Read The Free-Lance Pallbearers Online
Authors: Ishmael Reed
The Free-Lance Pallbearers (6 page)
A sound truck announced: A NATIONAL EMERGENCY OF HIGHEST IMPORTANCE/THE HARRY SAM JOHN IS STOPPED UP/EVERYONE GO INSIDE OFF THE STREETS/WE REPEAT â¦
I ran. Convoys of plumbers were moving across the bay in battleships with rags sticking from their back pockets. They were armed with monkey wrenches and pliers and hammers. I continued to run. A truck pulled up to the park and cans of dead newsreels were dumped. I ran. The old men dropped to their knees, crossed themselves and cheered for the holiday. They swung their pails and walked somberly from the park.
Through the field glasses one could see the judges, generals and His Excellency Nancy Spellman tumbling down the slopes of the island toward their limousines while clammy fingers were adjusting their gas masks. I kept on runningâgalloping on my hooves like the wind.
An Old Woman Kidnaps Checkers
And I ran until I stumbled over a man who was lying face down in the street. My heels spun as I flew into a row of garbage cans causing the lids to tumble clanging into the gutter. In front of the spent form rested a giant ball of light manure. Thinking that the man might be ill, I went over to him and tugged at his armpits. Lying next to his body was a piece of luggage upon which were pasted stickers with the names of several Western capitals. Aroused, he slowly turned over and rubbed his eyes. I recognized him at once! It was my old professor from the Harry Sam College, U
2
Polyglot, working out some empirical problems of his paper, “The Egyptian Dung Beetle in Kafka's âMetamorphosis.'”
“Bukka, my boy,” he said as he sat upright in the street “What are you doing outdoors during this grave crisis? All citizens have been advised to remain inside with their shades drawn and their fingers crossed.”
“I was on my way home before I fell into you, professor,” I answered,
He lit a pipe which he removed from the luggage at his side and continued to examine me. “My boy,” he finally said, “you look a little weak. I mean, those pointed ears and hooves. What are you trying to do, get on a quiz show or something?”
I told him of the setbacks I had received since leaving the Harry Sam College: the fights with Fannie Mae; my physical and spiritual deterioration; my increasing doubts as to the validity of the Nazarene discipline.
When he heard the last of these downcomings, the pipe nearly fell from his lips. “You've not kept up with the faith! That indeed is serious. You must get right down on your knees and repeat after me.”
The thinned tweed of U
2
Polyglot's knees met the street and I knelt next to him as he chanted: “HARRY SAM does not love us. If he did, he would come out of the John and hold us in his lap. We must walk down the street with dem signs in our hands. We must throw back our heads and loosen our collars. We must bawl until he comes out of dere and holds us like it was before the boogeyman come on the scene and everybody went to church and we gave each other pickle jars each day and nobody had acne or bad breath and cancer was just the name of a sign.”
The professorâafter the manner of the Nazarene Bishopsâlifted his nose from the street with great dignity. He then looked both ways and whispered into my ear: “Look, Bukka. I know that you've been afflicted with the hoodoo. That's no disgrace; why in the “bad ol days' they took the hoodooed, bound their paws, gagged them and made them lie on straw mats. But in this enlightened period, we take a more
scientific
view of this disease and that my boy is precisely what it isâa disease and not a curse.”
He shook his head sadly, then said, “The life of a scholar has its ups and downs, Bukka. We try to lift the spiritual sights of mankind and what do we get? These piddling allowances from the state for projects in the humanities, such as the one in which I'm now engaged. The grant I received for pushing this goddamn ball all over Europe is not enough to keep me in good pipe tobaccoâso I've taken to a little hustlin'
*
on the side. You see, there's this ol woman with two bricks for breasts who was taking conjure lessons through the mail under the Mojo Power Retraining Act. The other day while experimenting she came upon a recipe for allaying the symptoms and even curing advanced stages of hoodoo fever. I've been selling the stuff like hotcakes in Europe, scene of mysterious hoodoo epidemics, and I get five per cent on each bottle sold.”
He removed a bottle from the luggage which I tried to wrest from his hand, so eager was I to return to my normal self.
“Not so fast,” he said, gripping the bottle. “That'll be five mazumas.”
I shoved the bills into his hand which he totaledâlicking his thumb after each count. I unscrewed the bottle's cap and poured the solution down my throat. I became itchy and nauseous. Convulsing and retching, I held my hips with crossed arms. My nostrils bristled from the sharp odor of the fluid and hair began to fall away from my body. Fangs dropped from my mouth, and falling into the street, broke into fine crystals. My feet began to shake involuntarily as if stricken.
