Gingerbread Nigger
(Ashley Walsh)
The fall of 1866
“Don’t kid me, kid!” said Rosalina suspiciously.
“Why should I try,” said Ashley.
“What you got?” asked Rosalina Tapi.
“The Mayor,” I had him today, “why?”
“Bring it out?” Rosalina said to Ashley harshly.
“Take it easy,” Ashley said. “Why do you try to get so tough?” she stepped over Rosalina’s nightgown, as she walked forward.
As Ashley had come to New Orleans a year ago looking for a job, she got involved with Rosalina Tapi, a prostitute, they had their own business now, and shared all the monies: fifty, fifty, and they shared everything else equally. Ashley was a pretty black girl, a lightly colored black girl, so lightly colored that Rosalina called her the gingerbread nigger from the cotton belt.
Rosalina was nearer forty years old and it showed—wrinkles way beyond the eyes, like tributaries from the Mississippi River, that extended nearby her ears, and her forehead have deep fissures, a white girl that had left home at fourteen years old just like Ashley (her mother had married a Peruvian, acquiring that last name), and started her own business; Ashley was fifteen now.
“You got the money?” asked Rosalina, “I know the Mayor pays well, he used to be my customer.”
“I tell you,” said Ashley, “if you make a mistake with me, I’ll leave you” (but what she really meant is what she didn’t say, and the threat was: if you really bother me about this money, I’ll kill you, like I had Josh Washington Jefferson killed) she said it in a gruff tone.
“Oh shut up. You’re greedy. Every time you get a good customer you want to keep it all: I advise you not to do something you can’t undo later, my little gingerbread nigger!” And she paced nervously around Ashley’s room, murmuring ‘…damn coon, damn coon….”
“Have a drink,” said Ashley; looking out across Bourbon Street from the second story window, she didn’t expect Rosalina to get so upset.
“The hell with it,” said Rosalina, “you think because you’re young and pretty you can get away with it, but I’ll get even someday with you. I don’t want any of the mayor’s money—just keep it, but you better pay me the fifty percent of everyone else’s…!”
“I’ll make more money later, don’t worry,” Ashley said in a condescending tone.
She sat at the end of her bed, the light on now, it was dusk and she was holding her two one-hundred dollar bills she got from the mayor in her hands, holding it as if she had never seen so much money before at any one given time except for the thirty pieces of gold she stole from the Hightower plantation in Ozark, Alabama.
“It would be a pretty night to walk the streets,” suggested Rosalina. “As soon as this afterglow is gone,” meaning her scotch whiskey, she liked her drinking as much as Old Josh Jefferson from the Hightower plantation like his, back in Ozark, which got him, killed.
“Damn,” said Rosalina, “this is better than that crappy moonshine you niggers get up in Alabama,” Rosalina was white.
“That’s a rough mayor,” said Ashley, “He wants me again tonight, later on.” She lit a cigarette and smoked in the half dark.
“You’re doing all right,” said Rosalina, “you’re doing better than I expected, I don’t want to fight with you, just be careful of the mayor. The smoother everything goes the better.”
“Bring me back a sandwich?” asked Ashley. Rosalina was getting ready to go find a new customer.
“I’ll bring two, give one to your partner, if it’s the mayor!” said Rosalina. “Remember he likes his drinking. He won’t eat perhaps but, give it to him anyway. What about you?”
“After having sex, I get seasick,” and Rosalina started laughing, and said “I ain’t never heard of that before.”
“I enjoy it,” the girl said. “If it wasn’t for being seasick, I could do it all day long, without a rest.”
“Just be careful, and don’t get yourself killed in the process,” and Rosalina got laughing again, the scotch was getting to her.
“I hope not,” said Ashley.
“You are one hell of a good-looking girl,” said Rosalina, “all the men and the mayor say they like what they see from the ground up. And I reckon, I’d agree with them, yes, I’d say they are right, it’s just a shame you were born colored instead of white, but I guess that don’t much bother any of the customers behind closed doors, they are crazier than a hooting-owl over you, matter-of-fact, some of them make a fool out of themselves over you. Now what do you think of that?”
She didn’t say a word, it was as if she knew it already, and she had plans, yes, plans like she had with Josh Jefferson, long before Josh or anyone could figure out she had plans.
“How did that Josh character you were talking about, who liked to drink as much as me, get him-self killed? I remember you talking about him before, that he was one hell of a good lover?”
“I guess you can imagine,” the girl said. “He was very different, I feel badly about that. He didn’t mean to do wrong, but it’s just what that phase of life does to a man, and he was old, had a heart trouble, and died on top of me.”
“I guess he’s probably a good fellow,” Rosalina said, and thought.
Ashley got thinking: ‘…listen to what my mouth is saying, it will say anything, get me in trouble.’
