Wolf Whistle by Lewis Nordan Page A

would call her, he reckoned. Maybe he’d tell her don’t come home, he was still digging his own grave with a whiskey bottle.
    The parrot was warm on Runt’s shoulder.
    The rain was still falling outside the window.
    Runt said, “Alice, honey, a child in a raindrop ain’t a dream.”
    The parrot stood up straight and stretched itself and spread out its wings arid beat them against the air and against Runt’s head and face. Runt did not move, and the parrot settled down again.
    Runt carried the parrot with him to the cage and put it inside and closed the wire door. He said, “I got to make that appointment I told you about.”
    Sometimes a little taste to settle your insides on a rainy Delta evening was the best you could do. Sometimes that was all that was left for a man to do.
    Alice said, “Well, all right, then.”
    Runt said, “All right, then.”
    When her uncle was gone, Alice went to the parrot’s cage. She put her face to the bars of the cage. She said, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
    T HE RAIN kept on falling, falling, falling, down onto Esequeena Street. The light in the barber shop was the only light on the street, except for the buzzard roosts, so late at night. The barber pole didn’t turn, it was only a wooden pole. It shed the rain, that’s about all.
    There was nobody in the shop for a haircut this time of night, just Rage Gage, the barber, and a few friends, blues singers.
    The light from the front window was yellow, and although it broke up a corner of the darkness and the rain with its small strength, it seemed to turn to water and to run and fade like cheap dye, once it left the window.
    The house was not a real barber shop, not originally, though it had been fixed up nice. It was only a Negro cabin with a barber pole out in front of it.
    Esequeena Street was lined with buzzards. Rage Gage didn’t like cutting hair up underneath no bunch of buzzards. Especially buzzards named after white men. He wondered why the scientists down in Jackson couldn’t be naming a few buzzards after colored people.
    Ain’t like they don’t have plenty of buzzards to goaround. Half them buzzards ain’t even got a name. That’s the truth.
    Rage Gage was sitting up in his own barber chair, feet propped up on the big steel footrest, talking with the boys about what happened down to Mr. Red’s.
    The barber chair was a good one, too—big, sturdy porcelain rascal, with a handle to pump the seat up and down and another handle to let the back down for a shave. Rage Gage needed a good adjustable chair, like this. One of his legs was shorter than the other, and so he had to wear a built-up rocking shoe on his right foot, and he wasn’t very tall to begin with. It was a good chair for Rage, pump it right down to size.
    Comfortable for the customer, too, steady as a stone. Bolted right in the floor, easy as pie, strop come with it, fastened to the armrest, good strop too, double leather, high quality Eye-talian cowhide, crack like a whip when you put a razor to it.
    Rage Gage bought this chair long time ago down at Swami Don’s Elegant Junk, fifteen dollars, cash money, that’s what it cost, lot of jack, Jack, but twice as nice at half the price, go easy, Greasy, you got a long way to slide.
    The chair had a real leather seat cushion built right in, ox-blood in color, faded, well sure, used like this, it’s gone be faded some, good and broke in, that’s why it’s faded, so that was okay, wont even cracked, good chair, fine chair,fifteen dollars cash, that’s all, a bargain, a steal, well sure it’s expensive, ain’t nobody said it was cheap, but worth it, sho, worth every red cent.
    Used to have it over on Fourth Street, whole shop, chair and everything, combs, clippers, scissors, pomade trays, straight razors, straightening irons, shaving mugs, shaving brushes, bay rum, clothes brush, shampoo,