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"The Story of a Dead Man" Was Published in the 1978 Short Story Collection, Elbow Room by James Alan Mcpherson

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"The Story of a Dead Man" was published in the 1978 short story collection, Elbow Room by James Alan McPherson. That collection won the 1978 Pulitzer Prize for fiction the first awarded to an African American for fiction writing. Prof. McPherson taught at the prestigious Iowa Writer's Workshop at U of IA for decades, where he mentored some of our best living writers. He died in the summer of 2016. Please be aware: This story contains strong language, both racist and misogynistic. The story contains a degree of violence and criminality. Nonetheless, the story is profoundly humorous and humane. Please pay special attention to the way McPherson is using class distinctions in his story. -rgk The Story of a Dead Man 33 The Story way back from Harvey after reclaiming a defaulted of a Dead Man Chevy. Neither is it true, as certain of his enemies have maintained, that Billy's left eye was lost during a rumble with that red-neck storekeep outside Limehouse, South '- Carolina. That eye, I now have reason to believe, was lost during domestic troubles. That is quite another story. But I have this full account of the Limehouse difficulty: Billy had stopped off there en route to Charleston to repossess another defaulting car for this same Mr. Floyd Dil­ lingham. He entered the general store with the sole inten­ tion of buying a big orange soda. However, the owner of the joint, a die-hard white supremacist, refused to execute I T is not true that Billy Renfro was killed during that the transaction. Being naturally suspicious of governmen­ trouble in Houston. The man is an accomplished liar and tal intervention, Billy fell back on his own resources: He likes to keep his enemies nervous. It was he who spread reached for the .22 he carried under his shirt for just such this madness. The truth of what happened, he told me in dalliances. But the storekeep was too swift. While Billy's Chicago, was this: After tracking the debtor to a rented right hand was still moving cloth, the red-neck was room, Billy Renfro's common sense was overwhelmed by caressing the trigger of his Springfield and looking joyous. the romantic aspects of the adventure. That was why he "Private club, Mr. Nigger!'' the red-neck sang. Though he a liar and a madman, my cousin Billy Renfro is no fool. kicked open the door, charged boldly into the room, and is He allowed himself to be two-stepped and back-backed . shouted, "Monroe Ellis, give up Mr. Floyd's Cadillac that out of the place, the storekeep, of course, making all the you done miss nine payments on!" Unhappily for Billy, leading moves. As Billy sped off, the red-neck fired neither Monroe Ellis nor the woman with him was in the several rounds into the air and gave a hungry rebel yell. giving-up mood. The woman fired first, aiming from un­ Billy did not respond. derneath Ellis on the bed. Contrary to most reports, that On his return from Charleston, however, the defaulted bullet only wounded Billy's arm. It was one of the subse­ car reclaimed, be experienced an overpowering thirst fair a quent blasts from Monroe's .38 that entered Billy's side. · big orange soda. This thirst became obsessive as he But this wound did not slow Billy's retreat from the room, neared Limehouse. It was a bot, sleepy day, nearing sun­ the rooming house, or the city of Houston. He was alive set, and bis arrival at the general store went unnoticed. and fully recovered when I saw him in Chicago, on his · Billy was at the counter blowing gently on his .22 before 32 the storekeep could resurface from the reveries he en- 34 ELBOW ROOM The Story of a Dead Man 35 joyed, dozing in his wicker rocking chair. "Two big Billy swished his Scotch and drank it down, then orange sodas and a dill pickle!" my cousin ordered. Liar rapped the glass on the table to alert the barmaid. When that he is, he told me in Chicago that he belched non­ she looked, he pointed two fingers downward toward our chalantly before departing from the store. I do not believe glasses and kissed at her. Then, turning to focus his ~. but I believe him when he said he shot off five single, red-rimmed eye on my fac_e, he said, "Bullshit!" rounds, and gave a swamp cry, when he was in his car He was dressed in the black gabardine suit of an under­ and pointed toward Atlanta. Ah, Billy! It is part of his taker. Dried