Touch the Throne

By I AM Samuel

As an observational writer, Throne tells the American story woven together, by my account, from the waning days of the great depression to the era of Vietnam’s extravagance.

Voiced and performed by a plethora of actors’ who details Americas transforming events.

What is fashioned is an American population both angelic and diabolical too often unable to discern one from the other.

Americans a pampered people for whom more is never enough, easily roused to anxiety and reconciled to the paradoxical belief that God loves America but Satan keeps us safe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669834496

I AM Samuel

to be followed

Book preview

Touch the Throne

I AM Samuel

Copyright © 2022 by I AM Samuel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/22/2022

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

842287

CONTENTS

Foreword

Disclaimer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

FOREWORD

A S AN OBSERVATIONAL writer, Throne tells the American story woven together, by my account, from the waning days of the great depression to the era of Vietnam’s extravagance.

Voiced and performed by a plethora of actors’ who details Americas transforming events.

What is fashioned is an American population both angelic and diabolical too often unable to discern one from the other.

Americans a pampered people for whom more is never enough, easily roused to anxiety and reconciled to the paradoxical belief that God loves America but Satan keeps us safe.

DISCLAIMER

T OUCH THE THRONE is a work of fiction unless otherwise indicated all the names, characters, businesses, places and events in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or used in fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

CHAPTER 1

A good time is guaranteed to be had by all

M ISTER CAINBRIDGE WAS a West Indian merchant who owned a small grocery store in New York City’s, Harlem on 144th between 7th and 8th.

From early morning to late evening Mr. Cainbridge sat in front of his small on a wooden milk crate with a faded pillow on top that served as a cushion grocery store, alongside a display of vegetables,

There, beneath the heavy brown canvas awning that he cranked down over the store’s window six days a week, Mr. Cainbridge sat and served.

Mr. Cainbridge represented an approachable throne of earthly grace, where a familiar face was trusted to buy food on credit and during these depressive days of 1938, everybody needed a little extra time to pay for food.

Joeshen Purcell worked for mister Cainbridge serving customers who came inside the store and when wasn’t serving customers, he busied himself with a constant sweeping, rearranging can goods, wiping down the cooling chest where bottles of beer sat in cold circulating water, all to stay engaged and earn his .20 cents an hour that included a place in the storage room to sleep.

Preacher came into the store. Joeshen, my man, gimme some skin, he cooed with a sliding, swaying rhythmic step, certifying that Preacher lived his life with genuine panache.

Joeshen laid his hand atop the extended palm in greeting and the two hands rubbed coolly apart.

"Get me one of them cold Rheingold and a five-cent slice of that salted cod hanging in the winda’ Preacher sang hiply.

Joeshen stood untying the dried fish from the line strung across the window.

Jojo, you know Myrtle Tuttle’s, don’t ja? Preacher asked as he watched Joeshen move to the cutting board and slice a piece of the dried fish from the whole he placed it on the scale. Can’t say that I do.

But Preacher was sure of the woman’s notoriety. Sho’ you do, grad big ol’ black girl, he said, holding his hand several inches above his head. Works right over there at the Horse Shoe Night Club, over on 136. Preacher said, pushing twenty-seven pennies across the counter.

Well tell you what, you know Biff Watson, don’t ya?

I saw him fight once but I don’t know him.

Well Myrtle’s his girlfriend she has the best parlor socials in all of New York every third Saturday of the month and that’s tomorrow night. He relayed And, with his eyes closed and his voice singing low savoring memories of Myrtle’s past socials. believe me, when I tell you brother, she has the best music, liquor, and food and a good time is gua-run-teeed to be had by all.

Sounds like a fun, Joeshen agreed, but I don’t know those people, and besides, nobody invited me.

Invited! Preacher exclaimed in feigned exasperation. Damn, baby, where you from? You don’t get invited to no social you just pay at the door and walk on in, he said, walking his fingers across the counter top demonstrating the concept. Now, tell you what, he added, beckoning for the pencil behind Joeshen’s ear, this here’s the address. They usually start around seven but it wouldn’t be cool to show up that early.

It wouldn’t?

