Black Like Me Read Online Free PDF

is.”
    I felt brisk strokes of his brush across the toe of my shoe.
    “You’re new in town, aren’t you?”
    I looked down on the back of his head. Gray hair kinked below the rim of a sea-captain cap of black canvas.
    “Yeah - just been here a few days,” I said.
    “I thought I hadn’t seen you around the quarter before,” he said pleasantly. “You’ll find New Orleans a nice place.”
    “Seems pretty nice. The people are polite.”
    “Oh … sure. If a man just goes on about his business and doesn’t pay any attention to them, they won’t bother you. I don’t mean bowing or scraping - just, you know, show you got some dignity.” He raised his glance to my face and smiled wisely.
    “I see what you mean,” I said.
    He had almost finished shining the shoes before I asked, “Is there something familiar about these shoes?”
    “Yeah - I been shining some for a white man - ”
    “A fellow named Griffin?”
    “Yeah.” He straightened up. “Do you know him?”
    “I am him.”
    He stared dumfounded. I reminded him of various subjects we had discussed on former visits. Finally convinced, he slapped my leg with glee and lowered his head. His shoulders shook with laughter.
    “Well, I’m truly a son-of-a-bitch … how did you ever.”
    I explained briefly. His heavy face shone with delight at what I had done and delight that I should confide it to him. He promised perfect discretion and enthusiastically began coaching me; but in a guarded voice, glancing always about to make sure no one could overhear.
    I asked him if I could stay and help him shine shoes for a few days. He said the stand really belonged to his partner, who was out trying to locate some peanuts to sell to the winos of the quarter. We’d have to ask him but he was sure it would be all right. “But you’re way too well dressed for a shine boy.”
    We sat on boxes beside the stand. I asked him to check me carefully and tell me anything I did wrong.
    “You just watch me and listen how I talk. You’ll catch on. Say,” he said excitedly, “you got to do something about those hands.”
    Sunlight fell on them, causing the hairs to glint against black skin.
    “Oh Lord,” I groaned. “What’ll I do?”
    “You got to shave them,” he said, holding up his large fist to show his own hand had no hairs. “You got a razor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Hurry up, now, before somebody sees you.” He became agitated and protective. “Down that alleyway there - clear to the end. You’ll find a rest room. You can shave there right quick.”
    I grabbed my bag as he watched in agony to see that the way was clear. The shoe stand was in skid row - a street of ancient buildings with cheap rooming houses and bars.
    I hurried to the alley and walked down it into the gloom of a cluttered courtyard. A few Negroes, who could not enter the white bar, were served from the back. They stood around or sat at wooden tables drinking. I saw a sign that read:
    GENTLEMEN
    and was almost at the door when several voices shouted.
    “Hey! You can’t go in there. Hey!”
    I turned back toward them, astonished that even among skid row derelict joints they had “separate facilities.”
    “Where do I go?” I asked.
    “Clean on back there to the back,” a large drunk Negro said, pointing with a wild swinging gesture that almost made him lose his balance.
    I went another fifty feet down the alley and stepped into the wooden structure. It was oddly clean. I latched the door with a hook that scarcely held, smeared shaving cream on the backs of my hands and shaved without water.
    Sterling nodded approval when I returned. He relaxed and smiled, the way one would after averting a terrible danger. His entire attitude of connivance was superbly exaggerated.
    “Now there’s not a hitch to you, my friend,” he said. “Nobody’d ever guess.”
    An odd thing happened. Within a short time he lapsed into familiarity, forgetting I was once white. He began to use the “we” form and to