Alas, Babylon

A third of the traders in Marines Park, on this day, were Negroes. The economics of disaster placed a penalty upon prejudice. The laws of hunger and survival could not be evaded, and honored no color line. A back-yard hen raised by a Negro tasted just as good as the gamecocks of Carleton Hawes, the well-to-do realtor who was a vice president of the county White Citizens Council, and there was more meat on it. Randy saw Hawes, a brace of chickens dangling from his belt, drink water, presumably boiled, from a Negro’s jug. There were two drinking fountains in Marines Park, one marked “White Only,” the other “Colored Only.” Since neither worked, the signs were meaningless.

Hawes saw Randy, wiped his mouth, and called, “Hey, Randy.”

“Hello, Carleton.” “What’re you trading?” “A bottle of Scotch.”

Hawes’ eyes fixed on the paper bag and he moved closer to Randy, cautious as a pointer blundered upon quail. Randy recalled from Saturday nights at the St. Johns Club that Scotch was Hawes’ drink. “What’s your asking price?” Hawes asked. “Two pounds of coffee.”

“I’ll swap you these two birds. Both young hens. See how plump they are? Better eating you’ll never have.”

Randy laughed.

“Being it’s you, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ve got eggs at home. I’ll throw in a couple of dozen eggs. Have ‘em here tomorrow. On my word. If you don’t believe me, you can take the birds now, as a binder.”

“The asking price,” Randy said, “is also the selling price. Two pounds of coffee. Any brand will do.”

Hawes sighed. “Who’s got coffee? It’s been three months since I’ve had a drink of Scotch. Let me look at the bottle, will you?”

Randy showed him the label and moved on to the bandstand.

The square pillars supporting the roof had become a substitute for the county weekly’s want-ad section and the radio station a

WILL SWAP Late model Cadillac Coupe de Ville, radio, heater, air-conditioned, battery run down but undamaged, for two good 28-inch bicycle tires and pump.

DESPERATELY NEED evaporated milk, rubber nipple, and six safety pins. Look over our house and make your own deal. HAVE SMALL CANNED HAM, want large kettle, Encyclopedia Brita

Randy closed his eyes. He could taste that ham. He had an extra kettle, the encyclopedia, the shells, and toothpaste. But he also had prospects of fresh ham if they could preserve the Henrys’ young pigs from marauders, wolves, or whatever. Anyway, it was too big a price to pay for a small ham.

WANTED-Three 2/0 fishhooks in exchange for expensive fly rod, reel, assorted lures.

Randy chuckled. Sports fishing no longer existed. There were only meat fishermen now.

WILL TRADE 50-HP Outboard motor, complete set power tools, cashmere raglan topcoat for half pound of tobacco and ax.

Randy saw a notice that was different:

EASTER SERVICES

An interdenominational Easter Sunrise Service will be held in Marines Park on Sunday, April 17th. All citizens of Fort Repose, of whatever faith, are invited to attend. Signed,

Rev. John Carlin, First Methodist Church Rev. M. F. Ke

The name of the Rector of St. Thomas Episcopal Church, where there had always been a Bragg pew, was missing. Dr. Lucius Somerville, a gentle, white-haired man, a boyhood companion of Judge Bragg, had been in Jacksonville on the morning of The Day and therefore would not return to his parish.

Randy wasn’t much of a churchgoer. He had contributed to the church regularly, but not of his time or himself. Now, reading this notice, he felt an unexpected thrill. Since The Day, he had lived in the imperative present, not daring to plan beyond the next meal or the next day. This bit of paper tacked on peeling white paint abruptly enlarged his perspective, as if, stumbling through a black tu

He stepped up on the platform. The men lounging there, some of them acquaintances, some strangers, were estimating the shape of bulk of the sack he held, like a football, under his arm. Dour, bearded, hair unshorn or ludicrously cropped, they looked like ghost-town characters in a Western movie, except they were not so well fed as Hollywood extras, and their clothing, flowered sports shirts, shorts, or slacks, plaid or straw-peaked caps, was incongruous. John Garcia, the Minorcan fishing guide, asked the orthodox opening question, “What’re you trading, Randy?”

“A fifth of Scotch-twelve years old-the best.”

Garcia whistled. “You must be hard up. What’re you askin’?” “Two pounds of coffee.”

Several of the men on the platform shifted their position. One snickered. None spoke. Randy realized that these men had no coffee, either for trading or drinking. No matter how well stocked their kitchens might once have been, or what they had purchased or pillaged on The Day and in the chaotic period immediately after, four months had exhausted everything. Randy’s community was far more fortunate with the bearing groves, fish loyally taking bait, the industrious Henrys and their barnyard, and some small game-squirrels, rabbits, and an occasional possum.

John Garcia was trading two strings of fish, a four-pound catfish and small bass on one, warmouth perch and bream on the other. Garcia’s brown and weathered skin had shriveled on his slight frame until he seemed only bones loosely wrapped in dried leather. The sun was getting warm. With his toe Garcia nudged his fish into the shadow. “Wouldn’t trade for fish, would you, Randy?” he asked, smiling.

“Fish we’ve got,” Randy said.

“You River Road people do all right by yourselves, don’t you?” a stranger said. “If you got Scotch likker, you got everythin’. Us, we ain’t got nuthin’.” The stranger was trading a saw, two chisels, and a bag of nails. Randy guessed he was an itinerant carpenter settled in Pistolville.

Randy ignored him and asked Marines Park’s inevitable second question, “What do you hear?”

Old Man Hockstatler, who was trading small tins of aspirins and tranquilizers, salvage from his looted pharmacy, said, “I hear the Russians are asking that we surrender.”

“No, no, you got that all wrong,” said Eli Blaustein. “Mrs. Vanbruuker-Brown demanded that the Russians surrender. They said no and then they said we should be the ones to surrender.” “Where did you hear that?” Randy asked.

“My wife got it from a woman whose husband’s battery set still works,” Blaustein said. Blaustein was trading work pants and a pair of white oxfords and he was asking ca

“What I would like to know,” said Old Man Hockstatler, “is who won the war? Nobody ever tells you. This war I don’t understand at all. It isn’t like World Wars One or Two or any other wars I ever heard of. Sometimes I think the Russians must’ve won. Otherwise things would be getting back to normal. Then I think no, we won. If we hadn’t won the Russians would still be bombing us, or they would invade. But since The Day I’ve never seen any planes at all.”