On the elevator up, I was the only white man there. It seemed strange. They talked about the riots, not looking at me.
“Jesus,” said a coal black guy, "it’s really something. These guys walking around the streets drunk with 5ths of whiskey in their hands. Cops driving by but the cops don’t get out of their cars, they don’t bother the drunks. It’s daylight. People walking around with t.v. sets, vacuum cleaners, all that. It’s really something. . . “
”Yeah, man.”
“The black-owned places put up signs, ‘BLOOD BROTHERS.’ And the white-owned places too. But they can’t fool the people. They know which places belong to Whitey . . . ”
“Yeah, brother.”
Then the elevator stopped at the 4th floor and we all got off together. I felt that it was best for me not to make any comment at that time.
Not much later the postmaster of the city came on over the intercoms:
“Attention! The southeast area has been barricaded. Only those with proper identification will be allowed through. There is a 7 p.m. curfew. After 7 p.m. nobody will be allowed to pass. The barricade extends from Indiana Street to Hoover Street, and from Washington Boulevard to 135th Place. Anybody living in this area is excused from work now.”
I got up and reached for my timecard.
“Hey! Where you going?” the supervisor asked me.
“You heard the announcement?”
“Yeah, but you’re not—”
I slipped my left hand into my pocket. “I’m not WHAT? I’m not WHAT?”
He looked at me.
“What do you know, WHITEY?” I said.
I took my timecard, walked over and punched out.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
