The Nigger Factory. Gil Scott-Heron

      ‘Fuck whut it looks like,’ Lawman exclaimed. ‘How do we know that they been in the files?’

      ‘Go check?’ Odds asked.

      ‘What good would that do?’ Earl asked. ‘If they got in to take the stuff, they could git in to put it back.’

      ‘Somehow we got to know whether or not they been in there,’ Lawman realized. ‘We gotta know whether or not they got all our info or what.’

      Earl got up stiffly. ‘I gotta make a call,’ he said. ‘I came in here ta eat, but I don’ feel like I could take a bite without throwin’ up all over this joint. Matter of fact,’ he added, ‘when I dug this list I almost upchucked then.’

      ‘I bet’choo did,’ Odds laughed.

      ‘Get another round a beer,’ Earl said dropping a dollar on the table. ‘I’ll be right back.’

      O’Jay came by. He was a big man with a charcoal tan. His face was battered by the six years of professional fighting he had endured. O’Jay had been the fighter’s fighter. In thirty-nine fights he had never been knocked out. He had lost sixteen, but all of them had been by decision. He was very proud of that. Though he had never been ranked or made anything that resembled a main event, he had been in demand because he came to fight. He was never one for much cute, tricky punching. It was all or nothing for him. When he had acquired enough money and enough beatings to feel that his call was elsewhere he gave up the ring and bought himself a tavern.

      ‘Hi iz it, brothuhs?’ he drawled as he made his way toward the oval bar in the front of the tavern. He was hassling with an apron string that was frayed at the end and difficult to make stretch around his rather imposing stomach.

      ‘Better for us than you, Orange Juice,’ Odds laughed. ‘Na it ain’ but so much you kin ask of a damn apron.’

      ‘Iss gon’ fit,’ O’Jay chuckled.

      ‘Look like a rhino inna bikini,’ Odds retaliated.

      The four men all howled. O’Jay, at length, tied the apron around himself.

      ‘Gonna have a good weeken’?’ Lawman asked.

      ‘Wuz goin’ fishin’ tuhmaruh,’ O’Jay said scratching his head, ‘but the way I hear it, alla yawl may be livin’ wit’ me come the weeken’. I heard people tryin’ ta git some things done ’roun’ here.’

      ‘Tryin’ to.’

      ‘That means who ever doin’ the tryin’ bes’ be packed. Calhoun ain’ noted fo’ playin’ that young man revolution shit. HAHA!’

      ‘We’ll see.’

      ‘Yeah. Lemme run up here an’ help out at the bah.’

      ‘Right on!’ Earl said as O’Jay made his way between the rows of tables.

      ‘Hey!’ Earl called, ‘when you gonna git some new furniture. I’m back here gittin’ splinters.’

      ‘Where at? In ya elbows?’

      The three students laughed again.

      ‘Lemme make this call,’ Earl said.

      ‘Hello?’

      ‘Shorty? This iz Earl.’

      ‘Shorty? I like your nerve.’ The tone became softer. ‘How are you? I heard you’ve had some trouble.’

      ‘No real trouble. Not yet.’

      ‘You comin’ to see me?’

      ‘Thass what I called ’bout. I got a few things to do. I’m, uh, s’pose t’be the one who lays the deman’s on Calhoun. I’m goin’ over there in ’bout an hour or two. Hey! You still there?’

      ‘Ummm. Uh-huh. I was asleep when you called.’

      ‘Were you? I’m sorry.’

      ‘No. I need to be up. The place iz a wreck. Bobby had Peanut over here playin’ cowboys an’ Indians …’

      ‘What time iz it?’

      ‘Must be close to nine.’

      ‘Well, I’m goin’ over to Calhoun’s at ten,’ Earl said. ‘Can you have me somethin’ t’eat when I git by there?’

      ‘By where?’

      ‘By yo’ house, baby. Wake up now.’

      ‘’Bout ten thirty?’

      ‘Uh-huh.’

      ‘I imagine I can do that. But you cain’ keep me up all night like you did las’ night.’

      ‘Okay.’

      ‘You promise?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Good … Earl, I love you.’

      ‘You mus’ still be sleep. Bye, baby.’

      ‘Bye.’

      The beers were arriving at the booth when Earl got back.

      ‘S’cuse me, Miss Pretty Legs,’ Earl said. ‘Will you tell Ellen to come back here, please?’

      ‘Ellen, the waitress?’ Earl nodded.

      ‘Sure,’ the booth waitress replied, smiling.

      The three men sat in silence sipping beer. Ellen, the waitress from the front of the bar, came back. She was a student at Sutton as were most of the young women who worked at O’Jay’s. The owner seemed to realize where his interests were. His clients were students. His employees were students.

      ‘Can I help anyone?’ she asked the trio.

      ‘I jus’ wanned a better look at that smile,’ Earl said. ‘An’ perhaps …’

      ‘I knew you wuz lyin’,’ Ellen said, mocking irritation.

      ‘… a bit of information.’

      ‘About who?’ Ellen said. She took a furtive look up front and then slid into the booth next to Odds.

      ‘About SGA’s secretary, Sheila Reed,’ Earl said.

      ‘You mean you cain’ get it?’

      ‘Well … ’

      ‘You better start winkin’ at some a these wimmin,’ Ellen smiled.

      ‘Who is Sheila’s boyfriend or man or whatever?’ Earl asked. Lawman and Odds leaned forward. All at once they knew what Earl was getting at. Sheila would definitely give the key to the office to her boyfriend.

      ‘Oh really?’ Ellen asked. ‘Lawd, Sheila’s been goin’ wit Che Guevara. You better get busy.’

      ‘Che who?’ Lawman asked.

      ‘The Revolutionaries!’ Ellen giggled. ‘She been goin’ wit’ Ralph Baker from MJUMBE.’

      The three men looked at each other. Truth is light.