Excerpt from Touch the Throne

TOUCH THE THRONE
A Novel, plus by
Samuel


CHAPTER 1

A good time is guaranteed to be had by all

Mister Cainbridge was a West Indian merchant who owned a small grocery store in Harlem. From early morning to late evening he sat in front of his store next to the vegetables, on a wooden milk crate with a faded pillow on top that served as a cushion.

There, six days a week, beneath the heavy brown canvas awning, cranked down over the store window, he sat, representing an approachable throne of earthly grace, where a familiar face was trusted to buy food on credit, and during these depressive days of 1938, everybody needed a little extra time to pay for food.

Joeshen Purcell worked for mister Cainbridge serving customers who came inside and keeping the store clean while mister Cainbridge kept a watchful eye on the food outside.
Preacher came into the store. "Joeshen, my man, gimme some skin," he cooed with a sliding step, swaying rhythmically, certifying that he lived life with genuine panache.

Joeshen laid his hand atop the extended palm, and the two hands rubbed coolly apart.
"Get me one of them cold Rhinegold, and a five-cent slice of that salted cod hanging in the winda," Preacher sang hiply.

Joeshen stood untying the dried fish from the line strung across the window.
"Jojo, you know Myrtle Tuttles, don’t ja?" Preacher asked as he watched.
Joeshen moved to the cutting board and sliced. "Can’t say that I do."
But Preacher was sure of the woman’s notoriety. "Sure you do, grad big ol’ black girl," he said, holding his hand several inches above his head. "Works right over there at the Horse Shoe Night Club, over on Seventh."

Joeshen shook his head, and laid Preacher’s package on the counter.
"Tell you what, you know Biff Watson, don’t ya?" Preacher asked, pushing two dimes across the counter.
"The boxer?"
"That’s him."
"I’ve heard of him, saw him fight once but I don’t know him."
"Well, damn, baby, everybody in Harlem done heard of the nigger." Accepting the fact Joeshen didn’t know Myrtle, Preacher continued, "Anyway, Myrtle has herself some of the best parlor socials in all of New York, every third Saturday of the month and that’s tomorrow night." He relayed with his eyes closed and his voice singing low as he savored past memories of Myrtle’s past socials. "Believe me, brother, when I tell you she has the best music, liquor and food in the whole city and a good time is gua-ran-teeed to be had by all."

"It sounds like a lot of fun, but I don’t know those people, and besides, nobody invited me."
"Invited!" Preacher exclaimed in feigned exasperation. "Damn, baby, where you from? You don’t get invited to no social, you just pay at the door and walk on in," he said, walking his fingers across the counter demonstrating the concept. "Now, tell you what," he added, beckoning for the pencil behind Joeshen’s ear, "this here’s the address. They usually start around seven but it wouldn’t be cool for you to show up that early."
"It wouldn’t?"
"Oh, nooo, baby," he said, his fat, round, brown face disfigured in mock pain at the social faux pas. "You’ll embarrass yourself showing up that early you’ll make it look like you just been sitting around all day long waiting for a party to start," instructing the country boy in the big city ways. "No, you wait ’til about ten-ten thirty. By that time, the place’ll be jumpin’ and then, you just breeze on in like you just floating through, you get me?"

"I get you," Joeshen said, excited at the prospect of socializing with city folk. "Maybe I will go," he said, sticking the address in his shirt pocket and giving it a securing pat. "I don’t have best of clothes--"
Mister Cainbridge came and stood in the doorway looking at the two men, who now pretended their business had just concluded.
"That’ll be all Joeshen," Preacher said in a business tone as he picked up his packages and walked out of the store.
Joeshen, with a damp towel, began to wipe the salt from the cutting board left from the cod. Mister Cainbridge stood watching for a moment before returning to his lofty station next to the vegetables.
Mister Cainbridge was a businessman, a merchant of food and he was afforded a place of respect in the neighborhood.

" Soooo good looking."