“Thank you, professor,” I said to U
2
Polyglot, as I began to feel a new lease on life.
“That's all right,” he said, lighting up his benevolent eyes, those soft eyes which looked like chick-peas. “I still have faith that you will become a fine Nazarene Bishop, one of these days; I only hope that I will be able to follow your career.”
I was about to bid him farewell when suddenly a jeep full of Screws pulled up next to the ball whose greenish-brown flakes shone in the moonlight. One Screw stood up in the vehicle as soon as it screeched to a halt and aimed a turkey musket at our heads.
“What is this crap?” he shouted. “Why aren't you citizens indoors like everybody else? Haven't you been informed of the curfew?”
I was scared to death, but the professor seemed unperturbed as the Screw's fingers fidgeted with the trigger of the turkey musket. U
2
Polyglot removed some officious-looking papers bearing the greenish-brown seal of HARRY SAM from his vest pocket. The Screw's eyes popped after he inspected them. He grinned meekly, then snapped to a stiff salute and clicked his heels. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, for interfering with a top-secret project.”
“That's all right,” U
2
Polyglot replied. “We must all be on guard against enemies of HARRY SAM.”
The Screw saluted, then shouted something to the other four who were huddled together in the back seat of the jeep. The vehicle jerked forward then backward and skidded around the corner on two wheels.
“Well, Bukka,” the professor said. “I have to get back to work. Take it easy, kid.” With this said, he lodged his nose in the ball of manure and with aplomb and correctness began pushing it down the street. I waved, until U
2
Polyglot became a dark speck on the horizon.
The projects were settled in heavy gloom. Hundreds of candles flickered behind the yellow curtains of the narrow cubicles. The sirens wailed throughout the area and men holding flashlights trotted through the streets. The Nazarene apprentices from the universitiesâlooking like sick dust mopsâwere dispensing coffee and doughnuts to the volunteers. I went into my apartment and turned on radio station UH-O. Reports of the crisis in the Harry Sam John were coming in from all over the world:
Because of the grave crisis in the Harry Sam John the Pope has called in all Bingo cards. Appearing on the balcony of his Vatican apartment and waving his crooked finger over a restless throng, the Pontiff said that “under no circumstances would last week's Bingo results be revealed.”
A milling crowd booed as the Swiss guards rolled wheelbarrows up to the Sistine Chapel and dumped tons of Bingo cards. Early-morning raids were staged in key Latin American cities as bootleg Bingo games were broken up. On Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan, mobs pelleted police, hooted and cursed as they yelled: “Give us Bingo or shoot us.” Although a spokesman has said that last week's Bingo results are walled up in a secret room in the Vatican protected by three Spanish cardinals, informed sources here say they've been passed on to the American ambassador. They are: B6, I16, N26, FREE, G
33
, O
43
. The State Department has issued a flat denial.
I shut off the radio and began to repair the house which was still in shambles from my strife with Fannie Mae. The lamps were overturned. Ashtrays lay scattered on the rug and chairs were broken into splinters. Dead plants lay in soiled spots near broken vases. I stretched my arms, yawned, then went into the kitchen and downed a bottle of beer. I then went into the bedroom, removed my clothes, curled up into a ball, threw the covers over my head and went to sleep.
At about twelve o'clock loud reports of gunfire came from the island. I ran to the window and raised the shades. Shadows moved behind the curtains of the other apartments. Frightened tenants looked out of their windows and across the bay to the Harry Sam Motel which stood at the summit of his mountain. The sky above the motel blazed a bright red, lighting up the night as if it were day. The sign on the roof of the motel blinked on and off rapidly: EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS EATS. I hurried back to bed with both arms outstretched and hit the sheets with such a thud the planks nearly collapsed.
