“Do you know what he is? He’s just an ass! A man who’d talk that way is just a complete ass! ‘An artist!’” and again he laughed sneeringly, “My God!”
His eyes were really now so full of rancor and injured self-esteem that the other knew it was the end. There was no further warmth of friendship here. He, too, felt a cold fury: envenomed words rose to his lips, he wanted to sneer, to stab, to ridicule and mock as Alsop had; a poison of cold anger sweltered in his heart, but when he got up his lips were cold and dry, he said stiffly:
“Good-bye.”
And he went out from that basement room forever.
Alsop said nothing, but sat there with a pale smile on his face, a feeling of bitter triumph gnawing at his heart that was its own reprisal. As the lost disciple closed the door, he heard for the fast time the jeering words:
“An artist!’ Jesus Christ!”—then the choking fury of his belly-laugh.
JIM RANDOLPH FELT for the four youths who lived with him a paternal affection. He governed them, he directed them, as a father might direct the destinies of his own sons. He was always the first one up in the morning. He needed very little sleep, no matter how late he had been up the night before. Four or five hours’ sleep always seemed to be enough for him. He would bathe, shave, dress himself, put coffee on to boil, then he would come and wake the others up. He would stand in the doorway looking at them, smiling a little, with his powerful hands arched lightly on his hips. Then in a soft, vibrant, and strangely tender tone he would sing:
“Get up, get up, you lazy devils. Get up, get up, it’s break o’ day.” Jim would cast his head back and laugh a little. “That’s the song my father used to sing to me every morning when I was a kid way down there in Ashley County, South Carolina…. All right,” he now said, matter-of-factly, and with a tone of quiet finality and command: “You boys get up. It’s almost half-past eight. Come on, get dressed now. You’ve slept long enough.”
They would get up then—all except Monty, who did not go to work till five o’clock in the afternoon; he was employed in a midtown hotel and didn’t get home until one or two o’clock in the morning. Their governor allowed him to sleep later, and, in fact, quietly but sternly enjoined them to silence in order that Monty’s rest be not disturbed.
Jim himself would be out of the place and away by eight-thirty. He was gone all day.
They ate together a great deal at the apartment. They liked the life, its community of fellowship and of comfort. It was tacitly assumed that they would gather together in the evening and formulate a program for the night. Jim, as usual, ruled the roost. They never knew what his plans were. They awaited his arrival with expectancy and sharp interest.
At six-thirty his key would rattle in the lock. He would come in, hang up his hat, and without preliminary say with authority:
“All right, boys. Dig down in your pockets, now. Everyone’s chipping in with fifty cents.”
“What for, for God’s sake?” someone would protest.
“For the best damn steak you ever sunk yo’ teeth into,” Jim would say. “I saw it in the butcher shop as I came by. We’re going to have a six-pound sirloin for supper tonight or I miss my guess…. Perce,” he said, “you go to the grocery store and buy the fixings. Get us two loaves of bread, a pound of butter, and ten cents’ worth of grits. We’ve got potatoes…. Monk,” he said, “you get busy and peel those potatoes, and don’t cut away two-thirds of ’em like you did last time…. I’m going to get the steak,” he said, “I’ll cook the steak. That nurse of mine is coming over. She said she’ll make biscuits.”
And, having instantly energized the evening and dispatched them on the commission of their respective duties, he went off upon his own.