Free Driving the King by Ravi Howard Page A

the cloth to show me the bronze plaque. NATHANIEL ADAMS “KING” COLE SUITE. It took two lines to fit every word of that name, the one he was born with and the one just for show.
    â€œThe white hotels downtown have presidential suites and the like, even if no president saw fit to stay there. Mr. Cole is our biggest guest and he’s home folk, and we can say in all honesty he laid his head across the hall there. We might as well let people know.”
    â€œHe’ll be happy to see it.”
    â€œI figure we’ll make a little fuss and show it to him this afternoon. Put it on an easel upstairs in the ballroom. If it was up to me you’d have one right alongside his.”
    The bronze had been rubbed at the edges to give it a little gleam. Nat had a crown above his name just like the one on the spinning sign that had started every episode of his television show. Those signs had been made of balsa wood and painted to look like something more. Every prop was meant to fool you and look real, but they were all light enough to carry and cheap enough to throw away when the show was done. That plaque in the Centennial’s hallway, on the door of the finest room, was meant to stay as long as the building did. Something heavy, bolted deep into the plaster and the frame.
    â€œHe’ll try to be modest about it, but he’ll appreciate you for doing as much.”
    Before she covered the plaque again, she rubbed the crown and letters with the corner of that cloth.
    â€œThought maybe you were busy with everything going on, but I wanted to make sure I visit with you before you go.”
    Those chairs were the same as the ones behind the desk in the cabstand. To see Mrs. Varner in one was to remember her visits with my mother. She’d bring two cups of something steaming, whatever the hour and season calledfor, and they would sit and talk when they had a bit of time.
    â€œThey told me at the front desk you’re leaving us tomorrow. But as long as it’s for something greener, I’ll try not to get sad all over again. I always wish young folks well. I didn’t get to say it to you last time, but I’m saying it now.”
    â€œI’m taking Nat to the airport in the morning, and then I’m heading back to Los Angeles.”
    â€œThat’s a good piece of driving. You got somebody to split it with you?”
    â€œJust me, but I been out there and back on my own. I make my money driving, so the road’s the best place for me.”
    She patted my hand one good time, and looked around the room. I kept it tidy, shoes lined along the baseboards and my hats stacked on the open shelf of the wardrobe.
    â€œCatherine cleaned this floor today. I see she took care of everything like she was supposed to.”
    Miss Vee lifted the glasses that hung around her neck to look at the windowsills and the radiator, the places where the dust liked to hide. As simple as the hotel was, it was never less than tidy. She used to clean the place before she became day manager, her title embroidered on her jacket in maroon and silver. The glasses hung on a chain of stones in those same colors.
    â€œIt’s impolite to ask what the man’s like, because youwork for him and wouldn’t dare tell his business. But I know it’s nice working for Negroes.”
    Miss Vee was right. I had never worked for white folks, but I had been in the US Army and an Alabama prison. Working for my own felt more like kindred.
    â€œI got to Montgomery when I was fourteen from down there in Lowndes,” she said. “That was the last time I ever worked for white folks. Give me Negro strangers. New folks to greet every day.”
    Miss Vee worked the desk the day I checked in, and she gave me that hug that people do without speaking. Her quiet was as strong as somebody else’s shout. It was the same with my mother’s name. She had not once mentioned her during that week I had been in Montgomery,