Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

And then would come the night. The night was black, the same color as the man in the African hat. And, like the man, the night was a single color through and through, never giving way to another.

The coming of night was what the man in the African hat was waiting for. In truth, he did not mind waiting. Patience was one of many virtues he had forced upon himself long ago.

So he stood in the desert, and he waited among the sandstone towers. His Saturn automobile was parked twenty feet away, but he did not move toward it or seek an alternate shelter. Not even when the wind kicked up, powdering his black suit with fine red dust. Instead he stood near a lone pay phone which hung on a pole that a man with a whimsical turn of mind might have viewed as some form of mechanical cactus.

But the man who waited in the desert did not possess a whimsical turn of mind. It was his belief that laughter was an incalculable weakness. Even the slightest hint of a smile was unmasculine, in his opinion. When he looked at the phone, he saw it first as an instrument which facilitated communication.

Secondly, he saw it as a weapon. Telephone cords made dependable garrotes. With one, an adversary could be strangled in well under a minute.

The man’s left hand moved from his side, reflexively reaching to loosen his black bow tie, but this movement was terminated as soon as the man’s brain recognized it for what it was.

There was no place in his body for even a millimeter of unease. Of this the man was certain.

The offending hand became a fist. The man flexed it. Knuckles popped like dull firecrackers. His grip tightened, neatly trimmed fingernails digging trenches in callused palms. The muscles in his forearm danced, as did his well-developed triceps, and he waited for the telephone to ring, and he continued to flex his fist and the muscles which connected it to his torso.

The phone would most probably not ring for another hour. The man in the African hat had arrived at this place early because he would no more be late for an appointment than he would be anxious about arriving early for same. He always allowed adequate time for the incalculable interruptions of everyday life-flat tires, traffic cops, automotive collisions- though he was a careful man, and, as such, he was seldom troubled by incidents of this nature.

But the man in the African hat did not mind waiting in a place like this. This particular section of desert was the only area close to Las Vegas where the man felt comfortable. He truly enjoyed standing among the bloody sandstone monuments beneath a wounded sky. In this place a peaceful ease charged his soul, the same way pumping blood charges a flexing muscle.

The name of this place was the Valley of Fire. The man in the African hat liked that, as well. Names were very important to him. He felt that they should be chosen with great care.

Strange, in fact, to consider that most names were selected without an ounce of that particular commodity. The man in the African hat had been born with one name-Woody Jefferson-a name chosen by a father who was enamored of heroin, a name the man had been forced to wear for twenty long years. But it had been the wrong name-a name born of junkie imagination-and so the man had discarded it many years ago in a New Jersey prison.

Only when he found his true name did he truly find himself.

That name was Woodrow Saad Muhammad.

The man wore it proudly. His name was a gift from Allah, and it was sacred. He treated it with reverence. He expected others to do the same.

For example, he never allowed anyone to call him Woody.

In his mind, that familiarity was a particularly vile abomination.

Woodrow was a man.

Woody was an erect penis.

The last two men who had dared to call him Woody were dead.

Rahway was the name of the New Jersey prison where Woodrow lost five years of his life. He recognized now that he had deserved to spend time in such a place. He certainly was not proud of the crimes he had committed as a callow youth.

Those crimes belonged to Woody Jefferson, the terror of Camden, New Jersey, a boy who had not minded in the least if his name was twin to an unfortunate bit of slang. Moreover, that boy had actually preferred to be called Woody.

But Woody Jefferson was an ignorant youth, with ignorant ways. A second conviction for armed robbery earned him a stretch in Rahway, but robbery was actually the least of his crimes. Before the age of eighteen. Woody had murdered two men, one woman, three dogs, and an evangelist.

Woodrow thought that Woody had been a fool. The murders were a good example-each one had been committed in the heat of passion. Woody hadn’t earned a single cent from any of them.

Things changed for him in prison. He discovered the Muslim faith and the teachings of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad. Soon after, he became a member of the greatest nation on the face of the earth-the Nation of Islam. He became a man, truly, taking the teachings of Islam to heart.

Earth is spacious and a man can accomplish what he will.

Woodrow drew great strength from these few words. And through the Messenger, he discovered the words of others which helped him on his way.

One of these was Elijah Muhammad’s own instructor. Master Wallace Fard. It was Master Fard who first related the tale of Mr. Yacub, the black mad scientist who had created the white devil race. Woodrow realized that Master Fard was a bit of a mystic, but he did not doubt the Master’s word. An unceasing wellspring of inner faith allowed him to believe.

His belief was especially strong when he stood in the desert and black blankets of night pulled tight around the chins of the bloody sandstone monuments that surrounded him.

As now.

Woodrow looked to the sky. The stars seemed especially bright this evening. His eyes scanned the heavens, and he remembered a line from an old science fiction film he had seen as a boy.

People of earth, look to your skies for a warning. . People of earth, look to your skies for a warning.

Woodrow took a deep breath and held it, thinking, If the fools only knew.

Woodrow knew what waited above, in the heavens, because he had studied the teachings of Master Wallace Fard.

Far above the bloodstained towers of compacted sand, somewhere out there in the black silence of space, was a space platform one-half mile wide, designed by Allah himself and built by Master Fard. Known as the Mother of All Planes, it was armed with bombs that would be dropped a mile deep into the earth when Armageddon came. The platform was capable of speeds up to 18,000 miles per hour, but it could stop on a speck of cosmic dust.

Such was its magnificence.

Such was the genius of Allah.

Aboard were a crew of men who never smiled. They traveled the universe-passing over earth twice a week- waiting for the moment when mankind’s guilt reached the ultimate crescendo.

That was when the bombs would rain down. It was written that 154,000 Muslims would survive the explosions. They would be warned of the coming holocaust eight to ten days before the bombs were launched. The men who did not smile would drop pamphlets written in Arabic from the platform, instructing the faithful where to find safe haven from the bombs.

The story fascinated Woodrow from the first time he heard it. On the strength of it, he learned to read Arabic in prison, so that he could decipher the warning of the men who did not smile when it came. It was one of many self-improvement projects he undertook and mastered. As the old cons said, He didn’t serve his time; he made his time serve him.

And now he watched the sky. He had never seen the Mother of All Planes, but that simple fact did not prevent him looking for it.