Invisible man

            Then I was back in the street and moving toward the subway. My eyes adjusted quickly; the world took on a dark-green intensity, the lights of cars glowed like stars, faces were a mysterious blur; the garish signs of movie houses muted down to a soft sinister glowing. I headed back for Ras's meeting with a bold swagger. This was the real test, if it worked I would go on to Hambro's without further trouble. In the angry period to come I would be able to move about.

            A couple of men approached, eating up the walk with long jaunty strides that caused their heavy silk sport shirts to flounce rhythmically upon their bodies. They too wore dark glasses, their hats were set high upon their heads, the brims turned down. A couple of hipsters, I thought, just as they spoke.

            "What you sayin', daddy-o," they said.

            "Rinehart, poppa, tell us what you putting down," they said.

            Oh, hell, they're probably his friends, I thought, waving and moving on.

            "We know what you're doing, Rinehart," one of them called. "Play it cool, ole man, play it cool!"

            I waved again as though in on the joke. They laughed behind me. I was nearing the end of the block now, wet with sweat. Who was this Rinehart and what was he putting down? I'd have to learn more about him to avoid further misidentifications . . .

            A car passed with its radio blaring. Ahead I could hear the Exhorter barking harshly to the crowd. Then I was moving close, and coming to a stop conspicuously in the space left for pedestrians to pass through the crowd. To the rear they were lined up two deep before the store windows. Before me the listeners merged in a green-tinted gloom. The Exhorter gestured violently, blasting the Brotherhood.

            "The time for ahction is here. We mahst chase them out of Harlem," he cried. And for a second I thought he had caught me in the sweep of his eyes, and tensed.

            "Ras said chase them! It is time Ras the Exhorter become Ras the Destroyer!"

            Shouts of agreement arose and I looked behind me, seeing the men who had followed me and thinking, What did he mean, destroyer?

            "I repeat, black ladies and gentlemahn, the time has come for ahction! I, Ras the Destroyer, repeat, the time has come!"

            I trembled with excitement; they hadn't recognized me. It works, I thought. They see the hat, not me. There is a magic in it. It hides me right in front of their eyes . . . But suddenly I wasn't sure. With Ras calling for the destruction of everything white in Harlem, who could notice me? I needed a better test. If I was to carry out my plan . . . What plan? Hell, I don't know, come on . . .

            I weaved out of the crowd and left, heading for Hambro's.

            A group of zoot-suiters greeted me in passing. "Hey now, daddy-o," they called. "Hey now!"

            "Hey now!" I said.

            It was as though by dressing and walking in a certain way I had enlisted in a fraternity in which I was recognized at a glance -- not by features, but by clothes, by uniform, by gait. But this gave rise to another uncertainty. I was not a zoot-suiter, but a kind of politician. Or was I? What would happen in a real test? What about the fellows who'd been so insulting at the Jolly Dollar? I was halfway across Eighth Avenue at the thought and retraced my steps, running for an uptown bus.

            There were many of the regular customers draped around the bar. The room was crowded and Barrelhouse was on duty. I could feel the frame of the glasses cutting into the ridge of my nose as I tilted my hat and squeezed up to the bar. Barrelhouse looked at me roughly, his lips pushed out.

            "What brand you drinking tonight, Poppa-stopper?" he said.

            "Make it Ballantine's," I said in my natural voice.

            I watched his eyes as he set the beer before me and slapped the bar with his enormous hand for his money. Then, my heart beating faster, I made my old gesture of payment, spinning the coin upon the bar and waited. The coin disappeared into his fist.

            "Thanks, pops," he said, moving on and leaving me puzzled. For there had been recognition of a kind in his voice but not for me. He never called me "pops" or "poppa-stopper." It's working, I thought, perhaps it's working very well.

            Certainly something was working on me, and profoundly. Still I was relieved. It was hot. Perhaps that was it. I drank the cold beer, looking back to the rear of the room to the booths. A crowd of men and women moiled like nightmare figures in the smoke-green haze. The juke box was dinning and it was like looking into the depths of a murky cave. And now someone moved aside and looking down along the curve of the bar past the bobbing heads and shoulders I saw the juke box, lit up like a bad dream of the Fiery Furnace, shouting:

                        Jelly, Jelly

                        Jelly,

                        All night long.

            And yet, I thought, watching a numbers runner paying off a bet, this is one place that the Brotherhood definitely penetrated. Let Hambro explain that, too, along with all the rest he'd have to explain.