Ol' Mose

OL’ MOSE

No one knew the age of Ol’ Mose, and he probably didn’t either. He had worked at the County Court House for as long as most people could remember. He was tall, slim and gangly, with long arms and huge hands, and was as black as a lump of coal. He was a “colored folk” but that was not the term used in Purville in those days. Though Ol’ Mose daily swept and cleaned the men’s and ladies’ toilets in the Purchase County Court House, he had to walk three blocks to the bus station to find a colored restroom to relieve himself, and it was dark, fetid and devoid of running water with which to wash.

Mose didn’t mind walking the three blocks to urinate, but with his advancing age he sometimes had a difficult time holding his water. More than once he had wetted his long-johns, which he wore winter and summer.

Mose’s wife had died fifteen years earlier when a fever hit the area. A lot of colored folk had died, and even some white. No one knew for sure what the disease was; they just called it the “fever,” but it hit the colored community harder than the white.

Mose had three grown sons, all educated in the small colored school south of town. They lived in Detroit now, all of them. One, the youngest, had even graduated from college and worked for General Motors in the design department. The other two also worked for General Motors on the assembly line. They were all married, had children, and they prospered in a city where the primary industry was unionized, and the union didn’t care if you were white, black or green. As long as you paid your union dues, you drew union wages, and it didn’t matter what color you were, you could pee in any toilet you wanted.

Mose visited the boys each summer for a week. They sent him a bus ticket and met the bus at the terminal when it arrived. The big city frightened Mose. It was crowded, jammed with cars and trucks and people, and all seemed to be in a big hurry to go somewhere. He was amazed to see white folk and colored folk working together, living together, eating in the same restaurants, riding in the same bus seats.

With each visit the boys would urge him stay and live with one of them. He wouldn’t have to work. He could play checkers and dominos all day if he wanted. Those were his favorite pastimes. But Mose would not. Purville was his home, where he was born and raised. Purville was where he married his wife and buried her in the small colored cemetery south of town. Purville was where he raised his family and where he worked. His job was important, though most would scoff at his janitorial labor at the Purville County Courthouse. He treasured his meager wages which put all of his sons through school and one through college. It paid for the small plot of land and the house he owned just outside the city limits south of Purville. It paid for the even smaller plot of land where he buried his wife. Purville was his home and would always be his home.

 

Mose rapped lightly on the Men’s restroom door. “This is Ol’ Mose. Anyone in there?”

No answer.

Mose opened the door, hung his cleaning sign on the outside knob of the door, and pulled a cleaning cart inside. He flushed each of the three urinals and two commodes and then poured pine-scented fluid in each. With a brush, he scoured the ceramic bowls and troughs. He poured a small amount of the liquid on a rag and carefully cleaned the exteriors. Next he cleaned the mirrors and finally began to swab the floor with a cotton mop.

Just then the urge hit Mose. He needed to pee, but he would first finish the mopping then make the three-block walk to the Greyhound Bus Station. He moved the mop back and forth covering every inch of the tile floor.

The urge hit again and there was wetness in his crotch. “Oh, my God!” he said. “Oh, my God!”

Mose opened the stall door to one of the commodes and entered, locking the door behind him. He unbuttoned his trousers and his long-johns, and with a sigh, let go a powerful stream of urine.

“Who’s in there?” a voice said.

Mose didn’t answer, but he cut short urinating and buttoned up his long-johns and trousers.

“I said, who’s that in there?”

“It’s jus’ me, sir. Ol’ Mose. I be cleaning the commode. You wants in here, sir?”

“Come out here right now!”

Mose flushed the commode and opened to door to find one of the court clerks standing there. It was the one named Wilbur. “Here you are, sir. All nice and clean. I jus been…”

“You were pissin’ in there, weren’t you? I could hear you pissin’. You weren’t cleaning nothin’.”

“No’sir. I jus’ been cleaning the commode.”

“Don’t be uppity with me, nigger.  You were pissin’ in a white folk’s toilet. You been pissin’ in here all the time, haven’t you? Better not lie to me, nigger.”

“No’sir. Jus’ this one time. That’s all I done.”

“You know better. This here toilet’s for whites. I’m gonna tell the judge and he’ll fire your black ass.”

“I’se mighty sorry, Mista Wilbur. I hadda go so bad. I jus’ couldn’t hold back. I only did it once. I ain’t ever gonna do it again.” The dam broke. Urine flooded Mose’s trousers running down his legs.

 

At 9:39 the next morning, a Greyhound bus departed the Purville station heading north toward Paducah. DETROIT was on the marquee above the windshield. Mose sat in the back seat of the bus on the right hand side, a space reserved for coloreds. As the bus crested the railroad overpass, Mose saw the city limit sign.

You are now leaving Purville, the friendliest town in Kentucky Hurry back