purple-black blood streaked his coat sleeves, style to add such touches. his black string tie, and the collars of the dirty white shirt I bother to refute these rumors because the man is my he wore. cousin, and I am honor-bound to love him as I know he "People change, Billy," I said. really is. He and I are one with the same ancestors, and ~'Bullshit!" Billy Renfro said. whatever fires rage in him I must look to find smolderings I looked closely at him and saw a gangster. He was not of within myself. Recognizing this obligation, I here at­ tha kind of man I wanted to meet my family. I glanced at tempt to deflate mean rumors circulated by his enemies, my watch and sipped my drink. I listened to his stories. cut through the fat of Billy's own lies, and lay bare the Billy spun his usual lies. muscles of his life. From youth onward, he has possessed a warm heart and a certain tolerance of misfortune; and This meeting in Chicago took place three years after he he is as likely, for a friend, to strip the shirt from his began work for this Mr. Dillingham, seven years after his back as he is to murder. That he contains such broad ex­ mother's death, and thirteen years after Billy, at seven­ tremes speaks favorably of his eventual reform. teen, went to prison for life. But I will speak here of his I myself have contributed considerable energy toward life before he went to prison, for insights into what he this goal. In Chicago, when we drank together in that dive might have become. His mother was my father's sister, on Halstead, I offered my best advice for whatever it was and both gave their first-born males the same treasured worth to him. "We are no longer young men," I said. family name. Both my cousin and I were named "The foam has settled down into the beer. I, myself, no "William" after our paternal grandfather, Willie Joe War­ longer chase women, speak hotly, challenge opinions too ner, a jackleg Baptist preacher. But because her child was far different from my own. I have learned it is to my ad­ somewhat older, Billy's mother claimed for him the more vantage to get along. Chelseia, the woman I plan to affectionate nickname "Billy." I will not speak here of tlfe marry, you will meet in a few hours. She is steady and re­ grandfather in whose shadow we both lived, but I have fined, and will bear me sturdy children. In short, Billy, in heard it mentioned in the family that he favored, in his my manhood I have become aware of complexity. You old age, the name "William" over the more secular owe it to the family, and to the memory of your mother, "Billy." I would· not swear to this, however, because my to do the same." father winked when he told it to me. And Billy's mother, 36 ELBOW ROOM .The Story of a Dead Man 37 whom we nicknamed "Mama Love," laughed loudly when city for curbing wayward boys, and protecting the coffers I asked her confirmation. I accepted my name. Billy glo­ of the state, with one stiff dose of justice. ried in his, draining from it as much territory as the world "You feed that baby," Judge Gladys Moon told him. would concede. I was with him in court that day and heard Billy's plea. He outgrew me from the start, perhaps because his fa­ He said, "Judge, that baby don't even look like me." ther succumbed to alcohol before Billy was ten. And his Judge Moon sat stone-faced and sober. "You feed it mother, soon afterward made invalid by a stroke, let her anyway," she told Billy, "and it might look like you. Feed son roam freely. Evenings at his house, playing in his it for twenty-one years, and if it don't look like you after room, Billy taught me the dozens, chanted bawdy songs, twenty-one years, you don't have to feed it no more." drilled me on how to eyeball a girl with maximum style. I While I completed school, he worked as the relay man followed as much of his advice, given the stricter circum­ on a garbage truck. While I attended church and learned stances of my home, as was discreet. I loved him, but I social graces, he became more a loner, grew sullen, loved his mother more. Billy loved only the streets. And worked a tentative cynicism into his voice. The whites of since Mama Love could not contain his wanderings, she bi~ eyes reddened. He cultivated a process, dressed . gave up finally and developed a defensive sense of humor. flashily, began socializing on a certain street corner sancti­ While Billy gallivanted, I would go and sit with her and fied by a tree that had once stood there.
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