“We are the only true revolutionary whores is town, since the end of the Civil War. The War did away with most of the old politicians, now we see American imperialism on the rise, and we can become rich,” but Ashley had thought she was already rich; she had saved up $1000-dollars. “We ought to start clean and give every politician a free toss in the hay, a chance to get to know us, and then charge them the next time, kind of a pulling in gift,” said Rosalina.”
“Slavery ended a year ago for me, the peasants, is on the move, and I want to be an owner of a big cotton or sugar estate someday, like the Hightower’s or Smiley’s up in Ozark. I don’t want to end up like Old Josh and those folks out by Ozark, picking cotton every year for pennies.”
Rosalina looked up from her watch, a gift from the old Mayor, before this new one came into office. And she got thinking of how Ashley comes on; like she used to nearly twenty-five years ago, but there was a danger in Ashley she figured.
“To raise money like you’re talking about,” Rosalina said “to do that you have to use means that later on would never be used. Also you have to use people we would not normally use.”
“But the end is worth it,” said Ashley.
‘She’s a radical,’ Rosalina told herself. ‘And she’s telling me too much, she thinks I agree with her, let her go on, and she’ll tell it all.’
“I guess you got some good plans,” she said to Ashley.
“If you’re out to helping me…” and she hesitated, thinking, she only needed her help now, she’d not need it in another year or so, so she hushed up.
“Lots of people I know would be willing to help us in any of our plans together, as long as they got a payoff sooner or later…” said Rosalina. But because of the state of movements she wanted to take—referring to Ashley—she could not trust her any longer—she was just bating her, plus she knew she had saved $1000-dollars up, and had $200-dollars tucked into her dress, close to her small bosoms, and she knew Ashley had her own plans now, and therefore, she had made her mind up.
“I guess they’re plenty bad men out there,” said Ashley.
“Oh, yes, plenty, absolutely murderous tyranny that goes over every little street in this city, every alley and side street in the city. Everyone in this city is out to make their fortunes, even private soldiers, and ship captains.”
“Bully for them,” Ashley said condescendingly (having heard that expression from some English customer a week ago or so).
“You cannot realize how bad it is,” said Rosalina. “I hated Ozark and the cotton country, that is the worse of all being a slave,” said Ashley.
“Do you think you’re from tyranny now? You do things you hate a thousands times more, do you not?”
“I want a drink,” said Ashley, who normally didn’t drink, and Rosalina fixed her a scotch and water, put a little dab of something in it, and gave it to her. For the most part, Ashley didn’t want to give Rosalina any clues to her tactics, or way of thinking, but it was hard for her not to be indifferent, but she was now trying to produce a peace-making attitude, to eliminate any inference she might be making.
“Are you sure,” said Rosalina, “you usually don’t drink.” And she replied, “It’s only 11:25 p.m.,” he’ll not be here until 1:00 a.m., or so,” and Rosalina handed her the drink slowly, almost dropping it on purpose, almost pulling it away deliberately, Ashley thinking it was due to her being skeptical about being too drunk when the Mayor showed up, but it was far from that of course, much more to be said about this moment—than met the eye.
It got dark and there was quietness to the place. She went down to the dock area, found an old friend, Captain Ashton Tyron Peron, who was headed out to sea at 3:00 a.m., fishing in the gulf for a long spell. A dear friend and customer of Rosalina; the captain sat with his feet on a wooden large barrow of wine, “What can I do for yaw, Rosalina?”
“Let me have some of that wine you’re drinking, first,” she said, and sat down with the Captain.
He was a big-faced fellow. “All right, what is it?”
She drank a few more swigs of the wine, and said, “Now is a good time to tell you, no sense in waiting. That Little girl I hired a year ago, I found out she killed an old man up in Ozark, I hired someone to go check on her about six months ago, some old cottager they call the Ghost told my man that, and I gave him a $20-dollar gold piece for the information, exactly what he asked for. I get the feeling she’s using me and going to kill me first chance she gets. I gave her a drop of an old paralyzing formula, in her drink, it knocked her out, take her out to sea with you, I’ll sell her to yaw for $500-dollars, and you don’t bring her back, when you’re done with her, throw her overboard, right into the sea. Keep her on that ship until you’re tired of her. I want to have a good night’s sleep. And there ain’t no one going to miss that little gingerbread nigger whore anyhow, noway.”
The captain walked with Rosalina on board the vessel, opened the hatch, and stepped on down, looked about, made some room for a bed, and brought a cot now into the hole, “This will have to do I guess…I’ll have to pay you when I get back, ain’t got the money now, but you know I’m good for it.”
Walking off the ship, he looked back at the hatch, “Come on now, let’s go get her, quite stalling,” she said.
“I ain’t stalling,” said the Captain, “just doing a heap of thinking!”
