NOW YOU COOKIN' WITH GAS

by
Zora Neale Hurston

Wait till I light up my coal-pot, and I'll tell you about this
Zigaboo called Jelly.

Well, all right now. He was a seal-skin brown and papa-tree-top-
tall. Skinny in the hips and solid built for speed. He was born with
this rough-dried hair, but when he laid on the grease and pressed it
down over night with his stocking-cap, it looked just like that right-
eous moss, and had so many waves till you got seasick from looking.
Solid, man, solid!

His mama named him Marvel, but after a month on Lennox Avenue, he changed all that to Jelly. How come? Well, he put it in the street that when it came to filling that long-felt need, sugar-curing the ladies' feelings, pimping, sweet-backing, he was in a class by himself and nobody knew his name, so he had to tell 'em. "It must be Jelly, 'cause jam dont shake." Therefore, his name was Jelly. He was a Scooter-pooker from way back. That was what was on his sign. The stuff was there, and it was mellow. Whenever he was challenged by a hard-head or a frail eel on the right of his title, he would eye-ball idol-breaker with a slice of ice, and put on his ugdy-laugh, made up out of scorn and pity and say," Youse judt dumb to the fact, baby. If you dont know what you talking 'bout, you better ask Granny Grunt. I wouldnt mislead you, baby. I dont need to, --not with the help I got." Then he would give the pimp's sign, and percolate on down the avenue. You cant go behind a fact like that.

So this day he was airing out on the Avenue. It had to be lat

2.

afternoon, or he would not have been out of bed. All you did by rolling out early was to stir your stomach up. That made you hunt for more dishes to dirty. The longer you slept, the less you had to eat. But you cant collar nodes all day. No matter how long you stayed in bed, and how quiet you kept, sooner or later that big gut is going to reach over and grab that little one and start to gnaw. That's confidential right from the Bible. You got to get out on the beat and collar yourself a hot.

So Jelly got into his zoot suit with the reet pleats and got out to skivver around and do himself some good. At 132nd Street, he spied one of his colleagues across the street, standing in front of a cafe. Jelly figured that if he bull-skated just right, he might confidence Sweet-Back out of a thousand on a plate. Maybe a shot of scrap-iron or a reefer. Therefore, Jelly took a quick backwards look at his shoes-soles to see how his leather was holding out. The way he figured it after the peep was that he had plenty to get across and maybe do a little more cruising besides. So he stanched out into the street and made the crossing.

"Hi there, Sweet Back!" he exploded cheerfully, "Gimme some skin!"

"Lay de skin on me, pal!" Sweet Back grabbed Jelly's outstretched hand and shook hard." Aint seen you since the last time, Jelly. What's cookin'?"

"Oh, just like de bear---I aint nowhere. Like de bear's brother, I aint no further. Like de bear's daughter--aint got a quarter."

Right away, he wished he had not been so honest. Sweet Back gave him a top-superior cut-eye look. Looked at Jelly just like a showman looks at an ape. Just as far above Jelly as fried chicken is over branch water.

"Cold in hand, hunh?" He talked down to Jelly. "A red hot pimp like you say you is, aint got no business in the barrel. Last night