Oh, nooo, baby, he said, his fat, round, brown face contorted in mock pain at the social faux pas. You’ll embarrass yourself showing up that early it’ll make you look like you ain’t nothing to do all day but sit around all day waiting for a party to start, Instructing the country boy in big city ways. Naa, baby you got ta’ wait ‘til ‘bout ten-ten thirty by that time the place a be jumpin’ then, it’ll look like you just floating through, you dig me?

I dig ya’, Joeshen said, excited by the prospect of socializing with city folk. you know I think I . .,

Mister Cainbridge came and stood in the doorway watching as the two men, who feigned concluding business. That’ll be all, Preacher said in a business tone as he picked up his packages and moved past Mister Cambridge.

Joeshen, took up a damp towel an began to wipe the salt from the cutting board. Mister Cainbridge stood watching for a moment then returned to his lofty station next to the vegetables.

Mister Cainbridge was a businessman, a merchant of food and he was afforded a place of respect in the neighborhood.

Soooo good looking.

As Joeshen came closer to the Brownstone, the sound of the music’s relentless bass beat grew louder.

His heart began to pound with anticipation and each step he took matched the rhythm of the beat and its tempo.

Joeshen wanted very much to be part of Northern sophistication and share in the wealth some Negroes had access to up north.

City wealth was different from the means down-home, he reflected. Down yonder, potency was always white, established, and steeped in tradition, but up North, power was money-green, dressed in furs, silks, and satins, driving ice-black Cadillacs.

Up north, wealth sat prominently on display, and looked you unashamedly in the eye.

He stood leaning against a lamppost across the from the party, watching happy people go down the steps to the entrance of the brownstone, and when the door opened the music grow loud then resume its muffled beat after the promised gladness within had been extended and gleefully accepted by people who were ready to have a good.

He inspected his clothes again; an old worn pair of denim and a blue work shirt but they were clean and that made acceptable down-home.

He felt awkward and out of place among the brazen city folk and he stood waiting, hoping to see someone he knew to go in with him particular Preacher.

The music and the sheer energy that emanated from the house compelled and pulled and drew him toward the joy within.

He walked across the street, descended the three steps and stood in the dimly lit alcove. He knocked on the door and when it opened, he was greeted by a dark, thin balding colored man with a toothy grin fixed tightly to his face bobbing, weaving, and bouncing to the music. One quarter, he said, snapping his fingers as he dipped and swayed to the beat.

Joeshen reached into his pocket and counted out twenty-five cents, then waited for the doorman who had turned away dancing then on the beat he spun back around took the money and with a sweeping bow and extended arm bid welcome.

The house was filled with beautiful colored humanity. Some women wore expensive fur stoles and inspiring perfumes that mingled divinely with the intoxicating smoke that waifs through the atmosphere.

Some men wore suits, some with matching spats, some with hats, and others the same as he.

Joeshen cruised the scene in a state of euphoric delirium, transported to another time by the excitement that whirled about him.

He grew relaxed and waved at those who thought he knew and nodded and waved at those he wanted to know.

He didn’t drink, but after several offers the temptation to do so and acceptance converged into one, he didn’t drink it but held it to merge with those who did.

Feeling good he sat near the window and watched; the music, the food, and the conversations that informed.

Joeshen was happy as he moved through the party with growing familiarity he drifted over to a small gathering around the kitchen door and watched to his surprise, a familiar act.

They call me Shorty, ‘cause I’m soooo good lookin’, the short man said, accentuating the statement with a funny face frozen in a comical wide-eyed grin. Then he bent down at the waist, lifted his foot and slapped the back of his thigh with a resounding smack and let fly a hearty laugh.

Joeshen, along with others enjoyed the antics of the little man who had the small group laughing at his comedic chatter and dancing.

He broke into an impromptu dance step and, coming halfway around in a spin, caught a glimpse of Joeshen standing with the gathered laughing.

He stopped and slowly turned back. I can’t believe my eyes, he said, sincerely surprised, a smile blooming across his face. Joeshen Purcell, damn! The people you meet when you don’t have yo’ gun.

