Presenting the Annual Interracial Pig Roast

Roll of Honor, Best American Short Stories 1972)

PRESENTING THE ANNUAL INTERRACIAL PIG ROAST

By Charles Deemer

From Prism International, Spring 1971

Roll of Honor, Best American Short Stories 1972

GROOVY, THE WHOLE SCENE, even better than his short-timer's party in Baumholder, Germany, a year ago: the roast pig, which Tee was still carving, his large black hands glistening with fat; the colossal supply of beer and booze, which Phil was serving from behind the portable bar in the back comer of the yard (grass was verboten, Tee being straight); the huge happy crowd, predominantly black, predominantly middle-aged, incredibly friendly; and the sounds, out of sight, of the jazz combo on the patio; and the dancing, which Roy dug most of all, that sensuous and rhythmic elasticity which was theirs alone (man, how they could dance!). In line for seconds, Roy watched and saw the obvious: only a spade could dance like a spade. Witness whitey who was trying now and being made a fool of by the black girl who was his partner. Hours earlier Roy had witnessed whitey's arrival in black turtleneck, bellbottoms and shades, whitey chanting Skin, baby! to every black man within reach. When Roy's turn came, whitey merely had nodded, as one white man to another, and Roy had turned and walked away. 

“How hungry are you?" Tee asked. "Or should I say, how hungry are you still.” 

"Half as much as the first time," said Roy. 

"Half? You're kidding." Tee began filling Roy's plate with pig. 

"Beautiful party, Tee. Incredible." 

Tee grinned, as close as he would come to agreeing. Roy had known him only for five months, having met Tee and Colette and Phil at The Ash Grove during a Lightning Hopkins gig, but he had recognized Tee's humility early. To brag about the success of his own party was the last thing Tee would do, and so Roy repeated, "I mean it, I've never seen such a beautiful party." 

Tee laughed. "We try to do this every summer. I get the pig, and Phil and some others get the liquor." 

"Out of sight." 

"How many do you think are here?" 

"Jesus. A hundred." 

"Colette gave up counting at a hundred fifty." 

"Beautiful. Man, that's enough!" 

"I think you're on a diet." 

"Enough, really. Beautiful." 

There were tables near the bar and Roy headed that way, weaving his path slowly through the black crowd, he had never seen so many black men in one place at one time. The juke box was at full volume, Brownie McGhee wailing Walk On! as Sonny Terry echoed with harp. In front of the box a half-dozen black GIs, none in uniform, were dancing without partners, with themselves. The club was packed but Roy saw no other whites in the crowd, the German whores not counting, and this scared him. Crooks, on the other hand, was not bothered; he went ahead to the bar and when he found Roy hesitating near the entrance, Crooks called, Come on, man! Roy followed quickly then, a twitch of fear in his gut. He had heard the stories about knifings, knifings right here in Baumholder's own Bop City Club', about the continuous race war in which a black knife slipped without resistance into a white crowd. He progressed carefully and when he reached the back of the yard he spotted an empty stool at the end of the bar and went for it. 

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I did something really stupid in this story, written early in my career. Since it was loosely based on a true event, I used the real names of the friends with whom I shared the experience. Disaster!  Everyone treated it like a documentary, my black friends decided I was a racist, it was a nightmare. I learned that many, many folks have no idea how to read literature or deal with metaphors. They have literal minds. Lesson learned, never again. Eventually all my friends forgave me ha ha.