(Ashley Walsh)
The fall of 1866
“Don’t kid me, kid!” said Rosalina suspiciously.
“Why should I try,” said Ashley.
“What you got?” asked Rosalina Tapi.
“The Mayor,” I had him today, “why?”
“Bring it out?” Rosalina said to Ashley harshly.
“Take it easy,” Ashley said. “Why do you try to get so tough?” she stepped over Rosalina’s nightgown, as she walked forward.
As Ashley had come to New Orleans a year ago looking for a job, she got involved with Rosalina Tapi, a prostitute, they had their own business now, and shared all the monies: fifty, fifty, and they shared everything else equally. Ashley was a pretty black girl, a lightly colored black girl, so lightly colored that Rosalina called her the gingerbread nigger from the cotton belt.
Rosalina was nearer forty years old and it showed—wrinkles way beyond the eyes, like tributaries from the Mississippi River, that extended nearby her ears, and her forehead have deep fissures, a white girl that had left home at fourteen years old just like Ashley (her mother had married a Peruvian, acquiring that last name), and started her own business; Ashley was fifteen now.
“You got the money?” asked Rosalina, “I know the Mayor pays well, he used to be my customer.”
“I tell you,” said Ashley, “if you make a mistake with me, I’ll leave you” (but what she really meant is what she didn’t say, and the threat was: if you really bother me about this money, I’ll kill you, like I had Josh Washington Jefferson killed) she said it in a gruff tone.
“Oh shut up. You’re greedy. Every time you get a good customer you want to keep it all: I advise you not to do something you can’t undo later, my little gingerbread nigger!” And she paced nervously around Ashley’s room, murmuring ‘…damn coon, damn coon….”
“Have a drink,” said Ashley; looking out across Bourbon Street from the second story window, she didn’t expect Rosalina to get so upset.
“The hell with it,” said Rosalina, “you think because you’re young and pretty you can get away with it, but I’ll get even someday with you. I don’t want any of the mayor’s money—just keep it, but you better pay me the fifty percent of everyone else’s…!”
“I’ll make more money later, don’t worry,” Ashley said in a condescending tone.
She sat at the end of her bed, the light on now, it was dusk and she was holding her two one-hundred dollar bills she got from the mayor in her hands, holding it as if she had never seen so much money before at any one given time except for the thirty pieces of gold she stole from the Hightower plantation in Ozark, Alabama.
“It would be a pretty night to walk the streets,” suggested Rosalina. “As soon as this afterglow is gone,” meaning her scotch whiskey, she liked her drinking as much as Old Josh Jefferson from the Hightower plantation like his, back in Ozark, which got him, killed.
“Damn,” said Rosalina, “this is better than that crappy moonshine you niggers get up in Alabama,” Rosalina was white.
“That’s a rough mayor,” said Ashley, “He wants me again tonight, later on.” She lit a cigarette and smoked in the half dark.
“You’re doing all right,” said Rosalina, “you’re doing better than I expected, I don’t want to fight with you, just be careful of the mayor. The smoother everything goes the better.”
“Bring me back a sandwich?” asked Ashley. Rosalina was getting ready to go find a new customer.
“I’ll bring two, give one to your partner, if it’s the mayor!” said Rosalina. “Remember he likes his drinking. He won’t eat perhaps but, give it to him anyway. What about you?”
“After having sex, I get seasick,” and Rosalina started laughing, and said “I ain’t never heard of that before.”
“I enjoy it,” the girl said. “If it wasn’t for being seasick, I could do it all day long, without a rest.”
“Just be careful, and don’t get yourself killed in the process,” and Rosalina got laughing again, the scotch was getting to her.
“I hope not,” said Ashley.
“You are one hell of a good-looking girl,” said Rosalina, “all the men and the mayor say they like what they see from the ground up. And I reckon, I’d agree with them, yes, I’d say they are right, it’s just a shame you were born colored instead of white, but I guess that don’t much bother any of the customers behind closed doors, they are crazier than a hooting-owl over you, matter-of-fact, some of them make a fool out of themselves over you. Now what do you think of that?”
She didn’t say a word, it was as if she knew it already, and she had plans, yes, plans like she had with Josh Jefferson, long before Josh or anyone could figure out she had plans.
“How did that Josh character you were talking about, who liked to drink as much as me, get him-self killed? I remember you talking about him before, that he was one hell of a good lover?”
“I guess you can imagine,” the girl said. “He was very different, I feel badly about that. He didn’t mean to do wrong, but it’s just what that phase of life does to a man, and he was old, had a heart trouble, and died on top of me.”
“I guess he’s probably a good fellow,” Rosalina said, and thought.
Ashley got thinking: ‘…listen to what my mouth is saying, it will say anything, get me in trouble.’
