“I don’t want her to catch pneumonia,” said Simple, “but I ain’t gonna buy her no fur coat.”

“A fur coat would have made a nice gift for Christmas. By the way, what did you give Joyce?”

“A genuine pressure-cooker-roasting-oven to cook chickens, since I like them. It cost me fifteen dollars, too. But when I was back in the kitchen Christmas Eve mixing drinks she came in and gave me one of them cold-roll-your-eyes looks and said real sweet-like, ‘It’s just what I wanted—except that I’ve got too many cooking utensils now to be just rooming—and that cute little fur jacket I showed you last week would’ve looked so nice on me.’”

“What did Joyce give you for Christmas?” I asked.

“A carton of her favorite brand of cigarettes. Ain’t that just like a woman? Then she comes wanting a fur coat.”

“Well, even dogs have fur coats. I see in the papers where a downtown store is advertising fur wrappers especially for dogs, priced up to Two Thousand Dollars. If someone would pay that much for a fur coat for a dog, it looks as though you might consider one for Joyce.”

“Man, the rich peoples that buy them expensive dog-jackets have paid Two Thousand Bucks for their dog in the first place. To have a fur coat like that, the dog is bound to be a thorough-bred-pedigreedy-canine dog. They ain’t buying fur wrap-arounds for no mutt. They got their investment to protect. But Joyce ain’t cost me nothing. Money couldn’t buy that girl. I met her on a Negro Actors’ Guild public boat ride when the moon were shining over Bear Mountain. She just floated into my life—free. And took up with me for the sake of love.”

“So you would value a dog more than the woman who is your friend?”

“I do not have a dog, and if I did, as sure as my name is Jess Semple, I would not buy it no fur coat—a dog has its own fur. And unless Joyce raises herself some foxes, she will not get any, neither. I won’t buy a human nor a dog a fur coat this winter.”

“Why don’t you just say you can’t buy a fur coat?”

“You have hit the nail on the head. I have just cash enough for one more beer. You have that glass on me.”

“No, thanks.”

“Then I will have a bottle on you,” said Simple, “before I go out in the cold. The Lord should have fixed it so humans can grow fur in the winter time—instead of buying it.… Hey, Bud, a bottle of Bud!”

Jealousy

Jealousy

“THAT Joyce,” said Simple, “is not a drinking woman—for which I love her. But if she wasn’t my girl friend, I swear she would make me madder than she do sometimes.”