The Gallery (New York Review Books Classics)

by John Horne Burns

—Guess it’s not often that you see an officer here, eh? he said cheerily to the waitress. —No suh, she squeaked. An dey ain’t supposed to come here at all at all. Ah hates officers. Tinks dere rears doesn’t stink like other folkeses’ does. When dese American men gits a piece of brass on dere shoulders, dey tinks dey’s Mussolini. No suh, ah done want no truck widdem, ah don’t. —Well, there are officers and officers, Captain Motes said, laughing indulgently. —Dere shouldn’t be any officers at all, the nigra waitress said, furrowing her mouth and mopping the other tables. When you gits an army, you gits to killin fore ya knows it. An killin makes trouble to Americans. Dey ain’t used to it, cept on a small scale like in lynchins. An when you makes some better dan udders, you is askin for a bruise. —Wishful thinking, Captain Motes answered, leaving her a nickel tip. There have always been wars and there always will be wars. And there will always be officers and enlisted men. —Dere’s wars, said the nigress, retreating and waving an umber arm, cause a few men wants em. An ah sees yo is one of dose