Black Boy by Richard Wright

Author:Richard Wright
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Autobiography
ISBN: 0060929782
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1945-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

11

I arrived in Memphis on a cold November Sunday morning, in 1925, and lugged my suitcase down quiet, empty sidewalks through winter sunshine. I found Beale Street, the street that I had been told was filled with danger: pickpockets, prostitutes, cutthroats, and black confidence men. After walking several blocks, I saw a big frame house with a sign in the window: ROOMS. I slowed, wondering if it was a rooming house or a whorehouse. I had heard of the foolish blunders that small-town boys made when they went to big cities and I wanted to be very cautious. I walked past the house to the end of the block, then turned and walked slowly past it again. Well, whatever it was, I would stay in it for a day or two, until I found something I was certain of. I had nothing valuable in my suitcase. My money was strapped to my body; in order for anyone to get it, they would have to kill me.

I walked up the steps and was about to ring the bell when I saw a big mulatto woman staring at me through the window. Oh, hell, I thought. This is a whorehouse…I stopped. The woman smiled. I turned around and went back down the walk. As I neared the street, I looked back in time to see the woman’s face leave the window. A moment later she appeared in the doorway.

“Come here, boy!” she called to me.

I hesitated. Goddamn, I’ve run into a whore right off…

“Come here, boy,” she commanded loudly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

I turned and walked slowly toward her.

“Come inside,” she said.

I stared at her a moment, then stepped into a warm hallway. The woman smiled, turned on a light, and looked at me from my head to my feet.

“How come you was walking past this house so many times?” she asked.

“I was looking for a room,” I said.

“Didn’t you see the sign?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then how come you didn’t come in?”

“Well, I don’t know. You see, I’m a stranger here…”

“Lord, and don’t I know it!” She dropped heavily into a chair and went into a gale of laughter that made her big bosom shake as though it were going to fly off. “Anybody could tell that.” She gasped, giggled, and grew quiet. She said: “I’m Mrs. Moss.”

I told her my name.

“That’s a real nice name,” she said after a moment’s serious thought.

I blinked. What the hell kind of place was this? And who was this woman? I stood with my suitcase in my hand, poised to leave.

“Boy, Lord, this ain’t no whorehouse,” she said at last. “Folks get the craziest notions about Beale Street. I own this place; this is my home. I’m a church member. I got a daughter seventeen years old, and, by God, I sure make her walk a straight chalk line. Sit down, son. You in safe hands here.”

I laughed and sat.

“Where might you be from?” she asked.

“Jackson, Mississippi.”

“You act mighty bright to be from there,” she commented.

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