COURTESY OF A DEAD MAN: An Excerpt
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Chapter’s Bitter End
Prologue
John Chapter put Harlem on the page and made the rest of the country sit up and read it. He wrote six novels. The first one, The Hypocrite’s Bible, came out in 1914 and caused such a ruckus even the white papers had to acknowledge it. The colored papers? They put him on the front page of every Negro paper in America. By the time his third book came out, they were calling him the voice of the New Negro.
He didn’t argue.
He was tall and lean, had a build made for tuxedos, a face made for oil portraits and a voice that could fill a room without trying. You’ve seen his type. The kind of man who walks into a party and the room rearranges itself around him. Women lean in. Men stand up straighter. The waiters get faster.
In short, John Chapter knew who he was. He never forgot it and he made sure you didn’t either. All without being rude.
Back then, the Harlem artistic world was something. Writers, poets, musicians, painters … all of them pushing, all of them hungry, all of them trying to get a hand up the literary ladder. Chapter occupied the top rung. His success brought hope to colored writers. For some, he was a hero. For others, he was a demigod.
Problem is, demigods do not always like to share the altar.
Chapter knew how to defend his territory. To wield his influence and protect it. He was a firm believer in keeping his friends close—and future rivals closer. So if you were a young writer with promise and you caught his eye, he’d reach out, offer his wisdom. He’d encourage you, inspire you, butter you up. And lay on the sugar.
You’d think you were on your way, that all would be fine. Then one day he’d decide you needed “a dose of reality—for your own good.” Before you knew it, he’d sliced you up, cut you down and told you to wash the knife. All with a pat on the back and an I’m-just-looking-out-for-you smile.
He’d leave you standing there, stunned and gutted. The worst part? You’d feel grateful. Convinced that the artist in you needed the pain and he’d been kind to serve it up. That he was toughening you up for the “real world,” and rightfully so, as if life hadn’t already dished out enough poverty, rejection, heartbreak and disappointment.
He was a class act. Smooth. Witty. Urbane. Some bought it. But others saw right through it. So, no. He was not universally liked. In fact, some folks couldn’t stand him. But even they had to acknowledge his skills.
His intellect was sharp; his insights, savage. And he didn’t hesitate to turn the same blade he used on white hypocrisy against anyone who irritated him, bored him or failed to give him his due. That included pastors, civil rights leaders and other fine upstanding members of the community. They learned to cheer him on, then get out of his way.
Which Chapter were you likely to meet? That depended on who you were, who you knew and what use he had for you.
Of course, he wasn’t alone in being that way. So a lot of people tried not to hold it against him, especially the ones who earned money from him—or hoped to gain his favor.
All in all, most people would’ve said we had too few John Chapters. But not everyone agreed. One person decided we had one too many.
And that person cast their vote with a blade.
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