The Big Smoke Read online

  the exact color of a bruise. Mine was

  painted bright red to match one

  of my boxing costumes. Ain’t that

  something? As I passed him, I nodded

  politely, puffed a bit of smoke skyward

  so my cigar worked like a locomotive

  stack. Ketchel had other ideas, uptight

  on that church pew of a seat. When

  he sped up to pass me, I picked it up, too.

  The day Jack Johnson doesn’t go faster

  than another man is the day you should

  plug your ears because the trumpets

  are coming directly. We took a left

  at the same time onto Main, then

  a quick right. I tossed my cigar once

  I saw how game he was for a race.

  We were going near sixty miles an hour

  in the middle of Colma, Ketchel gritting

  his teeth, his glasses all dusty, his scarf

  twisting in the air like a hopscotcher’s

  braids. The police officers loitering

  near their bicycles in front of the bakery

  didn’t even bother trying to catch us.

  PHOTOGRAPHY

  Etta Duryea

  Papa’s head shines like a wheel

  with no tread. Beautiful man,

  mi amore. He shines like Lake

  Michigan in July heat. He heats

  me up: a black dress on a sunny

  day. In the sun, we almost look

  the same when the photographer’s

  flash leaves powder on my face.

  Color doesn’t matter. When

  he bites, Papa’s teeth flash

  like a shark’s teeth. After the sports

  & photographers get bored

  with us, we are almost the same.

  “A STRUGGLE BETWEEN A DEMON AND A GRITTY LITTLE DWARF”

  The longer a fight lasts, the more the moving

  picture rights are worth. That’s the reason I kept

  Ketchel off the canvas. He might have called

  himself “The Assassin,” but I played with him

  in the ropes like a cat does a mouse, lacing him

  just enough to bring blood for the show. That’s

  what prize fighting is: a show. The better man

  almost always wins, but we all play our part

  in the spectacle. Ketchel’s handlers dressed

  him up for his part as a heavyweight

  by using high boots & extra coats. Underneath

  it all, he was strictly a middleweight & I picked

  him up, held him high so his feet dangled

  like a Sunday chicken on that special morning.

  Then I smiled at the only colored in the crowd,

  hatless next to all those whites in their bowlers

  & bright-ribboned fedoras. I heard Ketchel’s

  second slap canvas & yell, Now then, Stanley,

  but I didn’t see the double cross coming until

  Ketchel’s hook stung me behind the ear. I dropped,

  stopped my fall with a glove before I hit canvas.

  The referee started counting & the buzzing

  sounds started inside my ears like a crowd

  before the fight. All of those spectators hoping

  Ketchel put me down. The crowd quieted when

  I smiled my gold smile, punched the dust off

  of my gloves. Quiet enough to hear me hit

  Ketchel so hard we both fell down. Quiet

  enough to hear one, two, three of his teeth hitting

  canvas like chicken scratch. Two of his uppers

  got stuck in my glove. Quiet as Ketchel sprawled

  like he was counting the clouds, the referee

  counting him out slowly for fear of his own skin.

  I didn’t show I was scared, but I was. I leaned

  casually on the top rope, waiting for a twitch,

  a breath—any sign the man would be a man again.

  THE SHADOW KNOWS

  You’re not fooling me

  by quoting Shakespeare,

  Mr. Champion of the Negro

  World. No matter how

  carefully you enunciate,

  Tiny was a slave

  & the condition of the son

  follows the condition

  of the mother. Emancipation

  didn’t change a thing.

  Ask John L., ask Jeffries,

  ask Gentleman Jim or any

  of the other color-line-

  calling white fighters.

  Better yet, ask Tiny.

  Your ex-chattel mama

  will tell you all about

  the unconditionalness

  of blackness. You can

  wreck an auto & buy

  a new one the next day,

  but you can’t buy equality.

  You can change clothes

  five times a day while

  speaking Italian & playing

  the viol in that fancy

  classical way, but you

  can’t change your skin.

  What do you know, Shadow?

  I’m bettering myself.

  COLOR LINE

  Tommy Burns, Jim Jeffries,

  & every other white fighter

  who drew the color line did it

  out of fear. They knew what

  the outcome would be when

  we traded fists, & questioning

  a black fighter’s stamina

  is better than admitting yellow.

  I am not drawing the line

  with Sam Langford. The last

  time we fought, I beat the man

  squarely & left the ring without

  a bruise in return. I don’t care

  how many times he challenges

  my manhood: it’s business.

  There is no money in colored

  fighters mixing it up. Especially

  when they’re as unevenly

  matched as we are. The fact

  I am champion is no more likely

  to change our skin than it is

  to improve Langford’s fists.

