Invisible man

            And again, as Clifton looked gravely down he seemed to ask a silent question.

            "Let's go," I said. "Let's go!"

            We started away as the screams of sirens sounded, Clifton cursing quietly to himself.

            Then we were out of the dark onto a busy street and he turned to me. There were tears in his eyes.

            "That poor, misguided son of a bitch," he said.

            "He thinks a lot of you, too," I said. I was glad to be out of the dark and away from that exhorting voice.

            "The man's crazy," Clifton said. "It'll run you crazy if you let it."

            "Where'd he get that name?" I said.

            "He gave it to himself. I guess he did. Ras is a title of respect in the East. It's a wonder he didn't say something about 'Ethiopia stretching forth her wings,' " he said, mimicking Ras. "He makes it sound like the hood of a cobra fluttering . . . I don't know . . . I don't know . . ."

            "We'll have to watch him now," I said.

            "Yes, we'd better," he said. "He won't stop fighting . . . And thanks for getting rid of his knife."

            "You didn't have to worry," I said. "He wouldn't kill his king."

            He turned and looked at me as though he thought I might mean it; then he smiled.

            "For a while there I thought I was gone," he said.

            As we headed for the district office I wondered what Brother Jack would say about the fight.

            "We'll have to overpower him with organization," I said.

            "We'll do that, all right. But it's on the inside that Ras is strong," Clifton said. "On the inside he's dangerous."

            "He won't get on the inside," I said. "He'd consider himself a traitor."

            "No," Clifton said, "he won't get on the inside. Did you hear how he was talking? Did you hear what he was saying?"

            "I heard him, sure," I said.

            "I don't know," he said. "I suppose sometimes a man has to plunge outside history . . ."

            "What?"

            "Plunge outside, turn his back . . . Otherwise he might kill somebody, go nuts."

            I didn't answer. Maybe he's right, I thought, and was suddenly very glad I had found Brotherhood.

            The next morning it rained and I reached the district before the others arrived and stood looking through the window of my office, past the jutting wall of a building, and on beyond the monotonous pattern of its bricks and mortar I saw a row of trees rising tall and graceful in the rain. One tree grew close by and I could see the rain streaking its bark and its sticky buds. Trees were rowed the length of the long block beyond me, rising tall in dripping wetness above a series of cluttered backyards. And it occurred to me that cleared of its ramshackle fences and planted with flowers and grass, it might form a pleasant park. And just then a paper bag sailed from a window to my left and burst like a silent grenade, scattering garbage into the trees and pancaking to earth with a soggy, exhausted plop! I started with disgust, then thought, The sun will shine in those backyards some day. A community clean-up campaign might be worthwhile for a slack season, at that. Everything couldn't possibly be as exciting as last night.

            Turning back to my desk I sat facing the map now as Brother Tarp appeared.

            "Morning, son, I see you already on the job," he said.

            "Good morning. I have so much to do that I thought I'd better get started early," I said.

            "You'll do all right," he said. "But I didn't come in here to take up your time, I want to put something on the wall."

            "Go right ahead. Can I give you a hand?"

            "No, I can make it all right," he said, clambering with his lame leg upon a chair that sat beneath the map and hanging a frame from the ceiling molding, straightening it carefully, and getting down to come over beside my desk.

            "Son, you know who that is?"

            "Why, yes," I said, "it's Frederick Douglass."

            "Yessir, that's just who it is. You know much about him?"

            "Not much. My grandfather used to tell me about him though."

            "That's enough. He was a great man. You just take a look at him once in a while. You have everything you need -- paper and stuff like that?"

            "Yes, I have, Brother Tarp. And thanks for the portrait of Douglass."

            "Don't thank me, son," he said from the door. "He belongs to all of us."

            I sat now facing the portrait of Frederick Douglass, feeling a sudden piety, remembering and refusing to hear the echoes of my grandfather's voice. Then I picked up the telephone and began calling the community leaders.