Native Son - Richard Wright [20]
“Say, Jack?”
“Hunh?”
“That gal…. That gal there in that guy’s arms…. That’s the daughter of the guy I’m going to work for. They live at 4605 Drexel…. That’s where I’m going tonight to see about that job….”
“For real?”
“Sure!”
The close-up faded and the next scene showed only the girl’s legs running over the sparkling sands; they were followed by the legs of the man running in pursuit. The words droned on: Ha! He’s after her! There! He’s got her! Oh, boy, don’t you wish you were down here in Florida? The close-up faded and another came, showing two pairs of legs standing close together. Oh, boy! said the voice. Slowly, the girl’s legs strained upward until only the tips of her toes touched the sand. Ah, the naughty rich! There was a slow fade-out, while the commentator’s voice ran on: Shortly after a scene like this, shocked Mama and Papa Dalton summoned Mary home by wire from her winter vacation and denounced her Communist friend.
“Say, Jack?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s a Communist?”
“Damn if I know. It’s a race of people who live in Russia, ain’t it?”
“That guy who was kissing old man Dalton’s daughter was a Communist and her folks didn’t like it.”
“Rich people don’t like Communists.”
“She was a hot-looking number, all right.”
“Sure,” said Jack. “When you start working there you gotta learn to stand in with her. Then you can get everything you want, see? These rich folks do their dirt on the sly. I bet the reason the old man was so mad about that Communist was ’cause his gal was too open about it….”
“Yeah; maybe so,” said Bigger.
“Shucks, my ma use to work for rich white folks and you ought to hear the tales she used to tell….”
“What kind of tales?” Bigger asked eagerly.
“Ah, them rich white women’ll go to bed with anybody, from a poodle on up. They even have their chauffeurs. Say,” Jack said, punching Bigger in the ribs, “if you run across anything too much for you to handle at that place, let me know.”
They laughed. Bigger turned his eyes to the screen, but he did not look. He was filled with a sense of excitement about his new job. Was what he had heard about rich white people really true? Was he going to work for people like you saw in the movies? If he were, then he’d see a lot of things from the inside; he’d get the dope, the low-down. He looked at Trader Horn unfold and saw pictures of naked black men and women whirling in wild dances and heard drums beating and then gradually the African scene changed and was replaced by images in his own mind of white men and women dressed in black and white clothes, laughing, talking, drinking and dancing. Those were smart people; they knew how to get hold of money, millions of it. Maybe if he were working for them something would happen and he would get some of it. He would see just how they did it. Sure, it was all a game and white people knew how to play it. And rich white people were not so hard on Negroes; it was the poor whites who hated Negroes. They hated Negroes because they didn’t have their share of the money. His mother had always told him that rich white people liked Negroes better than they did poor whites. He felt that if he were a poor white and did not get his share of the money, then he would deserve to be kicked. Poor white people were stupid. It was the rich white people who were smart and knew how to treat people. He remembered hearing somebody tell a story of a Negro chauffeur who had married a rich white girl and the girl’s family had shipped the couple out of the country and had supplied them with money.
Yes, his going to work for the Daltons was something big. Mr. Dalton was a millionaire. Maybe Mary Dalton was a hot kind of girl; maybe she spent lots of money; maybe she’d like to come to the South Side and see the sights sometimes. Or maybe she had a secret sweetheart and only he would know about it because he would have to drive her around; maybe she would give him money not to tell.