  FRIENDSHIP

  Etta Duryea

  Papa’s mouth is full of words

  like a crisp newspaper on a room

  service tray. Don’t believe a single

  thing he says, the friend who

  introduced us tells me. Now no one

  in my family says a single thing

  to me. Papa & I are a family after

  the broke sports have gone back

  to wherever they sleep. That’s when

  his mouth moves like a speedometer

  without numbers big enough to keep

  up. I don’t believe him when he

  says my skin looks like hotel china.

  “MACHINE CONTAINING JOHNSON’S FRIENDS WRECKED”

  I’m so skilled with these machines,

  I’ve got a patent on a wrench that’s

  only good for fixing Flyers. Moriaraty

  knew he had no more chance of keeping

  up with me in a race than a turtle has

  of catching a Bakersfield jackrabbit.

  Belle & the rest of the girls believed

  his fast talk & piled into his auto

  like a congregation into a church.

  I was in the lead from the start, but

  I knew Moriaraty was close because

  I could hear the girls cheering him on.

  I have my driving glasses on & I’m

  seeing things the fa
ster I go: a warm

  pail of water on a porch in Galveston,

  thunderclouds over Ballarat soft

  like the mattresses in the Everleigh

  Club. A canvas as clean as Saturday

  washing except for a wet outline:

  a sweat angel on the spot Tommy

  Burns might have dropped if I’d let

  him fall. I wiped the dirt from my glasses

  in time to see a rabbit hurrying across

  the road & pulled hard on the brake.

  That’s when Moriaraty tried a pass.

  His wheels skidded on gravel & his back

  axle snapped like a rib. I’ve wrecked

  many machines & walked away whole,

  but this was different. The wheels

  of his auto unhinged & Moriaraty’s

  motorcar smashed into the back of mine.

  I wasn’t familiar with the girl sitting

  beside him, but she flew: past me, past

  the still-hurrying rabbit, past Tiny’s

  water pail back home that couldn’t

  move even if it wanted to.

  ALIAS

  John Arthur Johnson. Jack Johnson.

  ’Lil Artha. Jack Johnson. Tiny’s boy,

  Jack. Yellow-streak nigger. Bold

  Mistah Johnsingh. Jack Johnson.

  The Big Smoke. Jack Johnson. Flash

  nigger. The Big Cinder. Black animal.

  Jack. Texas Watermelon Picaninny.

  Mr. Johnsing. Colored man with cash.

  Colored Champion. The Colored Winner.

  Gentleman Jack. Jack Johnson. Galveston

  Giant. The Heavyweight Champion.

  Smoke. The Big Ethiopian. Fresh nigger.

  The Man They All Dodge. Papa Jack.

  Champion Jack. Johnson. Papa. Jack?

  HOSTILITIES

  Belle & I returned after a fine supper

  of roasted quail in the Crystal Dining

  Room. Hattie was waiting in the mauve

  hallway right outside our rooms.

  She was angry & rigid like one

  of those Buckingham guards when

  it’s raining. I don’t know why she came

  to San Francisco, but she wore the black

  lace dress I bought for her in London.

  The hem was ripped from some stumble

  along the way & the smell of sweat

  & beer hung on every word: Can we talk,

  Papa? That’s when she saw Belle.

  Naturally, there was a state of warfare

  between the women & like Napoleon,

  I smartly stayed out of the conflict. Belle

  laughed at Hattie, but kept an eye open

  while she did it. She was not concerned

  with Drunk Hattie’s words. She just

  wasn’t interested in meeting Drunk

  Hattie’s straight-razor accompaniment.

  FISTICUFF DIFFICULTY

  Excerpt from Belle Schreiber’s interview with Agent T. S. Marshall. October 30, 1912

  When did Mr. Johnson begin beating you?

  The first time, it was a Sunday morning. He was on top. He thrust into me with all his weight, then slapped me because he said I didn’t love him enough.

  How often did he beat you?

  Not every day. But the last time, he beat me with the tool for his Flyer until I was willing to let him do what he wanted.

  Since he’s a Negro and a prize fighter, you knew he had a violent temperament.

  I knew violence was in him, but I didn’t know what he was capable of. One time, he took me to see Etta in the hospital. She was asleep and her face was lumpy like a sack of potatoes. He told me, “This is what happens if you don’t do what Papa says.”

  Did you ever fear for your life?

