There was a rush against me and I fell, hearing a single explosion, backward into a whirl of milling legs, overshoes, the trampled snow cold on my hands. Another shot sounded above like a bursting bag. Managing to stand, I saw atop the steps the fist with the gun being forced into the air above the crowd's bobbing heads and the next instant they were dragging him down into the snow; punching him left and right, uttering a low tense swelling sound of desperate effort; a grunt that exploded into a thousand softly spat, hate-sizzling curses. I saw a woman striking with the pointed heel of her shoe, her face a blank mask with hollow black eyes as she aimed and struck, aimed and struck, bringing spurts of blood, running along beside the man who was dragged to his feet now as they punched him gauntlet-wise between them. Suddenly I saw a pair of handcuffs arc gleaming into the air and sail across the street. A boy broke out of the crowd, the marshal's snappy hat on his head. The marshal was spun this way and that, then a swift tattoo of blows started him down the street. I was beside myself with excitement. The crowd surged after him, milling like a huge man trying to turn in a cubbyhole -- some of them laughing, some cursing, some intently silent.
"The brute struck that gentle woman, poor thing!" the West Indian woman chanted. "Black men, did you ever see such a brute? Is he a gentleman, I ask you? The brute! Give it back to him, black men. Repay the brute a thousandfold! Give it back to him unto the third and fourth generations. Strike him, our fine black men. Protect your black women! Repay the arrogant creature to the third and fourth generations!"
"We're dispossessed," I sang at the top of my voice, "dispossessed and we want to pray. Let's go in and pray. Let's have a big prayer meeting. But we'll need some chairs to sit in . . . rest upon as we kneel. We'll need some chairs!"
"Here's some chairs down here," a woman called from the walk. "How 'bout taking in some chairs?"
"Sure," I called, "take everything. Take it all, hide that junk! Put it back where it came from. It's blocking the street and the sidewalk, and that's against the law. We're law-abiding, so clear the street of the debris. Put it out of sight! Hide it, hide their shame! Hide our shame!
"Come on, men," I yelled, dashing down the steps and seizing a chair and starting back, no longer struggling against or thinking about the nature of my action. The others followed, picking up pieces of furniture and lugging them back into the building.
"We ought to done this long ago," a man said.
"We damn sho should."
"I feel so good," a woman said, "I feel so good!"
"Black men, I'm proud of you," the West Indian woman shrilled. "Proud!"
We rushed into the dark little apartment that smelled of stale cabbage and put the pieces down and returned for more. Men, women and children seized articles and dashed inside shouting, laughing. I looked for the two trusties, but they seemed to have disappeared. Then, coming down into the street, I thought I saw one. He was carrying a chair back inside.
"So you're law-abiding too," I called only to become aware that it was someone else. A white man but someone else altogether.
The man laughed at me and continued inside. And when I reached the street there were several of them, men and women, standing about, cheering whenever another piece of furniture was returned. It was like a holiday. I didn't want it to stop.
"Who are those people?" I called from the steps.
"What people?" someone called back.
"Those," I said, pointing.
"You mean those ofays?"
"Yes, what do they want?"
"We're friends of the people," one of the white men called.
"Friends of what people?" I called, prepared to jump down upon him if he answered, "You people."
"We're friends of all the common people," he shouted. "We came up to help."
"We believe in brotherhood," another called.
"Well, pick up that sofa and come on," I called. I was uneasy about their presence and disappointed when they all joined the crowd and started lugging the evicted articles back inside. Where had I heard of them?
"Why don't we stage a march?" one of the white men called, going past.
"Why don't we march!" I yelled out to the sidewalk before I had time to think.
They took it up immediately.
"Let's march . . ."
"It's a good idea."
"Let's have a demonstration . . ."
"Let's parade!"
I heard the siren and saw the scout cars swing into the block in the same instant. It was the police! I looked into the crowd, trying to focus upon their faces, hearing someone yell, "Here come the cops," and others answering, "Let 'em come!"
Where is all this leading? I thought, seeing a white man run inside the building as the policemen dashed from their cars and came running up.
"What's going on here?" a gold-shield officer called up the steps.
It had become silent. No one answered.
"I said, what's going on here," he repeated. "You," he called, pointing straight at me.
"We've . . . we've been clearing the sidewalk of a lot of junk," I called, tense inside.
"What's that?" he said.
"It's a clean-up campaign," I called, wanting to laugh. "These old folks had all their stuff cluttering up the sidewalk and we cleared the street . . ."
"You mean you're interfering with an eviction," he called, starting through the crowd.
"He ain't doing nothing," a woman called from behind me.
I looked around, the steps behind were filled with those who had been inside.
"We're all together," someone called, as the crowd closed in.
"Clear the streets," the officer ordered.
"That's what we were doing," someone called from back in the crowd.
"Mahoney!" he bellowed to another policeman, "send in a riot call!"
"What riot?" one of the white men called to him. "There's no riot."
"If I say there's a riot, there's a riot," the officer said. "And what are you white people doing up here in Harlem?"
"We're citizens. We go anywhere we like."
"Listen! Here come some more cops!" someone called.