No Crystal Stair (19 page)

He wondered about that as he approached the golf course, a beautiful eighteen-holer. But he was greeted affably by the man in the snack bar. Even the three men seated at a table gave friendly nods. All white. Not one Negro. Too bad. He'd been
hoping to see someone who could direct him to the colored section of town, where he might be able to find a decent house.

Sure, he could rent clubs, the man at the bar told him, and pointed toward the pro shop. Rob got a bucket of balls, deciding to hit a few practice shots first. He knew he was rusty. Between school and work, he'd hardly touched a golf club in years.

Not bad, he thought later, as his third ball sailed true and straight to the range target.

He heard a low whistle and the jubilant echo “Not bad! Not bad at all!”

He turned to see that he'd been watched by a jaunty man in khaki shorts and t-shirt, one of the three who'd been sitting in the clubhouse.

“Hey, why don't you hook up with us?” the man suggested. “My partner didn't show. You and me, buddy. With that swing we can beat the socks off those guys.”

He did. Had a good round. Won two beers and an invitation to play again. Nice guys. He'd learned that his partner was Hugh Bavin, a captain in the newly formed Air Force, no longer Army Air Corps. Bavin was on leave until next Monday, when he was to report to his new post at McClellan. He'd flown bombers in the war and they exchanged war stories. Bavin told of a rescue by the Ninety-ninth Fighter Squadron when he'd been under siege by Germans. “Never so glad of anything in my life when I heard that southern drawl on the radio band,‘Look out, man, he's right on your tail.' And then someone answered, ‘I see the mother. Let him come on in! I got his ass in the middle of my gun sight.'Then that Kraut 109 started to smoke, sink and fall in a ball of fire. That might've been you, partner. Saved my life then, just like you're saving this damn game.”

Yeah, I guess it could've been me, thought Rob. Small world.

He phoned Ann Elizabeth as soon as he got back to the hotel.

“We're in the money, honey. I'm all signed in.”

“That's wonderful! How do you like it? Or is it too early to say?”

Much too early. He changed the subject. House hunting.

“Sure you wouldn't like to come up to Sacramento and look?”

“Living in a hotel with Bobby? Dragging him around? No, thanks. I trust you. We'll come when you have a place for us.”

Later, seated in the hotel dining room sipping a martini, Rob scanned the place for a colored person. All the patrons and hotel clerks were white, all the serving people Mexican.

Where are the Negroes? There must be some in this town.

After dinner it was still light. He stood in front of the hotel and stared across at the California state capitol building and the beautiful grounds surrounding it, vaguely admiring, liking the feel of this small city. Determined to find his own space within it, he turned his back on the capitol, going up Twelfth to K Street. He strolled east on K, passing the business district and entering a residential area. Trees, more trees and Victorian houses, all the way to twenty-eight Street. Occupants white. Not a brother in sight. Disconsolately he retraced his steps.

Back on Twelfth he passed the alley and saw a crew from the hotel disposing of garbage. He approached them and asked where could he find Negroes. The smiled and suggested he head for Seventh and P.

Aha! It was still early, eightish. So he walked down Tenth, alongside the capitol grounds toward P Street. He soon came upon houses and people—Chinese he thought. Had the hotel people misunderstood?

No. Here he was at Seventh and P.The colored section. The drugstore, the Momo Black and Tan club, Banjo's Barbecue, the taxi stand and brothers of every description.

Rob entered the drugstore. It was typical—a soda fountain and three small tables with wire-back chairs. A couple seated at one table. The pharmacist stood at the counter talking to a
distinguished-looking brown-skinned man in a tan business suit. Rob seated himself at the soda fountain. An attractive girl took his order, a root-bear float.

A tall, very dark man sat on the next stool, ordered a banana split, then turned to Rob. “Hey. What's happenin'?”

“Not much. Just passing time. I'm new to this area.”

“Me, too. Been here a couple months. Transferred from Dayton to work at McClellan. Civilian employee.”

“Well I'll be damned. I work at McClellan, too.”

“Oh yeah? Where? What division?”

“Don't know. I haven't been placed yet. But I'm on the payroll.” He extended his hand. “I'm Robert Metcalf.”