  There were times I thought he loved me enough to kill me. When he was on top, he would squint his eyes like he was looking into the sun. As soon as his gold teeth started grinding against his bottom teeth, I covered my face with my arms. Papa never said he was sorry after he beat me. He’d smile that gold smile and say, “I am a prince, ain’t I?” Then he’d go soak his hands in cold water.

  BET YOUR LAST COPPER

  GOLD SMILE

  Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world:

  —Henry VI

  They call teeth dent in France, & the name

  makes sense the way teeth do what they do

  to bacon & shoulders & cakes. The French

  word for gold is or, so when the folks in Paris

  describe my smile it sounds like what

  happens when I punch a door: dents d’or.

  Dents d’or, the French children say when

  I open wide. Dents d’or, Etta says when she

  locks herself in the powder room. Tommy

  Burns said dents d’or when I was hooking him

  into asking for forgiveness. His people back

  in Canada would have said the same thing

  if they were in Sydney to witness our spectacle.

  Before we got into the ring, I told Tommy

  the only reason I got gold uppers was to make

  every bite of my food twice as expensive.

  FIDELITY

  Etta Duryea

  Papa loves Il Trovatore,

  so he understood what I

  meant when I said, Di

  geloso amor sprezzato.

  He grabbed my arm

  like it was an engine wrench

  & began to twist. His face

  screwed up like an engine

  wrench. He said, I’m leaving

  this, & did quickly, the same

  way an engine unhinged

  from its automobile

  leaves everything it loves.

  LETTER TO BELLE (DECEMBER 3, 1910)

  Belle,

  I do not think you are pregnant but only you know the truth. That is why I did not cut you at the hotel. Pretending like you were not scared. I saw it. I wanted to take my razor and cut your smile like a summer melon. No imaginary baby can stop Papa from marrying Etta. She is society and that is what he wants. None of the tricks the Everleigh sisters showed you can make you a real lady. Papa has been good to us. Leave them be.

  Hattie

  OUT OF THE BATH

  Etta thinks I’m out driving & she gets

  out of the bath to reach the towel I moved

  as a joke. I didn’t expect to be in our rooms

  when she finished bathing. But I am,

  watching while her foot searches marble

  uncertainly, like a foal working the hard

  way up to standing. Etta is singing, Donna

  s’avanza, donna s’avanza, from “Stride

  la vampa.” Her voice sounds like the water

  dripping on marble, only with a breeze

  pushing it. The other foot follows, adds

  more water around the bathtub’s feet.

  Hotel baths always leak. Bathwater drips

  down her leisurely, the same way my fingers

  touch her leg under the table during dinner.

  Etta wraps a towel around her middle

  & I want to pull it off. Those white towels

  are the real reason we stay in hotels

  that will have us, even when we have to pay

  the colored tax. Fresh from her bath, Etta

  sings, Lieta in sembianza, & I could

  accompany her if I had my bass. She is

  drying her left knee, then her right, on up

  to the insides of her thighs. La tetra fiamma

  che s�
�alza, che s’alza al ciel. She saves the hair

  down there for last, & now water covers all

  the marble around the bath. That is when

  Etta sees me watching & colors the same

  red as a sunset—What are you looking at?—

  before dashing behind the dressing screen.

  “CAREFREE AS A PLANTATION DARKY IN WATERMELON TIME”

  Jim Jeffries worked the corner the night

  I fought his little brother, Jack. He saw up

  close how my fists can put a man to sleep

  like the sun going down. The younger

  Jeffries was a game fighter, but he had

  no elasticity & limited self-knowledge.

  I knew he couldn’t stand in the ring

  with me & decided before the fight

  to knock him out in the fifth round. I sealed

  my prediction in an envelope & gave it

  to a reporter for safekeeping. As I predicted,

  I put Jack down at the beginning of Round

  Five. Naturally, I was surprised to find I was

  a ten-to-four underdog to the older Jeffries.

  The same man who retired immediately

  after he saw me in action. I don’t care if Jim

  did keep a grizzly as a pet: I’m going

  to make a whole lot of money betting on

  myself. If I felt any better, I’d be afraid

  of myself. I’m so fast I only got my shadow

  to spar with & most times, it don’t keep

  up either. So I shoot craps to train my fists.

  I play the fiddle to train my eyes.

  I play baseball to get ready for bed.

  When I drive my Flyer over the red rises

  into that Reno sunset, everybody from

  Philadelphia to Australia will see Jack

  Johnson is taking his machine for a ride.

  SHADOW BOXING

  If it was my decision, I would

  drive my Flyer instead of doing

  this roadwork. It’s not just

  the training I’ve lost interest in.

  It is the ring itself. Shadow,

  you look bored, too. Every day,

  the great, uphill battle of medicine