People are walking on the deck of a ship. Seated in two chairs are Dick and Pat Nixon and their dog, Checkers. Dick is signing autographs for a group of maimed war veterans who stand before the family, some on stumps and some on crutches and walking canes. One mutilated G.I. is blind and he bumps into the deck chair jarring Pat Nixon who smiles and returns to her knitting.. Two other men appear. They are dressed fancier than the others. One says, “It was much better in Egypt at the time of the two cities, Matthew. The artists and dreamers lived in one and the slaves lived in the other.” They walk to the rail and lean over looking below at the hundreds of hands holding paddles which stick from the portholes. One man removes a small bottle of acid from his pocket, unscrews the top and pours it on one of the hands. The flesh of the hand falls away and drops into the water. A piercing scream is heard below. The man's companion falls to the deck and banging his fists on the boards, dies laughing. Pat Nixon is not amused; she walks over to the rail and jots down their names. She then returns to her chair and sits down in a huff. An ol woman appears. Under her armpit she carries the Christmas issue of the Reader's Digest (stars, snow and reindeer on a blue cover). The lead article is “Should Dolphins Go Steadyâ33 Parents Reply.” She stoops over and pretends to pat Checkers. The Nixons and the war veterans are charmed by the sweet ol soul. Suddenly the ol woman swoops Checkers into her arms and splits. The Nixons and the soldiers hobbling on their crutches and artificial limbs give chase shaking their fists and shouting
.
In the stateroom there is an orchestra of men in white dinner jackets entertaining ol generals with songs from the “bad ol days.” Songs such as “Faraway Places with Strange-Sounding Names” and strains of “Don't Fence Me In” are heard. Betty Grable appears through the curtains to thunderous applause. She bends a knee and holds her left hip with her left hand and with the other hand touches the back of her hairâwhich is arranged in an upsweep; the ol men put their fingers between their teeth and whistle. Others stamp their feet and say, “Hip, hip, hooray.”
A crash is heard outside the stateroom as a deck chair overturns. The ol woman appears at the entrance holding a yipping dog. She speeds across the room in her black sneakers knocking the ol generals from their tables. The stateroom empties as the ol men chase the widow executioner holding the cocker spaniel being chased by the Nixons followed by ⦠or is it the war veterans chasing the generals who are chasing the Nixons? Anyway, the Nixons and the soldiers enter the stateroom. Betty Grable says, “They went thataway.” The entire string section rises with their violin bows pointed to the direction of the other exit. The ol woman jumps to the top of the rail and holding her nose and the dog under her armpit dives into the drink and starts making it out to sea plowing the water with lusty breast strokes. Tricky Dick and the Mrs. followed by the soldiers are not far behind
.
Betty Grable's chance for a comeback has been spoiled. She sits on the stage brooding, eating a Hershey bar and holding her jaw in her hand. Not to be outdone she gets up and says to the orchestra, “Come on, boys.” The ol woman followed by the four men followed by the generals followed by the Nixons followed by the war veterans followed by Betty Grable followed by the orchestra swim toward the skyline in single file
.
Dawn. Only a few volleys of gunfire are heard. I went to the window and raised the shades. An object appears at the mouth of one of the statues of the nineteenth President of the United States resting upon the imposing slope of Sam's Island. It is a white coffin which plunks into the bay. Another coffin appears. Then 4-5-10-14. The dingy cloud above the motel lifts. The sun shows through. At eleven
A.M
. there is a bulletin.
LATEST ATTEMPT TO JAM UP THE WORKS FOILED. ECLAIR PORKCHOP A HERO AS HE ACTS AS A HUMAN PUMP DISLODGING THE BANTAM ROOSTER FEATHERS CONSPIRATORS USED TO PLUG THE PIPES
.
Things were returning to normal in the big not-to-be-believed nowhere. Walking through the projects to work I saw women trudging to the laundromats with baskets of dirty clothes. The men were stepping onto the chartered buses that would take them to the Harry Sam Ear Muffle Factory. Carrying brown bags full of sandwiches, they walked resignedly with their heads bowed. The children were merrily playing on the amusement truck; romping over the stainless steel gnomes, giraffes and jackals and little trickster figures with long noses and stocking caps on their heads.
When I reached the hospital I unlocked the door with my passkey and went into the lounge of the psychiatric unit which was used by the orderlies to change their clothes and relax on their coffee breaks. Two orderlies were conversing while another stared at the center page of a popular men's magazine which displayed a cadaver that was studying esoteric pharmacology at the N/School of Social Research.
“Yeah, it gone be a good break for somebody. Say the man come in lass night jessa screamin' and hollin'. Nurse Rosemary D Camp promises that the orderly chosen to take care of him will get a five-dollar raise. Sho hopes it bees me.”
“Me too,” said the other orderly, turning to me as I buttoned my short-sleeved white shirt. “Doopeyduk, you heah 'bout the man come in the hospital last night jessa screamin' and hollin'?”
“No,” I answered coldly, not wishing to encourage fraternizing with the other orderlies from Soulsville whom I considered lowly ruttish lumpen.