“We are the only true revolutionary whores is town, since the end of the Civil War. The War did away with most of the old politicians, now we see American imperialism on the rise, and we can become rich,” but Ashley had thought she was already rich; she had saved up $1000-dollars. “We ought to start clean and give every politician a free toss in the hay, a chance to get to know us, and then charge them the next time, kind of a pulling in gift,” said Rosalina.”
“Slavery ended a year ago for me, the peasants, is on the move, and I want to be an owner of a big cotton or sugar estate someday, like the Hightower’s or Smiley’s up in Ozark. I don’t want to end up like Old Josh and those folks out by Ozark, picking cotton every year for pennies.”
Rosalina looked up from her watch, a gift from the old Mayor, before this new one came into office. And she got thinking of how Ashley comes on; like she used to nearly twenty-five years ago, but there was a danger in Ashley she figured.
“To raise money like you’re talking about,” Rosalina said “to do that you have to use means that later on would never be used. Also you have to use people we would not normally use.”
“But the end is worth it,” said Ashley.
‘She’s a radical,’ Rosalina told herself. ‘And she’s telling me too much, she thinks I agree with her, let her go on, and she’ll tell it all.’
“I guess you got some good plans,” she said to Ashley.
“If you’re out to helping me…” and she hesitated, thinking, she only needed her help now, she’d not need it in another year or so, so she hushed up.
“Lots of people I know would be willing to help us in any of our plans together, as long as they got a payoff sooner or later…” said Rosalina. But because of the state of movements she wanted to take—referring to Ashley—she could not trust her any longer—she was just bating her, plus she knew she had saved $1000-dollars up, and had $200-dollars tucked into her dress, close to her small bosoms, and she knew Ashley had her own plans now, and therefore, she had made her mind up.
“I guess they’re plenty bad men out there,” said Ashley.
“Oh, yes, plenty, absolutely murderous tyranny that goes over every little street in this city, every alley and side street in the city. Everyone in this city is out to make their fortunes, even private soldiers, and ship captains.”
“Bully for them,” Ashley said condescendingly (having heard that expression from some English customer a week ago or so).
“You cannot realize how bad it is,” said Rosalina. “I hated Ozark and the cotton country, that is the worse of all being a slave,” said Ashley.
“Do you think you’re from tyranny now? You do things you hate a thousands times more, do you not?”
“I want a drink,” said Ashley, who normally didn’t drink, and Rosalina fixed her a scotch and water, put a little dab of something in it, and gave it to her. For the most part, Ashley didn’t want to give Rosalina any clues to her tactics, or way of thinking, but it was hard for her not to be indifferent, but she was now trying to produce a peace-making attitude, to eliminate any inference she might be making.
“Are you sure,” said Rosalina, “you usually don’t drink.” And she replied, “It’s only 11:25 p.m.,” he’ll not be here until 1:00 a.m., or so,” and Rosalina handed her the drink slowly, almost dropping it on purpose, almost pulling it away deliberately, Ashley thinking it was due to her being skeptical about being too drunk when the Mayor showed up, but it was far from that of course, much more to be said about this moment—than met the eye.
It got dark and there was quietness to the place. She went down to the dock area, found an old friend, Captain Ashton Tyron Peron, who was headed out to sea at 3:00 a.m., fishing in the gulf for a long spell. A dear friend and customer of Rosalina; the captain sat with his feet on a wooden large barrow of wine, “What can I do for yaw, Rosalina?”
“Let me have some of that wine you’re drinking, first,” she said, and sat down with the Captain.
He was a big-faced fellow. “All right, what is it?”
She drank a few more swigs of the wine, and said, “Now is a good time to tell you, no sense in waiting. That Little girl I hired a year ago, I found out she killed an old man up in Ozark, I hired someone to go check on her about six months ago, some old cottager they call the Ghost told my man that, and I gave him a $20-dollar gold piece for the information, exactly what he asked for. I get the feeling she’s using me and going to kill me first chance she gets. I gave her a drop of an old paralyzing formula, in her drink, it knocked her out, take her out to sea with you, I’ll sell her to yaw for $500-dollars, and you don’t bring her back, when you’re done with her, throw her overboard, right into the sea. Keep her on that ship until you’re tired of her. I want to have a good night’s sleep. And there ain’t no one going to miss that little gingerbread nigger whore anyhow, noway.”
The captain walked with Rosalina on board the vessel, opened the hatch, and stepped on down, looked about, made some room for a bed, and brought a cot now into the hole, “This will have to do I guess…I’ll have to pay you when I get back, ain’t got the money now, but you know I’m good for it.”
Walking off the ship, he looked back at the hatch, “Come on now, let’s go get her, quite stalling,” she said.
“I ain’t stalling,” said the Captain, “just doing a heap of thinking!”
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