Letter to Jimmy

afterword, dialogue with Ralph, the invisible man

Yesterday I walked the length of Santa Monica Beach in hopes of crossing the vagabond to whom I dedicated this Letter to Jimmy. I hadn’t seen him in some time, and I began to worry.

I asked the ice-cream vendor if he had seen this character, easily recognizable by the bundle of clothes on his back. But the vendor had not seen him in some while, either.

So I walked back up toward Ocean Boulevard and sat down at a table on the terrace of Ma’kai, my manuscript in hand. I intended to read over the first few pages of the text since, in several days, I would have to send it off to the editor in France. But I could not do it without finding the wanderer.

•••

I was immersed in my reading when the sound of a horn startled me.

Lifting my head, I nearly jumped for joy: my wanderer was crossing the street, the “don’t walk” sign still flashing red. He approached Ma’Kai.

I stood up and waved to him. He looked away, hastening his step toward Santa Monica Boulevard. I quickly paid my bill and tried to follow him. Near a big hotel, I saw him sit down on a bench and open his bundle of clothing. From the disorder of his belongings, he pulled out a book: Invisible Man, by Ralph Ellison. .

I took out a five dollar bill and handed it to him, as a pretext for striking up a conversation.

“You take me for a beggar, too? I see, I see,” he said.

“Actually, I. .”

“Don’t apologize. Please. — Sit down.”

“You like Ralph Ellison,” I asked, to change the subject.

“I read him every day. If I had a bed, I’d say that it was my ‘bedside reading.’ Let’s say that it’s my beach reading, or, better yet, my sand reading. On top of it, my name is Ralph, too, so it’s almost like I wrote the book.”

“I haven’t seen you again at Santa Monica Beach, Ralph.”

“But I see you every day.”

“Oh really?”

“I even know where you live.”

“How’s that? You’re joking, Ralph!”

“It’s a long story.”

“Can’t we talk about it now?”

“No, I don’t feel like it. . Just know that you live in my old apartment.”

I remained speechless, simultaneously skeptical and gripped by a sudden distress.

“You think I’m crazy, is that it?” he asked.

“You have to admit that. .”

“Ask around and come back to see me.”

“I haven’t seen you in quite awhile!”

“Oh, sometimes I change locations. Last month I dreamed that people were attacking me here. So I went out around Venice Beach to get some rest. It’s nice there, but there are too many people. People also trample my sandcastles and I can’t read my Ralph Ellison in peace.”

“But sometimes you destroy your sandcastles yourself.”

“So? I’m the one who built them! I have the right to do what I want with my castles. I just can’t tolerate people coming to destroy them. They don’t realize how much time it takes me to build them.”

“I’d like to talk to you about someone — an author. This year is the twentieth anniversary of his death. .”

“James Baldwin?”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s written right there, on the paper you’re holding. And I see his picture there, too.”

“Oh, right. . Actually I’ve just dedicated my Letter to Jimmy to you, the text that I’ll publish in France in honor of the author who lived there.”

“No kidding! But why would you dedicate it to me? I’ve never read Baldwin.”

“I’ll give you one of his books tomorrow.”

“Don’t bother, I only read Ralph Ellison. The others aren’t my thing.”

“But why Ralph Ellison?”

“Because I’m an invisible man, too. I’m white, but I’m really black. . And since I’m a white man, people don’t see me; they don’t see my misery because I’m part of the majority. So for a long time I’ve lived this way, hoping that God would give me my true skin color one day.”

“I don’t understand. .”

“You can’t understand. Come see me tomorrow.”

“Where?”

“At one of my castles, I will tell you about the place you live. You will know the whole story, and I’ll show you things.”

“What time?”

“Four o’clock. By the way, don’t forget to bring me one of James Baldwin’s books.”