Buster said.
“Huh? Rogan?”
“Hecks, naw! I’m talkin’ ’bout Toussan.”
“Doggone if I know, man—but I’m gonna ask that teacher.”
“He was a fightin’ son-of-a-gun, wasn’t he, man?”
“He didn’t stand for no foolishness,” said Riley reservedly. He thought of other things now, and as he moved along, he slid his feet easily over the short-cut grass, dancing as he chanted:
Iron is iron
,
And tin is tin
,
And that’s the way
The story …
“Aw come on, man,” interrupted Buster. “Let’s go play in the alley …”
And that’s the way …
“Maybe we can slip around and get some cherries,” Buster went on.
… the story ends, chanted Riley.
Afternoon
From
American Writing
, 1940
T he two boys stood at the rear of a vacant lot looking up at a telephone pole. The wires strung from one pole to the next gleamed bright copper in the summer sun. Glints of green light shot from the pole’s glass insulators as the boys stared.
“Funny ain’t no birds on them wires, huh?”
“They got too much ’lectricity in ’em. You can even hear ’em hum they got so much.”
Riley cocked his head, listening:
“That what’s making that noise?” he said.
“Sho, man. Jus like if you put your ear against a streetcar-linepole you can tell when the car’s coming. You don’t even have to see it,” Buster said.
“Thass right, I knowed about that.”
“Wonder why they have them glass things up there?”
“To keep them guys what climbs up there from gitting shocked, I guess.”
Riley caught the creosote smell of the black paint on the pole as his eyes traveled over its rough surface.
“High as a bitch!” he said.
“It ain’t so high I bet I caint hit that glass on the end there.”
“Buster, you fulla brown. You caint hit
that
glass, it’s too high.”
“Shucks!! Gimme a rock.”
They looked slowly over the dry ground for a rock.
“Here’s a good one,” Riley called. “An egg rock.”
“Throw it here, and watch how ole Lou Gehrig snags ’em on first base.”
Riley pitched. The rock came high and swift. Buster stretched his arm to catch it and kicked out his right leg behind him, touching base.
“And he’s out on first!” he cried.
“You got ’im all right,” Riley said.
“You jus watch this.”
Riley watched as Buster wound up his arm and pointed to the insulator with his left hand. His body gave a twist and the rock flew upward.
Crack!
Pieces of green glass sprinkled down.
They stood with hands on hips, looking about them. A bird twittered. A rooster crowed. No one shouted to them and they laughed nervously.
“What’d I tell you?”
“Damn! I never thought you could do it.”
“We better get away from here in case somebody saw that.”
Riley looked around: “Come on.”
They walked out to the alley.
Chickens crouched in the cool earth beneath a shade tree. The two boys hurried out of sight of a woman piling rubbish in the next yard. A row of fence stretched up the alley, past garages and outhouses. They walked carefully, avoiding burrs and pieces of glass, over ground hot to their bare feet. The alley smelled of dust and the dry pungence of burning leaves.
Buster picked up a stick and stirred in the weeds behind an unpainted garage. It raised dust, causing him to sneeze.
“Buster, what the hell you doing?”
“Looking for liquor, man.”
“Looking for
liquor
?”
“Sho, man.” He stopped, pointing: “See that house down on the corner?”
Riley saw the back of a small green house with a row of zinc tubs on the rail of its porch.
“Yeah, I see it,” he said.
“Bootleggers live down there. They hid it all along here in these weeds. Boy, one night the cops raided and they was carrying it outa there in slop jars and everything.”
“In
slop
jars?”
“Hell yes!”
“Gee, the cops catch ’em?”
“Hell naw, they poured it all down the toilet. Man, I bet all the fish in the Canadian River was drunk.”
They laughed
“Huh? Rogan?”
“Hecks, naw! I’m talkin’ ’bout Toussan.”
“Doggone if I know, man—but I’m gonna ask that teacher.”
“He was a fightin’ son-of-a-gun, wasn’t he, man?”
“He didn’t stand for no foolishness,” said Riley reservedly. He thought of other things now, and as he moved along, he slid his feet easily over the short-cut grass, dancing as he chanted:
Iron is iron
,
And tin is tin
,
And that’s the way
The story …
“Aw come on, man,” interrupted Buster. “Let’s go play in the alley …”
And that’s the way …
“Maybe we can slip around and get some cherries,” Buster went on.
… the story ends, chanted Riley.
Afternoon
From
American Writing
, 1940
T he two boys stood at the rear of a vacant lot looking up at a telephone pole. The wires strung from one pole to the next gleamed bright copper in the summer sun. Glints of green light shot from the pole’s glass insulators as the boys stared.
“Funny ain’t no birds on them wires, huh?”
“They got too much ’lectricity in ’em. You can even hear ’em hum they got so much.”
Riley cocked his head, listening:
“That what’s making that noise?” he said.
“Sho, man. Jus like if you put your ear against a streetcar-linepole you can tell when the car’s coming. You don’t even have to see it,” Buster said.
“Thass right, I knowed about that.”
“Wonder why they have them glass things up there?”
“To keep them guys what climbs up there from gitting shocked, I guess.”
Riley caught the creosote smell of the black paint on the pole as his eyes traveled over its rough surface.
“High as a bitch!” he said.
“It ain’t so high I bet I caint hit that glass on the end there.”
“Buster, you fulla brown. You caint hit
that
glass, it’s too high.”
“Shucks!! Gimme a rock.”
They looked slowly over the dry ground for a rock.
“Here’s a good one,” Riley called. “An egg rock.”
“Throw it here, and watch how ole Lou Gehrig snags ’em on first base.”
Riley pitched. The rock came high and swift. Buster stretched his arm to catch it and kicked out his right leg behind him, touching base.
“And he’s out on first!” he cried.
“You got ’im all right,” Riley said.
“You jus watch this.”
Riley watched as Buster wound up his arm and pointed to the insulator with his left hand. His body gave a twist and the rock flew upward.
Crack!
Pieces of green glass sprinkled down.
They stood with hands on hips, looking about them. A bird twittered. A rooster crowed. No one shouted to them and they laughed nervously.
“What’d I tell you?”
“Damn! I never thought you could do it.”
“We better get away from here in case somebody saw that.”
Riley looked around: “Come on.”
They walked out to the alley.
Chickens crouched in the cool earth beneath a shade tree. The two boys hurried out of sight of a woman piling rubbish in the next yard. A row of fence stretched up the alley, past garages and outhouses. They walked carefully, avoiding burrs and pieces of glass, over ground hot to their bare feet. The alley smelled of dust and the dry pungence of burning leaves.
Buster picked up a stick and stirred in the weeds behind an unpainted garage. It raised dust, causing him to sneeze.
“Buster, what the hell you doing?”
“Looking for liquor, man.”
“Looking for
liquor
?”
“Sho, man.” He stopped, pointing: “See that house down on the corner?”
Riley saw the back of a small green house with a row of zinc tubs on the rail of its porch.
“Yeah, I see it,” he said.
“Bootleggers live down there. They hid it all along here in these weeds. Boy, one night the cops raided and they was carrying it outa there in slop jars and everything.”
“In
slop
jars?”
“Hell yes!”
“Gee, the cops catch ’em?”
“Hell naw, they poured it all down the toilet. Man, I bet all the fish in the Canadian River was drunk.”
They laughed
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