Invisible man

            "A man's dying outside!" I said.

            "Someone is always dying," the other one said.

            "Yes, and it's good to die beneath God's great tent of sky."

            "He's got to have some whiskey!"

            "Oh, that's different," one of them said and they began pushing a path to the bar. "A last bright drink to keep the anguish down. Step aside, please!"

            "School-boy, you back already?" Halley said.

            "Give me some whiskey. He's dying!"

            "I done told you, school-boy, you better bring him in here. He can die, but I still got to pay my bills."

            "Please, they'll put me in jail."

            "You going to college, figure it out," he said.

            "You'd better bring the gentleman inside," the one called Sylvester said. "Come, let us assist you."

            We fought our way out of the crowd. He was just as I left him.

            "Look, Sylvester, it's Thomas Jefferson!"

            "I was just about to say, I've long wanted to discourse with him."

            I looked at them speechlessly; they were both crazy. Or were they joking?

            "Give me a hand," I said.

            "Gladly."

            I shook him. "Mr. Norton!"

            "We'd better hurry if he's to enjoy his drink," one of them said thoughtfully.

            We picked him up. He swung between us like a sack of old clothes.

            "Hurry!"

            As we carried him toward the Golden Day one of the men stopped suddenly and Mr. Norton's head hung down, his white hair dragging in the dust.

            "Gentlemen, this man is my grandfather!"

            "But he's white, his name's Norton."

            "I should know my own grandfather! He's Thomas Jefferson and I'm his grandson -- on the 'field-nigger' side," the tall man said.

            "Sylvester, I do believe that you're right. I certainly do," he said, staring at Mr. Norton. "Look at those features. Exactly like yours -- from the identical mold. Are you sure he didn't spit you upon the earth, fully clothed?"

            "No, no, that was my father," the man said earnestly.

            And he began to curse his father violently as we moved for the door. Halley was there waiting. Somehow he'd gotten the crowd to quiet down and a space was cleared in the center of the room. The men came close to look at Mr. Norton.

            "Somebody bring a chair."

            "Yeah, let Mister Eddy sit down."

            "That ain't no Mister Eddy, man, that's John D. Rockefeller," someone said.

            "Here's a chair for the Messiah."

            "Stand back y'all," Halley ordered. "Give him some room."

            Burnside, who had been a doctor, rushed forward and felt for Mr. Norton's pulse.

            "It's solid! This man has a solid pulse! Instead of beating, it vibrates. That's very unusual. Very."

            Someone pulled him away. Halley reappeared with a bottle and a glass. "Here, some of y'all tilt his head back."

            And before I could move, a short, pock-marked man appeared and took Mr. Norton's head between his hands, tilting it at arm's length and then, pinching the chin gently like a barber about to apply a razor, gave a sharp, swift movement.

            "Pow!"

            Mr. Norton's head jerked like a jabbed punching bag. Five pale red lines bloomed on the white cheek, glowing like fire beneath translucent stone. I could not believe my eyes. I wanted to run. A woman tittered. I saw several men rush for the door.

            "Cut it out, you damn fool!"

            "A case of hysteria," the pock-marked man said quietly.

            "Git the hell out of the way," Halley said. "Somebody git that stool-pigeon attendant from upstairs. Git him down here, quick!"

            "A mere mild case of hysteria," the pock-marked man said as they pushed him away.

            "Hurry with the drink, Halley!"

            "Heah, school-boy, you hold the glass. This here's brandy I been saving for myself."

            Someone whispered tonelessly into my ear, "You see, I told you that it would occur at 5:30. Already the Creator has come." It was the stolid-faced man.

            I saw Halley tilt the bottle and the oily amber of brandy sloshing into the glass. Then tilting Mr. Norton's head back, I put the glass to his lips and poured. A fine brown stream ran from the corner of his mouth, down his delicate chin. The room was suddenly quiet. I felt a slight movement against my hand, like a child's breast when it whimpers at the end of a spell of crying. The fine-veined eyelids flickered. He coughed. I saw a slow red flush creep, then spurt, up his neck, spreading over his face.

            "Hold it under his nose, school-boy. Let 'im smell it."

            I waved the glass beneath Mr. Norton's nose. He opened his pale blue eyes. They seemed watery now in the red flush that bathed his face. He tried to sit up, his right hand fluttering to his chin. His eyes widened, moved quickly from face to face. Then coming to mine, the moist eyes focused with recognition.

            "You were unconscious, sir," I said.

            "Where am I, young man?" he asked wearily.

            "This is the Golden Day, sir."

            "What?"

            "The Golden Day. It's a kind of sporting-and-gambling house," I added reluctantly.

            "Now give him another drinka brandy," Halley said.

            I poured a drink and handed it to him. He sniffed it, closed his eyes as in puzzlement, then drank; his cheeks filled out like small bellows; he was rinsing his mouth.

            "Thank you," he said, a little stronger now. "What is this place?"

            "The Golden Day," said several patients in unison.