Walking up the block, Joeshen could hear the heavy thud of the music’s relentless bass beat. His heart began to pound with an excitement as each step he took corresponded to its rhythm, matching its tempo. Joeshen wanted very much to be accepted by Northern sophisticates, and to share in the wealth Negroes up north had access to.

City wealth was different from the means down home, he reflected. Down there, potency was always white, established, and steeped in tradition, but in the North, power was money-green, dressed in furs, silks, and satins, driving ice-black Cadillacs. Up north, wealth sat prominently on display, and looked you unashamedly in the eye.

He stood leaning against a lamppost across the street from the party, watching the parade of people go down the cellar steps to the entrance of the brownstone house.
When the door opened, he could hear the music grow loud and then resume its muffled beat after the promised gladness within had been extended and gleefully accepted by people who were ready to trip in the light fantastic.

He inspected his clothes again; an old worn pair of denims and a blue work shirt was all Joeshen had to wear. He felt awkward and out of place among the brazen city folk, so shyly he stood hoping to see someone he knew, in particular, Preacher so he wouldn’t have to go to the party alone.

Soon, however, he was carried along by the sheer energy that emanated from the house and felt himself being pulled, rushed, even shoved, toward the joy within.

He walked across the street, descended the three steps and walked to the dimly lit alcove and knocked on the door. When it opened, he was greeted by a dark, thin, balding, colored man with a toothy grin fixed tightly to his face. The man was bobbing, weaving, and bouncing to the music. "One quarter," he said, snapping his fingers as he dipped and swayed to the beat.

Joeshen reached into his pocket and counted out twenty-five cents, then waited for the doorman, who had turned away, dancing. On the beat of the music the doorman spun, took the money and with a bow and extended arm bid welcome.

The house was packed with beautifully colored humanity. Some women wore expensive fur stoles and inspiring perfumes that mingled divinely with the intoxicating smoke. The men wore suits, some with matching spats, some with hats.

Joeshen cruised the scene in a state of euphoric delirium, transported to another time by the excitement that whirled about him. He grew relaxed and waved at those who thought they knew him and nodded and waved at those he thought he wanted to know.

He didn’t drink, but after several offers the temptation to do so and acceptance converged into one and he heard himself say, "Well, why not? But just a little bit. Thank you."

He was feeling good; the music, the foods and conversation that informed made him happy and he moved through the party with growing familiarity. Then he drifted over to a small gathering around the kitchen door. He looked through and watched, to his surprise, a familiar act.
"They call me Shorty, ‘cause I’m soooo good lookin’," the short man said, his funny face frozen in a comical wide-eyed grin. Then he bent his way over at the waist, lifted his foot and slapped his thigh with a resounding smack and let fly a hearty laugh.

Joeshen, along with everyone else, enjoyed the antics of the little man who had the small group laughing hard at his comedic chatter and dancing. He broke into an impromptu dance step and, coming halfway around in a spin, caught a glimpse of Joeshen standing in the crowd.
He stopped and slowly turned back. "I can’t believe my eyes," he said, sincerely surprised, a big smile bloomed across his face. "Joeshen Purcell, damn!" he joked. "The people you meet when you don’t have yo’ gun."

Joeshen lifted his glass. "Hiya doin’ Rufus?"

"Hey everybody, this here is Joeshen Purcell," Rufus said, pulling Joeshen into a bear hug. "This here’s my best friend in the whole world. We both come from the same place-Simms, South Carolina, and he’s my best friend," he claimed, although the Smells were moonshining no-accounts and the Purcells a family of clergymen and the two families never associated with one another in Simms.

But Joeshen was glad to see Rufus and his declaration that they were the best friends. He did not dispute.

"So you made it to the big city, eh, Joeshen?" Rufus asked as he led him to a quiet place where they could catch up on things. "Man, it’s really good ta see a familiar face," he said. "So how long you been in town?"
"Oh, for about three months. You?"
"Almost year and a half now," he said. "How long you been knowin’ Myrtle?"
"I don’t know her. A guy named Preacher told me about her socials yesterday and I just paid my money and walked on in."
"Well, let me introduce ya to her."
"Who? Myrtle Tuttles? You know her?" Joeshen asked, impressed that a country boy like himself knew someone of her stature.

