“They are more dangerous than a Indian,” said Simple, “also I do not want no pretty woman. First thing you know, you fall in love with her—then you got to kill somebody about her. She’ll make you so jealous you’ll bust! A pretty woman will get a man in trouble. Me and my Indian blood, quick-tempered as I is. No! I do not crave a pretty woman.”

“Joyce is certainly not bad-looking,” I said. “You hang around her all the time.”

“She is far from a Creole. Besides, she appreciates me,” said Simple. “Joyce knows I got Indian blood which makes my temper bad. But we take each other as we is. I respect her and she respects me.”

“That’s the way it should be with the whole world,” I said. “Therefore, you and Joyce are setting a fine example in these days of trials and tribulations. Everybody should take each other as they are, white, black, Indians, Creole. Then there would be no prejudice, nations would get along.”

“Some folks do not see it like that,” said Simple. “For instant, my landlady—and my wife. Isabel could never get along with me. That is why we are not together today.”

“I’m not talking personally,” I said, “so why bring in your wife?”

“Getting along starts with persons, don’t it?” asked Simple. “You must include my wife. That woman got my Indian blood so riled up one day I thought I would explode.”

“I still say, I’m not talking personally.”

“Then stop talking,” exploded Simple, “because with me it is personal. Facts, I cannot even talk about my wife if I don’t get personal. That’s how it is if you’re part Indian—everything is personal. Heap much personal.”

A Toast to Harlem

A Toast to Harlem

QUIET can seem unduly loud at times. Since nobody at the bar was saying a word during a lull in the bright blues-blare of the Wishing Well’s usually overworked juke box, I addressed my friend Simple.

“Since you told me last night you are an Indian, explain to me how it is you find yourself living in a furnished room in Harlem, my brave buck, instead of on a reservation?”

“I am a colored Indian,” said Simple.

“In other words, a Negro.”

“A Black Foot Indian, daddy-o, not a red one. Anyhow, Harlem is the place I always did want to be. And if it wasn’t for landladies, I would be happy. That’s a fact! I love Harlem.”

“What is it you love about Harlem?”

“It’s so full of Negroes,” said Simple. “I feel like I got protection.”

“From what?”

“From white folks,” said Simple. “Furthermore, I like Harlem because it belongs to me.”

“Harlem does not belong to you. You don’t own the houses in Harlem. They belong to white folks.”