Joeshen lifted his glass. Hiya doin’ Rufus?

Hey everybody, Rufus said, pulling Joeshen into a bear hug. This here’s my best friend in the whole world we both come from Simms, South Carolina, And he’s my best friend, he claimed although the Smalls were no—accounts moonshining and the Purcell’s a family of clergymen and down-home the two families seldom associated with one another and never socially.

But Joeshen was glad to see someone from home and Rufus’s declaration that they were the best of friends. He did not dispute.

So you made it to the big city, eh, preache’s boy? Rufus laughing at the irony of meeting Joeshen in a den of sin.

They found a corner next to the piano where they could catch up on things. Man, it’s really good ta see a familiar face, Joshen said.

So how long you been in town?

For about three months now?

And New York done corrupt ya already. he said noting the drink in he held.

Ahh, Joeshen laughed; this is just for show I don’t drink, he said setting the glass down on the radiator.

Here let me introduce you to Mytle, Rufus said beckoning with tilt his head.

You know Myrtle? Joeshen asked impressed that a country boy from Simms knew someone of her status.

She’s my cousin, he said, I’ll be right back he said going upstairs to the living quarters"

When Rufus returned, Joeshen was talking to Benny Scratch Moore, a respected jazz pianist who was playing for a share of the night’s receipts.

He was called Scratch because he played piano with head hung low pawing at the ivories with quick flicks of his long fingers. Someone remarked that he looked like a cat scratching in the dirt, and thereafter, Benny was called Scratch.

Seeing them approach before Rufus spoke a word, Scratch said, Myrtle, I want you to meet a musical colleague his name Joeshen. Scratch introduced; He’s a singer, he continued in the soft-easy flow that characterized the speech of jazzmen of the 1930s.

Well seems like I’m the last to meet the popular mister Parcell I was just coming down to do just that, she said, lifting the tips of her hand in greeting.

Joeshen, with a slapping wipe down the front of his shirt took hold of her hand. Glad to make your acquaintance miss Myrtle," pumping her arm exuberantly.

She retrieved her hand and comically counted her fingers, How long did you say you’ve been in the city?

He just got here, Rufus said, taking a seat next to Scratch on the piano bench.

Well, it’s always nice meeting a handsome devil-like yourself; gently tracing the contours of his handsome face, You’d better be careful these women up here will eat you alive and leave no evidence that you ever existed. She said, batting her eyes flirtatiously.

Myrtle was a large ebony woman who was almost as tall as Joeshen’s six-foot-one. She had a pretty face and a smile that displayed a set of even white teeth she combed her hair straight back where it gathered it in a bun.

Her hands were soft surprisingly petite well well-shaped her fingers manicured and opulently bejeweled.

Although you would never know it, she was shy and self-conscious about her size and compensated with an array of feminine mannerism she felt made her adorable.

She had a mincing walk, and when amused she lowered her eyelids coquettishly as she talked to men and when amused, she would bashfully lower her head and lightly place the tips of her fingers to her bottom lip, as if overt laughter were unseemly for a lady.

The gesture mimicked a silkscreen print of a beautiful Oriental girl she once saw hanging in a Chinese restaurant when she was a little girl. All these dainty gestures, she hoped, made her the small, huggable, doll-like woman she would never be.

Non the less, men, were always sincerely charmed by Myrtle.

So? How’d ja like it?

Joeshen stood among the small group, growing at ease with himself and the North. The near-freedom, and the opportunity to express and fulfill himself was something he relished.

For the first time in his life, he was allowed to be Negro at his own pace.

Down south, he lived in a society that restricted and defined his character and shackled his mind with fetters of ropes and chains born in slavery that kept Negroes in fearful check.

All his life he lived under an institution of terror enforced with governmental blessings, courtesy of Jim Crow laws.

But Up north, southern horror lost steam-its reach, its hold over him and his mind was now his own and he began to entertain thoughts he dare not even consider down yonder. Here he was free to pursue his own quest, that of being a man.

As the evening neared morning the social became a perfusion of sights and sounds. The high-pitched squeals of delighted women, dancing under gaslights with men, proud of their charm, and soft hands that never picked king cotton.

