The Walls of Jericho

Joshua fit d’ battle ob Jericho
And d’ walls come tumblin’ down—

For Glendora—

May her laugh be silver,
like her hair

Jericho

I

Despite the objections of the dickties, who prefer to ignore the existence of so-called rats, it is of interest to consider Henry Patmore’s Pool Parlor on Fifth Avenue in New York.

The truth about Fifth Avenue has only half been told, that it harbors an aristocracy of residence already yielding to an aristocracy of commerce. Has any New Yorker confessed to the rest—that when aristocratic Fifth Avenue crosses 110th Street, leaving Central Park behind, it leaves its aristocracy behind as well? Here are bargain-stores, babble, and kids, dinginess, odors, thick speech. Fallen from splendor and doubtless ashamed, the Avenue burrows into the ground—plunges beneath a park which hides it from 116th to 125th Street. Here it emerges moving uncertainly northward a few more blocks; and now—irony of ironies—finds itself in Negro Harlem.

You can see the Avenue change expression—blankness, horror, conviction. You can almost see it wag its head in self-commiseration. Not just because this is Harlem—there are proud streets in Harlem: Seventh Avenue of a Sunday afternoon, Strivers’ Row, and The Hill. Fifth Avenue’s shame lies in having missed these so-called dickty sections, in having poked its head out into the dark kingdom’s backwoods. A city jungle this, if ever there was one, peopled largely by untamed creatures that live and die for the moment only. Accordingly, here strides melodrama, naked and unashamed.

Patmore’s Pool Parlor occupied the remodeled ground floor of a once elegant apartment-house: two long low adjacent rooms, with a smaller one in the rear. You could enter either of the larger two from the street, and a doorway joined them within. There were no pretenses about these two rooms: one was a pool room, its stolid, green-covered tables extending from front to back in a long squat row; the other was a saloon, with a mahogany bar counter, a great wall mirror, a shining foot rail and brass spittoons. In the saloon you could get any drink you had courage and cash enough to order; in the pool room you could play for any stake and use any language you had the ingenuity to devise. The third room was off the pool room and behind the saloon; this gave itself over to that triad of swift exchange, poker, blackjack, and dice.

Such was Pat’s standing in the community that you might at any time find in this little rear room a policeman sitting in a card game, his coat on the back of his chair, his cap on the back of his head. For men, Pat’s was supremely the neighborhood’s social center, where you met real regular guys and rubbed elbows with authority. Henry Patmore was no piker, no sir, not by a damn sight.

In Patmore’s the discussion concerned a possible riot in Harlem, a popular topic among these men who loved battle.

Jinx Jenkins and Bubber Brown led the argument on opposite sides, reinforced by continuous expressions of vague but hearty agreement from their partisans:

“Tell ’im ’bout it!”

“That’s the time, papa!”

“There now—shake that one off yo’ butt!”

Jinx and Bubber worked at the same job every day, moving furniture. At this they got along tolerably, but after hours they were chronic enemies and were absolutely unable to agree upon anything.

Jinx was thin and elongated, habitually stooped in bearing, lean and sinewy, with freckled skin of a slick deep yellow and a chronically querulous voice.

“Fays got better sense,” said he. “Never will be no riot no mo’ ’round hyeh.”

Bubber was as different from Jinx as any man could be, short, round and bulging, with a complexion bordering on the invisible.

“ ’Tain’t due to be ’round hyeh,” he corrected. “It’s way over Court Avenue way. Darkey’s gonna move in there tomorrer and fays jes’ ain’t gon’ stand fo’ it.” Bubber spoke with a loose-lipped lisp, perfected by the absence of upper incisors.

“Who he?” Jinx inquired.

“Some lawyer ’n other name’ Merrit.”

“The one got Pat in that mess with d’ government?”

“Nobody else,” said Bubber.

“Well ef he’s a lawyer he sho’ mus’ know what he’s doin’.”

“Don’ matter what he is,” argued Bubber. “Ef he move in that neighborhood, fays’ll start sump’m sho’—and sho’ as they start it, d’ boogies’ll finish it. Won’t make no difference ’bout this Merrit man—he’ll jes’ be d’ excuse—Man, you know that. Every sence d’ war, d’ boogies is had guns and ammunition they stole from d’ army, and they jes’ dyin’ fo’ a chance to try ’em out. I know where they’s two machine guns myself, and they mus’ be a hund’ed mo’ in Harlem.”

“Yea,” said Jinx. “I’ve heard ’bout that, too. But I don’t think no shine’s got no business bustin’ into no fay neighborhood.”

“He got business bustin’ in any place he want to go. Only way for him to git anywhere is to bust in—ain’ nobody gon’ invite him in.”

“Aw, man, whut you talkin’ ’bout? Hyeh’s a dickty tryin’ his damnedest to be fay—like all d’ other dickties. When they git in hot water they all come cryin’ to you and me fo’ help.”

“And they git help, what I mean. Any time dickties start fightin’, d’ rest of us start fightin’ too. Got to. Dickties can’t fight.”

“Jes’ ’cause they can’t fight ain’ no reason how come we got to fight fo’ em.”

“ ’Tain’ nothin’ else. Fays don’ see no difference ’tween dickty shines and any other kind o’ shines. One jig in danger is ev’y jig in danger. They’d lick them and come on down on us. Then we’d have to fight anyhow. What’s use o’ waitin’?”

“Damn if you’d ever go out o’ yo’ way to fight f’ no dickties,” Jinx taunted.

“Don’ know—I might,” Bubber said.