Flying Home by Ralph Ellison

Author:Ralph Ellison [Ellison, Ralph]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-79739-1
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2011-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

“ ‘They don’t play ’em, I know they don’t.

They don’t play ’em, I know they won’t.

They just don’t play no nasty dirty twelves …’ ”

“Man, you are a scalped-headed fool. How about that trumpet?”

“Him? That fool’s a soldier, he’s really signifying. Saying,

“ ‘So yall don’t play ’em, hey?

So ya’ll won’t play ’em, hey?

Well pat your feet and clap your hands,

’Cause I’m going to play ’em to the promised land …’

“Man, the white folks know what that fool is signifying on that horn they’d run him clear on out the world. Trumpet’s got a real nasty mouth.”

“Why you call him a soldier, man?” I said.

“ ’Cause he’s slipping ’em in the twelves and choosing ’em, all at the same time. Talking ’bout they mamas and offering to fight ’em. Now he ain’t like that ole clarinet; clarinet so sweet-talking he just eases you in the dozens.”

“Say, Buster,” I said, seriously now. “You know, we gotta stop cussing and playing the dozens if we’re going to be Boy Scouts. Those white boys don’t play that mess.”

“You doggone right they don’t,” he said, the turkey feather vibrating above his ear. “Those guys can’t take it, man. Besides, who wants to be just like them? Me, I’m gon be a scout and play the twelves too! You have to, with some of these old jokers we know. You don’t know what to say when they start teasing you, you never have no peace. You have to outtalk ’em, outrun ’em, or outfight ’em and I don’t aim to be running and fighting all the time. N’mind those white boys.”

We moved on through the growing dark. Already I could see a few stars and suddenly there was the moon. It emerged bladelike from behind a thin veil of cloud, just as I heard a new sound and looked about me with quick uneasiness. Off to our left I heard a dog, a big one. I slowed, seeing the outlines of a picket fence and the odd-shaped shadows that lurked in Aunt Mackie’s yard.

“What’s the matter, man?” Buster said.

“Listen,” I said. “That’s Aunt Mackie’s dog. Last year I was passing here and he sneaked up and bit me through the fence when I wasn’t even thinking about him …”

“Hush, man,” Buster whispered, “I hear the son-of-a-bitch back in there now. You leave him to me.”

We moved by inches now, hearing the dog barking in the dark. Then we were going past and he was throwing his heavy body against the fence, straining at his chain. We hesitated, Buster’s hand on my arm. I undid my heavy canteen belt and held it, suddenly light in my fingers. In my right I gripped the hatchet which I’d brought along.

“We’d better go back and take the other path,” I whispered.

“Just stand still, man,” Buster said.

The dog hit the fence again, barking hoarsely; and in the interval following the echoing crash I could hear the distant music of the band.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go round.”

“Hell, no! We’re going straight! I ain’t letting no damn dog scare me, Aunt Mackie or no Aunt Mackie.

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