All in sartorial splendor. Their hairdos processed into place caught the light that shimmered on lacquered strands like the reflection of a full moon on the surface of a dark ocean.

With each passing hour the party grew more intense, until the music became a recurring tribal thump-thump thump that drove the packed flesh to a sensual fluidity a single organism pulsating in time to the late-night driving beat.

It was past three in the morning before the gala began to lose steam. Past four in the morning before it was called to a halt altogether and lingering guest with last good buys slowly drifted to the esit.

The two men walked down a135th toward the Seventh Avenue trolley line.

So? How’d ja like it? Rufus asked.

I liked it a lot! he said. I liked it a whole lot.

Tell it like it is, brother

Sunday morning for Myrtle was a day of worship. She sat in the pew with her eyes closed head bowed in sincere prayer, asking fo Gods forgiveness for the sinful life she lived Monday through Saturday but she assured god. ‘I’m not hurting anyone,’

Myrtle was looked down on by some in the congregation of Morning Side Baptist.

Myrtle, they all knew, made her living throwing parlor socials, where bootlegged liquor was sold and gambling encouraged and if that wasn’t enough, she was hostess at the Notorious Horse Shoe Night Club where she cavorted openly with the devil’s children, show people.

Morningside’s worshipers were the most influential, upstanding pillars of Harlem who wouldn’t be caught dead at one of Myrtles socials where sinners dance the night away in the devil’s revelry.

But there were many who from time to time spent discreet Saturday evening in the upstairs rooms of the Horse Shoe Night Club, including the young Reverend Aaron Power jr, who now stood praying for God’s assistance in behalf of his po’ colored folk.

The church was electrified by Aaron, who gave an impassioned invocation to God, asking him to remember the needs of His beloved Negro children.

Morning Side was a large, granite edifice that stood broad, wide, and deep in the center of Harlem and it was considered to be the largest and singularly most politically influential Negro church in all of Manhattan.

God, was proud of Morning Side Baptist Church; where worship had format and purpose that reflected the ‘New Negro’ who had ambitions to partake of some of white Americas wealth for themselves.

They prayed for the opportunity to demonstrate that some Negroes could speak without the slow country drawl that attested to a slow country mind.

They wanted to show white America that some Negroes had the ability to speak in a subdued, proper manner and laugh without their mouths opening into deep gaping caverns of pearly white teeth and show that Negroes could emulate the perfect example of proper conduct set forth by their white teachers.

And when complete emulation was accomplished, it would bring with it the love Negroes so desired from his white benefactor whose love and forgiveness would be demonstrated with the greatest gift of all, a good-paying job.

Indeed, all the hardships Negroes had endured for the past two hundred and seventeen years were all going to be put behind them as soon as their white brothers saw that some Negroes were ready to act like human beings.

Aaron Junior, finished with the morning prayer, raised his hand, cuing the Magnificent Voices of Zion who stood and then sang a rousing rendition of ‘God Will Make a Way Somehow.’

At the song’s conclusion, Aaron Senior delivered an uplifting message that left the sainted ones relaxed, confident, and generous.

The final prayer was said and the saints were sweetly dismissed to their lives.

Today’s my lucky day, I just know it!

Myrtle left the sanctuary with a song in her heart, a bounce in her step, feeling renewed, blessed and free.

The autumn sun lay against her face like a cool kiss; she inhaled deeply the crisp invigorating air, reaffirming her good life, and her adherence to God’s first commandment.

‘Thou shalt have no God before me’

Hey Myrtle, wait up!

She turned to see where the call was coming from. Over here, Rufus yelled with a visual assist, a hand held high, jiggling like a tree leaf caught in the wind.

Rufus scurried between the parked cars, and quickly ran to the raised island that ran down the center of Seventh Avenue, joining Myrtle, on the other side of the street. Good morning, cousin, accompanied, with a comedic delivery and a tip of his derby hat. How’s every little thing?

Just fine, she answered maintaining the fading spiritual flicker ignited in church. Yourself?

Couldn’t be better, he answered.

