Whereupon, his girl friend, a little put out at this ignorance of his job, said, “You’ve been working there long enough. Looks like by now you ought to know what them cranks crank.”

“Aw, woman,” he said, “you know white folks don’t tell colored folks what cranks crank.”

That was the beginning of Simple. I have long since lost track of the fellow who uttered those words. But out of the mystery as to what the cranks of this world crank, to whom they belong and why, there evolved the character in this book, wondering and laughing at the numerous problems of white folks, colored folks, and just folks—including himself. He talks about the wife he used to have, the woman he loves today, and his one-time play-girl, Zarita. Usually over a glass of beer, he tells me his tales, mostly in high humor, but sometimes with a pain in his soul as sharp as the occasional hurt of that bunion on his right foot. Sometimes, as the old blues says, Simple might be “laughing to keep from crying.” But even then, he keeps you laughing, too. If there were not a lot of genial souls in Harlem as talkative as Simple, I would never have these tales to write down that are “just like him.” He is my ace-boy, Simple. I hope you like him, too.

LANGSTON HUGHES

New York City

August 1961

Feet Live Their Own Life

Feet Live Their Own Life

“IF YOU want to know about my life,” said Simple as he blew the foam from the top of the newly filled glass the bartender put before him, “don’t look at my face, don’t look at my hands. Look at my feet and see if you can tell how long I been standing on them.”

“I cannot see your feet through your shoes,” I said.

“You do not need to see through my shoes,” said Simple. “Can’t you tell by the shoes I wear—not pointed, not rocking-chair, not French-toed, not nothing but big, long, broad, and flat—that I been standing on these feet a long time and carrying some heavy burdens? They ain’t flat from standing at no bar, neither, because I always sets at a bar. Can’t you tell that? You know I do not hang out in a bar unless it has stools, don’t you?”

“That I have observed,” I said, “but I did not connect it with your past life.”

“Everything I do is connected up with my past life,” said Simple. “From Virginia to Joyce, from my wife to Zarita, from my mother’s milk to this glass of beer, everything is connected up.”

“I trust you will connect up with that dollar I just loaned you when you get paid,” I said. “And who is Virginia? You never told me about her.”