The House of Eve (15)

“Come on, let me play something for you on the jukebox. Sundays are slow and if you leave me alone, I’ll be forced to eat that whole barrel of ice cream.” His green eyes pleaded. I had never looked into eyes so clear, so bright with hope.

I sighed and made a show of sitting back down. He clapped his hands together, then strolled over to the jukebox in the corner.

“You work here every day?”

“Only Sundays, Wednesdays and Thursdays after school.”

“Must be nice to eat all the free sweets you want.”

“Definitely a plus. But I do have to be careful that all that sugar doesn’t ruin my figure.” He held up his arm and made a muscle. He was more string bean than potato, and the sight of his flexed arm set me into a fit of giggles.

“What, you disagree?” He lifted the other arm and made the same motion, and I chuckled even harder. “What song would keep that smile on your face?”

I felt myself blush. “Got any Nat King Cole?”

He dropped a coin in the slot, pressed the button and out came “A Blossom Fell.”

“That’s one of my favorites. How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He flashed his teeth.

The familiar music put me at ease, and we finished our ice cream. Our conversation flowed from the lyrics of our favorite songs, to what we hated about school, and landed on our weekly radio shows. We both agreed that The Fred Allen Show was our favorite and Shimmy cracked me up with his impersonations as he told joke after joke. The foot traffic into the store was slow. One man came in with five small kids, but he was so busy trying to please each with their favorite treat that he didn’t pay me much mind. Time seemed to drift away from us as Shimmy exhausted every song I knew on the jukebox, and then played a few of his favorites. When I said to him that I had better go, he asked me to stay a while longer.

Aunt Marie was sure to be looking for me by now, but I told him one last song. “Make this your finale.”

“I saved the best for last.” He pressed the button on the jukebox and out came “Rock and Roll” by Wild Bill Moore.

I only recognized the song because last weekend Fatty had brought home the 78 and played it nonstop while trying to teach me how to dance the jitterbug. I snapped my fingers to the beat, wiggling around in my seat.

“What do you know about this song?” I asked, because it had so much soul. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Have I succeeded?” He tipped his chin.

“Just a little.” I moved my shoulders and hummed with the lyrics.

You can have my money, you can have my honey

but let me rock and roll.

Shimmy leaned forward, drumming his long fingers on the countertop. He was so near that our elbows touched and the smell of him made me heady.

“There’s something about that horn and the strong backbeat that makes me feel on top of the world.” He turned his face toward mine. There was a thin streak of ice cream under his bottom lip.

“I agree.” Without thinking, I licked the tip of my finger and wiped the streak away. Our eyes locked.

Just then, the shop door opened and in walked a graying man with a potbelly, wearing the same hat that Shimmy wore.

“Didn’t I tell you about playing those immoral records in here?” he said, chastising him. Then he saw me, and his eyes darkened like rain clouds. “No sitting allowed,” he roared.

I tripped over my own foot trying to stand up.

“Mr. Greenwald—” Shimmy mumbled, taking a step back.

“Shimmy, you should know better.”

Mr. Greenwald was a bear of a man, both tall and wide. He stood over me with his teeth clenched. Before he could say anything else, I rushed past him and out of the store. I knew what men like him were capable of. I read the newspaper and watched the news. It wasn’t until I made it halfway down the block that I realized my mistake. I had forgotten Aunt Marie’s packages. If I went home without her food, she’d have my head. I had no choice but to turn back.

An uneasy heat rippled down my back, and I paused at the door of the shop. As I was getting up the courage to go in, I heard Mr. Greenwald yelling.

“You can serve them quickly, but they can’t hang around and definitely can’t sit at my counter. You know that, boy. My old man must be rolling around in his grave.” He tsked through his teeth. “I received several calls of complaints.”

“She’s, she’s my friend,” Shimmy stammered.

“You can’t be friends with the likes of her. I thought you had more sense, boy. Don’t end up like your father.”

Mr. Greenwald paused when he heard the bell on the door and turned toward me with a smile. “Welcome to…” He stopped when he realized it was me, and his face furrowed. “You again?”

“I forgot my bag, sir.” I scooted into the store, avoiding Shimmy’s gaze, grabbed Aunt Marie’s shopping bag and went back out the door. I heard Mr. Greenwald lock the door behind me and then slap the closed sign on the window.



* * *



Church had let out and brown-faced families ambled in their Sunday best, heading home for lunch before afternoon service. I trudged up 31st Street with Aunt Marie’s purchases, trying to stomp off Mr. Greenwald’s comments and the image of his snarl. I was a paying customer, and he did not have to treat me like dirty chewing gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. It wasn’t like I didn’t know that white people hated us. It was a fact of life. Everybody I knew lived in cramped, drafty apartments and paid rent to white folks who did little to make the place livable. The adults I knew worked low-level jobs for white people who paid them too little for too much work. Fatty cleaned offices, my mother did day’s work for families who couldn’t afford a full-time maid and Nene used to take in laundry and cook to make ends meet.