By the way, we were sorry to hear about Artis O. Peavey’s bad luck.

. . . Dot Weems . . .

OCTOBER 17, 1949

Artis O. Peavey had been staying with his second wife, the former Miss Madeline Poole, who was employed as a first-class domestic. She worked for a family on the exclusive Highland Avenue. They were living at her house at No. 6 Tin Top Alley, over on the south side of town. Tin Top Alley was nothing more than six rows of wooden shack houses with tin roofs and dirt yards, most of which had been decorated with washtubs planted with colorful flowers to offset the drab gray wood of the shacks.

It was a step up from their last address. That had been the old servants' quarters in the back of a house, whose address was simply No. 2 Alley G.

Artis found the neighborhood extremely pleasant. One block away was Magnolia Point, where he could hang out in front of stores and visit with other husbands of domestics. In early evenings, after a supper, usually of white folks' leftovers, they would all sit on the porches, and many a night one family would start to sing, and one by one the others would join in. Recreation was plentiful because the walls were so thin that you could enjoy your neighbor's radio or phonograph along with them; when Bessie Smith sang on somebody's Victrola, "I ain't got nobody," everybody in Tin Top Alley felt sorry for her.

The area was certainly not lacking in other social activities, and Artis was invited to all of them; he was the most popular man in the alley, with men and women alike. Every night there would be at least one or two chitlin fryings or barbecuing . . . or if the weather was bad, you could just sit under the yellow light on your front porch and enjoy the sound of the rain hitting the tin roofs.

This fall afternoon, Artis had been sitting on the porch watching a thin trail of blue smoke rise up from his cigarette, happy because Joe Louis was the champion of the world and the Birmingham Black Barons baseball team had won all their games that year. Just then, a skinny, mangy yellow dog came loping around the alley, scrounging for something to eat; he belonged to After John, a friend of Artis's, named such because he had been born after his brother John. The dog wigwagged his way up the porch steps to Artis and got his daily pat on the head.

"I ain't got nuthin' for you today, boy."

The yellow dog was mildly disappointed, and wandered off in search of leftover cornbread or even a few greens. The Depression had never ended here, and dogs were in it too, for better or for worse; and most times for the worse.

Artis saw the dogcatchers' truck drive up and the man in the white uniform got out with his net. The back was already loaded with yelping dogs unfortunate enough to have been caught that afternoon.

The man who got out whistled for the yellow dog, who was up the street.

"Here, boy . . . here, boy . . . Come on, boy . . ."

The friendly, unsuspecting dog ran over to him and in a second was in the net, flipped over on his back, and was being carried to the truck.

Artis came off the porch. "Hey, whoa, mister. That dog belongs to somebody."

The man stopped. "Is he yours?"

"Naw, he ain't mine. He belong to After John, so you cain't be carrying him off, no suh."

"I don't care who it belongs to, it don't have a license and we're taking him in."

The other man in the truck got out and just stood there.

Artis began to plead, because he knew that once that dog got down to the city pound, there wasn't a chance in hell of ever getting him back; particularly if you were black.

"Please, mister, let me go and call him. He works over at Five Points, fo' Mr. Fred Jones, making ice cream. Jes’ let me call him."

"Do you have a phone?"

"No suh, but I can run up to the grocery store. Won't take but a minute." Artis pleaded harder with the man. "Oh please, suh, After John is jes' a simpleminded boy no woman would marry and that dog is all he's got. I don't know what he'd do if anything happened to that dog of his. He's liable to kill hisself."

The two men looked at each other, and the larger one said, "Okay, but if you ain't back in five minutes, we're leaving. You hear me?"

Artis starting moving. "Yes suh, I'll be right back." As he ran, he realized that he didn't have a nickel, and prayed that Mr. Leo, the Italian man that ran the grocery store, would loan him one. He ran in the store, out of breath, and saw Mr. Leo.

"MR. LEO, MR. LEO, I GOTS TO HAVE A NICKEL . . . THEY GONNA CARRY AFTER JOHN'S DOG OFF. . . AND THEY'S WAITING FOR ME. PLEASE, MR. LEO . . ."

Mr. Leo, who hadn't understood a word that Artis had said, made him calm down and explain to him all over again, but by the time he got his nickel, there was a white boy on the phone.

Artis was sweating, moving from one foot to another, knowing he couldn't make that fellow get off that phone. One minute . . . two . . .

Artis moaned.

"Oh Lord."

Finally, Mr. Leo passed by and knocked on the glass booth. "Get off!"

The young man begrudgingly said goodbye to his party for the next sixty seconds and hung up.

After he left, Artis jumped in the booth and realized he did not know the number.

His hands were wet and shaking as he searched through the telephone directory, hanging from a small chain. "Jones . . . Jones . . . Oh Lord . . . Jones . . . Jones . . . four pages full . . . Fred B. . . . Oh man, that's his residence . . ."

He had to start all over in the Yellow Pages. "What do I look under . . . Ice Cream? Drugstore?" And he couldn't find it. He dialed information.

"Information," a crisp white voice answered. "Yes, please, may I help you?"

"Uh, yes ma'am. Uh, I's looking for the number of Fred B. Jones."

"I'm sorry, could your repeat that name, please?"

"Yes ma'am, Mr. Fred Jones in Five Points." His heart was pounding.

"I have about fifty Fred Joneses, sir. Do you have a street address?"

"No ma'am, but he's over in Five Points."

"I have three Fred Joneses in the Five Points area . . . would you like all three numbers?"

"Yes ma'am."

He searched his pockets for a pencil—and she started . . . "Mr. Fred Jones, 18th South, 68799; and Mr. Fred Jones, 141 Magnolia Point, 68745; and Fred C. Jones, 15th Street, that number is 68721. . ."

He never found a pencil and the operator hung up. Back to the book.

He could hardly breathe. The sweat was running down his eyes, blurring his vision. Drugstore. . . Pharmacy. . . Ice Cream . . . Food . . . Catering . . . THAT'S IT! Here it was, Fred B. Jones Catering, 68715 . . .

He mashed the nickel in the slot and dialed the number. Busy. Tried again. Busy . . . busy . . .

“Oh Lord.”

After trying eight times, Artis didn’t know what to do, so he just ran back to the men.  He turned the corner, and Thank God they were still there, leaning up against the truck.  They had the dog tied to the door handle with a rope.

“You get him?” the big one asked.

“No suh,” he said gasping.  “I wasn’t able to reach him, but if you could just ride me over to Five Points, I could get him . . .”

“Naw, we’re not gonna do that.  We already wasted enough time with you boy,” and he began to untie the dog and put him in the back.

Artis was desperate.  “Naw suh, I jes’ cain’t let you do it.”

He reached in his pocket, and before either one of the men knew what had happened, he had sliced the rope holding the dog in half with the four-inch switchblade, and yelled, “Scat!”

Artis turned around and watched the grateful dog scamper around the corner, and was smiling when the blackjack hit him behind his left ear.