And at the same time, “angel” — as far as the show went — became more and more synonymous with Gregory Miller.
Miller was the picture of helpfulness. There was nothing he would not do for the show, and his co-operative spirit delighted Rick. The boy did anything that was asked of him, and frequently many things Rick wouldn’t have thought to ask. Like the night Rick stayed over to repaint one of the flats which showed to bad advantage under the amber jells. He’d brought his Navy dungarees and denims to school, changed backstage, and sprawled out on the floor with his paint buckets and brushes, anxious to get the job over with.
Miller drifted in and stood over Rick, watching him for a little while without saying anything. Then, at last, he asked, “You got an extra brush, Mr. Dadier?”
“Why, yes,” Rick said.
“I thought maybe you could use a hand. Otherwise, you be here all night.”
“Help yourself,” Rick said, smiling. “That brush is a little hard, but I think it’ll work.”
Miller picked up the brush and tested the bristles on the palm of his hand. “Be all right,” he said, and then he sprawled out beside Rick and got to work. The job was a tedious one at best. There was no detail work on the flat, and it was simply a matter of spreading a new color in place of the old one. They worked in silence for some time, and then, perhaps because painting is a task which normally encourages conversation, they began talking.
They talked about the show at first, maintaining the stiff formality of a student-teacher relationship. And then, perhaps because they were both in dungarees, and perhaps because they were both working and engrossed in what they were doing, the formality dropped, and they began talking about other things, movies they had seen, teachers and students around the school, the “characters” they both knew, the way Christmas was a special time of the year for both of them, and even — surprisingly — the books Miller had read outside of school, pocket-size editions for the most part, but many of them excellent books.
It was at this point that Rick asked, “How’d you happen to come to a vocational school, Miller?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Miller answered, dipping his brush and slapping the paint onto the canvas. He worked the paint into the material in long strokes and then looked up. “Jus’ like that, I s’pose.”
“Had you considered an academic high school?”
“Yeah, I gave it some thought.”
“I mean...” Rick hesitated, wondering if he should mention the boy’s I.Q., and then deciding against it. “What are you majoring in, Miller?”
“Automotive,” Miller said.
“You want to be a mechanic?”
“I s’pose,” Miller said. He seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“Don’t you?”
“Well, way I look at it, Mr. Dadier, there ain’t much choice.”
“How do you mean, Miller?”
Miller looked up, and there was no malice in his voice when he spoke. “I colored, Mr. Dadier.”
“I don’t understand you,” Rick said.
Miller smiled. “You figure me for a lawyer or a doctor or somethin’? Can’t fool myself like that, Mr. Dadier.”
“Would you like to be a doctor?”
“No, no, nothin’ like that. Don’t misunderstand me. I jus’ don’t... well, you know. I mean, I rather be a mechanic than a elevator op’rator, or a bootblack, or a porter. You follow me? I figure a mechanic always got somethin’ to do, like a skill, and maybe it won’t matter he black or white. Tha’s what I figure.”
“But you’d like to be something... more than a mechanic?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a mechanic, I s’pose.”
Rick did not dip his brush. He held it in his hand and stared at Miller. “But you’d rather be something else?” he asked.
“I s’pose.”
“What, Miller?”
“I dunno.”
“But something else?”
“I s’pose.” Miller grinned embarrassedly. “I figured one time I could maybe be a singer, but I ain’t good ’nough for that. Lots of colored folks drift into singin’, you know. Nat Cole, Pearl Bailey, you know.”
“Yes,” Rick said.
“But I ain’t good ’nough for that. I figured on maybe fightin’, too, but I don’t like hittin’ somebody less’n I’m hit first.”
“Well, what would you like to be?”
“I dunno,” Miller said again.
“But not a mechanic?” Rick persisted.
Miller looked up and suddenly asked, “You think this is a good school, Mr. Dadier?”
“Sure I do,” Rick lied.
“Yeah?” Miller said, his brow wrinkled. “You really think that?”
“Yes, I do,” Rick lied again.
“You see, I wunt mind bein’ a mechanic, I mean, if I felt like... like I was learnin’ somethin’. But...” He let his sentence trail off.
“You feel you’re not learning anything here, is that it?”
“I guess so,” Miller said. He thought for a moment and then added, “You don’t hafta be a mechanic all your life, you know. You could branch out, maybe have your own place, a little shop, maybe. You could use bein’ a mechanic like a start, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” Rick said.
“I guess maybe I really did want to be a mechanic when I first come here. History an’ English an’ language an’ all those don’t ’peal to me. Tha’s why I d’in take the tech course. I guess I’m good with my hands.”
“But what you said about being...”
“Well, that too. You got to be sensible ’bout it, and I know a black man got a rough road. It’s easier to be a mechanic, you know.”
“You can’t always take the easy road, Miller,” Rick said.
Miller lifted his eyes. “You ain’t black, Mr. Dadier.”
“I know. And I understand what you’re up against. But black men have...”
“Oh sure, I know. But you got to make your choice, an’ I ain’t no crusader or nothin’. I’m jus’ a guy figurin’ on how he can make a livin’ the best way. An’ I figured I could learn to be a good mechanic here, and a man don’t care if black hands or white hands fixes his brake linin’, so long as the car run. An’, like I said, the mechanic angle can jus’ be a start. A black man could be somethin’ by startin’ his own shop, I mean without havin’ to battle his way all the time.”
“All right, Miller, that sounds sensible. But what’s the trouble? You sound as if you don’t like the idea of being a mechanic, as if...”
“Well, I thought it was a good idea when I first come here, but now I ain’t so sure. You see, if I got to be a mechanic, an’ a black one to boot, I got to be a good mechanic. They plenty white mechanics, an’ a white man goan get preference over a black man less’n the black man’s real good. An’ I jus’ ain’t learnin’ to be a good mechanic here, tha’s all.”
“Why not, Miller?”
“I dunno,” Miller said.
“Aren’t your teachers good?”
“Oh, they okay, I guess.”
“Well, what is it then?”
“I dunno,” Miller said.
“Do you want to learn?”
“Oh, sure,” Miller replied.
“Then what is it?”
“I guess...” Miller shook his head. “No, that ain’t it.”
“What, Miller?”
“Well, nobody else seems to give a damn, you know, Mr. Dadier? In the beginnin’, I tried real hard, but what’s the sense? This ain’t no real school, not like a academic school. This jus’... jus’... I dunno. This jus’ like a... like a big dump heap, tha’s all.”