Rufus opened his suit jacket, placed his thumbs under his suspender straps, boasting, "She’s my cousin--now you just wait here a minute and I’ll be right back." With that, he scooted off into the crowd and was gone.

There’s a friend I want you to meet

When Rufus returned, Joeshen was talking to Benny "Scratch" Moore, a respected jazz pianist who was playing for a share of the night’s receipts.
He was called Scratch because he played piano with head hung low over the keys, pawing the ivories with quick flicks of his long fingers. Someone once remarked he looked like a cat scratching in the dirt, and thereafter, Benny was called "Scratch."
"Myrtle, have you met my good friend, Joeshen Purcell?" Scratch said, as he saw Myrtle approaching on the arm of Rufus. "He’s a singer," he continued in the easy, soft-spoken flow that characterized the speech of jazzmen of the 1930s.

"I was just coming over to do just that," she said, extending the tips of her fingers in greeting. "You seem to be a very popular fellow around here, Mister Purcell. I’m Myrtle."
"Yes, Ma’am, I heard all about you," Joeshen said, coming to his feet and wiping his hand down the front of his shirt before taking hold of hers. "I’m glad to make your acquaintance," he added, pumping her arm exuberantly.

"How long did you say you’ve been in the city?" she said, smiling.
"He just got here," Rufus said, taking a seat next to Scratch on the piano bench.
"Well, I’m glad you could make it to the social, but a good-looking devil like you had better be careful. These women will eat you alive," she said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Myrtle was a large ebony woman who was almost as tall as Joeshen’s six-feet-one. She had a pretty face and smile that displayed a set of even white teeth. She combed her hair straight back and wore it close to her head, gathered at the nape of her neck and worn in a small shiny bun.
Her hands were soft and surprisingly petite, with well-shaped, tapered fingers she kept manicured and opulently bejeweled.

She was self-conscious about her size and dark complexion, and exhibited an array of feminine behavior she felt made her adorable.

She had a mincing walk, and she lowered her eyelids coquettishly as she talked to men. And when amused, it was her habit to bashfully lower her head and lightly place the tips of her fingers to her breast, as if overt laughter were unseemly for a lady. The gesture mimicked a silkscreen print of a beautiful Oriental girl she once saw hanging in a Chinese restaurant when she was a little girl. All these dainty mannerisms, she believed, made her the small, huggable, doll-like woman she longed to be.
Like all men, Joeshen was sincerely charmed by Myrtle.

"So? How’d ja like it?"

Joeshen stood among the small group, growing at ease with himself and the North. The near-freedom, and the opportunity to express and fulfill himself was something he was learning to relish.
For the first time in his life, he was allowed to be Negro at his own pace. Down south, he lived in a society that restricted and defined his character and shackled his mind with fetters of ropes and chains born in slavery to keep him in fearful check.
All his life he lived under an institution of terror enforced with governmental blessings, courtesy of Jim Crow laws.
Up north, southern horror lost steam-its reach, its hold over him and his mind was now his own and he began to entertain thoughts he dare not even consider down younda. He was free to pursue his own quest, that of being a man.
The social became a perfusion of sights and sounds. The high-pitched squeals of delighted women dancing under gaslights with men, proud of their charm, and soft hands that never picked king cotton.
They were all in sartorial splendor. Their hairdos processed into place caught the light, which shimmered off the lacquered strands like the reflection of a full moon on the surface of a dark ocean.
With each passing hour the party grew more intense, until the music became a recurring tribal thump-thump-thump that drove the packed flesh to a sensual fluidity, like a single organism pulsating in time to the late-night driving beat.
It was past three in the morning before the gala began to lose steam. Past four in the morning before it was called to a halt altogether.
The two men walked 135th toward the Seventh Avenue trolley line.


"So? How’d ja like it?" Rufus asked.




"I liked it a lot!" Joeshen said. "I liked it a whole lot."

Touch the  Throne

A Novel

by

Samuel