“Lonnie Drake.”A grin split his face and his handclasp was firm and friendly.

A small world, Rob thought again as the two men—brothers in an alien land—exchanged personal information.

“So you haven't been placed yet, ”Lonnie said “But you have been hired? What Classification.”

“Engineer, CAF-9.”

Lonnie gave a low whistle. “Man! No wonder you haven't been placed.”

“Oh?”

“You way up there. They don't like that. You okay long as you totin', carryin'and following orders. But they don't like you
giv— ing
orders, supervising some of them!” Rob's alarm must have shown, for Lonnie added hastily, “Don't worry'bout it. You on the payroll. And... CAF—9! Man! Don't matter where they put you,” he added with a satisfied chuckle.

Lonnie was a fount of information. “The man who was talking to the druggist? Oh, he's a dentist. Got an office on Eighth and P, next to a doctor's office. Huh? Oh, I don't know where he lives, but the doctor and his wife got digs over the office.” He consulted his watch. “‘Bout time for the Momo to open. Man, that joint's really jumpin'. Draws more whites than colored. Either for the
music or the cocktail waitresses.” He gave a loud cackle. “Prettiest gals in town... tan, tall and terrific! Wanna go?”

Rob said not tonight and pressed for more information. Where did Lonnie live?

“Me? I got a room over a funeral parlor—just temporary until this apartment farther down on P is vacant. In a couple of weeks. Then my wife's coming. Say, you looking for a place? There's another room over—”

Rob shook his head. A room over a funeral parlor didn't appeal to him. Nor did he want to put Ann Elizabeth in an apartment in the Negro business district, even if he could find a vacancy. He wanted tree-lined streets and gracious houses, like the ones he'd seen near the golf course or farther out K Street. He sighed. Did Lonnie know a colored Realtor?

Lonnie did. Rob took down the phone number.

The next day at the personnel office Mr. Green reared back, hands clasped over his ample waist, and greeted Rob with a hearty, “morning, Metcalf. How was your game?”

“Okay.” Rob regarded him steadily.
Where's my job?

Green sat up, coughed. “Well, I have good news. And bad news. Good news first. Your requisition's been approved. But since it's a high-grade position, it has to go through the Twelfth Civil Service Region for approval. That'll take another day or two—which is the bad news.”

Rob thought of Lonnie's words. “So what do I do in the meantime?”

“More good news. I've been authorized to let you play golf for another day. You can't beat that with a stick, can you?” he asked, smiling.

Rob accepted the humor with a wry smile of his own and said he hadn't planned to play golf, but if it was okay, he'd do a little house hunting, instead.

Green seemed delighted with the suggestion and told him he needn't come in the next day, but the day following.

That night Rob called Ann Elizabeth. “O.T.Jones is the only colored Realtor in town, I understand. His main interest seems to be ‘How much money you got, Mr. Metcalf?' I asked him how much did I need and what's he got to show me. So far, nothing suitable. But I'm sticking with him and doing some looking on my own.”

He had plenty of time to look, since every day he reported for work, Green hedged. He hadn't heard from some region or hadn't received some requisition. Rob could play golf, house hunt, whatever. “Administrative leave. Don't worry. You're on the payroll.”

But after a week Rob
was
worried, Bigots or not, nobody was dumb enough to keep paying him to play golf. Or maybe they
were
that dumb! And when the shit hit the fan, he'd get fired for goofing off.

Damned if he would! He looked hard at the placement officer. “Perhaps I should consult the Inspector General.”

He saw the panic in the man's eyes even before the quick protest. “No. Don't do that. I'm sure you'll be placed directly.”

When hell freezes over if I leave it to you! “When? And where? It's been more than a week and—”

“Soon, I've already spoken to Chuck Samples in engineering and he's—”

“Perhaps I should talk with him myself.” Fight my own battle. This pussyfooting son of a bitch was no damn help!

“That's not a good idea. You see—”

“You'd prefer I speak with the Inspector General?” Rob knew he was being reckless, using this kind of blackmail, which he knew might not mean anything, anyway. But his rage was boiling over. He braced himself to—

“No, no, no. That's not at all necessary.” Again Rob saw the panic. Apprehension that someone high up might get on his tail for discrimination. “If... if you can convince ... It might be a good thing for you to speak with Samples, after all.” Now
Rob sensed relief, as if Green had been given an out. Samples, not he, would be on the hot seat.

