the throng.
He strolled up West 139th Street to his rooming place, stepping lightly
and sniffing the early morning air. How good it was to be free, white
and to possess a bankroll! He fumbled in his pocket for his little
mirror and looked at himself again and again from several angles. He
stroked his pale blond hair and secretly congratulated himself that he
would no longer need to straighten it nor be afraid to wet it. He gazed
raptly at his smooth, white hands with the blue veins showing through.
What a miracle Dr. Crookman had wrought!
As he entered the hallway, the mountainous form of his landlady loomed
up. She jumped back as she saw his face.
"What you doing in here?" she almost shouted. "Where'd you get a key to
this house?"
"It's me, Max Disher," he assured her with a grin at her astonishment.
"Don't know me, do you?"
She gazed incredulously into his face. "Is that you sure enough, Max?
How in the devil did you get so white?"
He explained and showed her a copy of _The Scimitar_ containing his
story. She switched on the hall light and read it. Contrasting emotions
played over her face, for Mrs. Blandish was known in the business world
as Mme. Sisseretta Blandish, the beauty specialist, who owned the
swellest hair-straightening parlor in Harlem. Business, she thought to
herself, was bad enough, what with all of the competition, without this
Dr. Crookman coming along and killing it altogether.
"Well," she sighed, "I suppose you're going down town to live, now. I
always said niggers didn't really have any race pride."
Uneasy, Max made no reply. The fat, brown woman turned with a
disdainful sniff and disappeared into a room at the end of the hall. He
ran lightly upstairs to pack his things.
An hour later, as the taxicab bearing him and his luggage bowled
through Central Park, he was in high spirits. He would go down to the
Pennsylvania Station and get a Pullman straight into Atlanta. He would
stop there at the best hotel. He wouldn't hunt up any of his folks. No,
that would be too dangerous. He would just play around, enjoy life and
laugh at the white folks up his sleeve. God! What an adventure! What
a treat it would be to mingle with white people in places where as a
youth he had never dared to enter. At last he felt like an American
citizen. He flecked the ash of his panatela out of the open window of
the cab and sank back in the seat feeling at peace with the world.