I didn’t see you in church this morning, she said, with a half-hearted attempt at winning Rufus’s soul.

That’s because I wasn’t there. He said, dismissing the witness.

You going to ask Froggy about that spot that opened at the club? Myrtle asked.

Yessir, boss, and this time I’m going to get it I can just feel it in my bones. He said bringing his hands together with a smack and vigorously rubbed them until they became warm, readying himself for the impromptu audition he hoped to win the open spot.

With that, the stately woman and the little man walked together down Seventh Avenue.

Have no fear

The Horse Shoe Night Club was dark when they arrived. Chairs perched on tops of tables, and the lazy back and-forth mop to floor Slick did with meticulous care.

How do you do, folks? Slick asked, with a slow, spread fingered wiping wave.

Do’n good Slick, and how do you do, too? Rufus asked, embellishing his question with a little jig. an off-the-cuff dance routine, a rubber-legged, time step of disjointed merriment performed just for Slick who stood, shaking his head and waving his hand in a please-stop-it-your-killing-me.

Rufus, with his capacity to entertain reaffirmed, made a bee-line to the customary seat of Froggy owner of the Horse Shoe Night Club.

Froggee sat at the end of the bar, looking every bit like an ill-wrapped package, dressed in a rumpled lime green summer suit outdated by ten years and two seasons, a shirt in dire need of ironing, his tie askew straining to contain his thick neck within it’s frayed its encirclement.

A large, red man with short, nappy red, hair and a ruddy freckled complexion that complemented his hair perfectly.

He sat, alone looking down the empty bar through large bulbous eyes set in a thick-featured face that seemed to be all nose, thick pink lips that had the marked distinction of being wet regardless of the season.

With his arms folded on the comfortably behind an ever-present glass of straight Wild Turkey, Froggy, perhaps, was ready to do business.

Uninvited, Rufus hopped up onto the bar stool next to with a bongo beat on the counter he cocked his derby to the side of his head and announced his presence, have no fear Rufus the funny dancing mans here. measuring Froggy’s temperament.

Everybody knew that if Froggy wasn’t receptive to being bothered, he could be as mean as he was ugly but he just sat there with slow disinterested blinks.

With a showman’s enthusiasm, Rufus forged ahead, Froggy, today’s your lucky day!

Froggy let out a short blast of air through his nostrils along with a slight spastic lurch of his heavy shoulders, meant to convey that he didn’t feel particularly lucky, then assumed the previous demeanor looking down the empty bar.

Rufus pressed on. Froggy, since Billy’s gone to Lulu’s, you got an open spot on the show, right?

Froggie tilted his head in Rufus’s direction and set his eyes at half-mast the only acknowledgment that Rufus was even there.

Well, Rufus continued, have no fear, Rufus, the funny dancing man is here, watch this. With that, he ran to the stage anandpened with the biggest gapped tooth smile he could muster, stretched his arms way out and let with a loud taaaa-daaaa presentation, then proceed to do his act a thirty minute song, dance and joke routine that left Rufus sweaty and breathless.

Finished retook his stool, Look, Froggee, I’m ten times-no, a million times funnier than Billy will ever be, all I need is a shot, whatdoyasay?

Froggee unfolded his hands, and began tapping the rim of his glass with his large thick finger in a slow measured count. He picked up his glass, pushed his thick tongue out between his thick lips, drew a breath, and took a small sip from the glass.

He sat the glass down, refolded his hands and resumed the same deportment after several moments he took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, then in a low booming voice he said, Leme’ think about it.

That’s all I’m asking, Rufus said, satisfied with the small progress. "So what-say I see you here tomorrow?

Froggy didn’t answer, so with that, Rufus slid from the bar stool as carefully as someone moving away from a standing house of cards.

Dear Mary

Things are going well for me here in New York. How’s everything back in Simms? Fine, I hope. The church quintet is singing better than ever since we got Teddy he’s a bass singer that hits bass notes so low you feel it in your stomach.

I met an old friend from home. You remember the Smells, don’t you? It’s his youngest son Rufus he’s trying to get into show business as a comedian and dancer he’s pretty good. I met new friends and I know