“Thank you,” Rob said, adding “Mr. President” under his breath. But he couldn't prevent a feeling of trepidation as he was led to Samples'office. If the engineering officer was forced to hire him against his will, working with the man would be pure hell! Threats were no good. This time he had to sell himself.

Again he felt the burning rage. Why did a Negro always have to prove himself before ... But Green was opening the door to Samples' office, And Rob told himself to stay cool.

Tired eyes and thinning blond hair revealed Chuck Samples to be about forty. His desk was piled high with papers, and he had a Do Not Disturb frown on his face.

Green ignored the frown. “Sorry to bother you, Chuck,” he said, “but this is Mr. Metcalf. The engineer I spoke to you about. I, er, I thought you should talk with him yourself, discuss his er, qualifications.” He laid Rob's resume on Samples' desk and, with a mumbled apology about some meeting he had to attend, backed out of the door, leaving the two of them alone.

Not for long. As soon as Green left, a woman rushed in with a stack of papers. “James wants an okay on these right away.” Then there was a telephone call that prompted a tirade from Samples. “Don't know what those Warner Robbins idiots think they're doing. You sit on this, Bill!”Two men burst in, concerned with a problem about the fuselage on the B-26.

Watching Samples handle each matter with dispatch, Rob was impressed. This was a man concerned with getting the job done. Under the right circumstances an ideal man to work for.

Abruptly the interruptions ceased, and Samples looked across at Rob as if surprised to see him still there, “Well, Mr.—”he glanced around, found Rob's resume. “—Metcalf. Let's see ...” he perused the file, cleared his throat and started again, “Well, let's see. All your papers are in order. Looks like you've passed everything—twice, it seems. But—”
“But I'm black.” Rob said it softly, but resolutely.

“Ah, now. Wait a minute. I didn't say that.”

Rob held up his hands in agreement. “I'm not confronting you, sir. It's just that I've been sitting on my hands for two weeks, playing golf at government expense, and I'm sure this whole charade is about what should be done with me.”

“Now, look, Metcalf, this has nothing to do with you personally. I have nothing against ”

“Maybe not. But you've got problems—like who's gonna work with me, perhaps how will your peers accept you, and—”

Samples tapped his pen on the desk signaling for a stop. Rob leaned toward him. “Let me finish, sir.”

Samples gave a resigned “go ahead” shrug.

“I can do this job, Mr. Samples.”

“I don't doubt that, but—”

“And I can get along with a rattlesnake if I have to.”

“You'd damn well have to!” Samples gave a rueful smile. “And not just here. Georgia, Alabama. Lots of travel.”

“I can deal with it. I've been colored all my life, sir.”

There was a gleam of admiration in Samples' eyes. For a moment Rob's spirits lifted.

But Samples looked doubtful again. “I don't know.” He rubbed his chin in reflection. “It wouldn't be easy, Metcalf. This is a tough job at best.”

“I know. You're in the middle of the biggest arms race in history and private industry's snatching your qualified people like crazy. Think about this. They won't snatch me!”

Samples' eyes sharpened. Then he smiled, this time a smile that was whole-hearted, even a bit conspiratorial. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Okay, Jim, you can come and get this requisition. I've signed it.” He listened a moment, then added, “Thanks, I'll need it.”

Rob knew the thanks was for the personnel officer's promise to comb the ranks to find employees who might condescend to
work with a Negro, and it set his teeth on edge. All this fumbling pussyfooting bullshit to hire one colored man. So damn stupid!

Down, boy! You're in, aren't you? He shook Samples' outstretched hand. “Thank you sir. I won't let you down,” he said.

The very next day Rob was given a small cubicle and a title, T33 Engineering Specialist, CAF-9.

At least he was at work.

 

By now Rob was also exasperated with Mr. O.T Jones, his riddles, his funny nasal whine and his run-down houses. “Mr. Jones, you haven't shown me a single house where there are other houses nearby. They're all next to some business or an overgrown empty lot full of trash.”