It was 1949 and Louis had come up from the South to visit an
aunt. He wore his finest suit and
carried a smart briefcase so as to appear prepared and professional, for while in New York he was
looking into prospects for work. If he discovered there was potential for him to make
a living there, he was not averse to doing so. But he distrusted Northerners and was not
optimistic.
His first day in town found him eating a sandwich at the
Automat, a place he had heard about and which friends had insisted he visit, so
he could return to testify upon whether it were true, that you could actually buy
sandwiches and dinners out of coin-operated machines. Louis sat and chewed his damp liverwurst sandwich
slowly, thinking yes, it is true, but
also that it was the worst sandwich he had ever eaten.
Through the large plate glass window, he saw hordes of
people stampeding left and right along the pavement, and was amazed they weren’t
knocking into one another. He saw and
heard the noisy street traffic, an angry growling of car engines and a desperate
bleating of horns. He couldn’t imagine
why anyone would want to live here, how they could stand it.
Then he heard an eruption of strident shouting in his midst
and turned quickly in its direction. The
shouting came from near the door where a tall white woman was holding the arm
of a teenager who was trying to twist free and make his way out the door. The teenager’s face expressed all the
righteous indignation befitting the victim of a cruel injustice. Louis shook his head knowingly, thinking: ah, so it happens here too. The world is the same everywhere. He saw anguish and desperation and
helplessness in the boy’s face and felt sympathy, while in the woman’s face he
saw only arrogance and superiority, the sadistic pleasure of one accustomed to wielding
power over another, not merely with impunity but with sanctioned
authority. Now a uniformed guard came
rushing over to join the altercation and the boy ceased his efforts to wrest
free. Louis felt a tightening in his
gut, like someone wringing out a dishcloth in there. He turned back to his unpalatable lunch. He didn’t want to see what was going on
around him, didn’t want to know about it.
A few moments later, a voice addressed him sharply. “Pardon me, Sir?”
He turned to find the tall woman standing at his elbow, staring
down at him. So he was to be next, he
thought.
“I believe this is yours?” she asked, holding out a smart
looking briefcase.
Louis looked to the side of his chair, where he had
stood the briefcase that was no longer there.
“I happened to notice a young man sneak up and take it when
you weren’t paying attention. He was
just about to make off with it when I caught him near the door.”
Louis gaped at the briefcase she held up, unmistakably his
own.
“Y-yes,” he stammered.
“That is my bag. I don’t know
what to say, I’m … ”
Louis was so
flustered, he found it a challenge to properly deliver the words of his
gratitude.
“It’s quite all right,” said the woman, “no need to thank
me. It’s a large city with all kinds of
people in it. We all have to look out
for one another, don’t we?”
Louis looked up at her, grinning, and just nodded. The woman set down his bag, turned and walked
back to her own table. He reached down
and scooted the briefcase around to where he could scissor it between his legs,
then returned to his sandwich, which he found did not really taste so bad after
all.
D.E. Sievers
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