By mile marker 80 R.C. was outright angry, a beehive riled by chainsaws.  He was angry that his alone time on the way to see Sukey in the hospital had been invaded by the two men sitting beside him in his cab.  How the hell was he to think clearly?  Scrivener was bad enough, but then this new guy, King.  He rode along with his head out the window half the time like some sort of hound wishing for a scent, or trying to avoid the one in the cab.  R.C. wasn’t sure what pissed him off more, that this guy was white or a preacher, or maybe just the combination of the two.  They can both kiss my ass.  It was the most comforting thought R.C. could conjure up.

He had woken up angry, burning that someone on his crew had gotten so badly injured in the first place.  He could hear the sound of the head saw slamming into the hickory and seizing the motor.  He had heard the accident before he saw a thing.  And dammit, it wasn’t the wood.  The wood was good, he had checked it.  He was angry he couldn’t figure out how it happened.  That morning he slid his tired and swollen feet into his boots determined to make someone pay.  It was then that he decided it was the day for him to eat lunch at the Coffee Cup, and so he did just that.

A dozen eyes traced his path from the front door to the booth with the worn out springs, the only one left open by half past noon on any day of the week.  Darlene had been the only employee willing to approach the grim looking black man with curled lips.  R.C. hunched forward with his elbows digging into the washed out surface of the table and his hands interwoven just below his chin which popped occasionally from gritted teeth.  He ordered and ate a egg-salad sandwich with home-style fries.

After, he took one of the toothpicks that had held the sandwich wedges together and sat there with his butt going numb from the bad springs and picked bits of egg and pickle from his teeth.  He made an effort to look slowly around the restaurant.  He sucked out and savored every bit of food and every last bitter stare.  The Coffee Cup was a white establishment, along with the rest of Main Street.  As far as he knew, no black had ever dared to eat there, or go in at all.  All the Negro businesses were limited to the east end of town and given the separate name of Allentown, when they weren’t referred to simply as nigger town.  There was an old narrow-gage railroad that divided them.  The rail used to connect with the Houston, East and West Texas Railway, but its only use now was segregation. 

He had noticed each and every glance and growl, whisper and curse during his casual lunch, and now he took the time to stare down anyone who had the courage to make their disdain personal, and there were plenty who wanted to make it very personal.  Finally, and without any hint of hurry, R.C. got up to pay his check, the check that the owner had brought over right after Darlene had dropped off his sandwich as subtle encouragement for him to leave.  Then R.C. left.  Conspirators, huddled in the corner, stopped their plotting just long enough to indicate with bloodlust eyes that the war had just begun.  As he let the door swing shut behind him, R.C. noticed Beau Randolph was among them.  The corner of R.C.’s lip twitched as he plunged from the raised walk out into the dripping, afternoon air.  He felt like a black Jesus Christ, born to flip over the money-changers’ tables and purge his father’s temple.  He felt like Cassius Clay hovering over his victims in the ring.

“Shit.”  The baddest and blackest gorilla on the block, he thumped his chest and headed back across the street to where he had parked, in front of Chatman’s General Store.  Halfway across the street, he noticed Scrivener leaning on the truck talking to a white man.  His anger hadn’t had any more time to settle than his egg-salad.

“Hello there, Mr. Charles,” Scrivener hailed R.C. as he crossed the dusty blacktop of Main Street.

“Scrivener.  What can I do ya’ for?  I trust you been staying out a trouble.”

“Well, Mr. Charles, you know I do my best not to mix none with trouble.”

“I know, Scriv.  What do ya’ need.”

“Well sir, I heard you on your way up to Memorial to check on Sukey.  I got me an errand up there and was a hopin’ to hitch a ride.”

“You know you can, Scrivener.  It ain’t even a thing.”  R.C. cursed his dumb luck under his breath.

Scrivener scuffed his heel at some gravel on the side of the road.  “But you see Mr. Charles, I gotta’ guest going to.”

“Stop being so coy, Scriv.  I reckon I noticed.”  R.C. stuck out his hand toward the sheepish white guy, who seemed to jerk his hand up more in self-defense than in greeting, and shook it firm one time.  Looking back at Scrivener he continued, “You know you can bring ‘em along.”  He turned away.  “Now get in while the sun’s still up.”  Scrivener nodded and directed King around to the passenger door.  As R.C. opened the driver’s door he added, “Damn, Scrivener.  You gotta’ loosen up.  It’s too dad-burn hot to be on such solemn errands.”