Ishmael Reed - The Free-Lance Pallbearers

Now there would be hard decisions to make. First, I would have to yield my apartment because of a rule which forbade single people from dwelling in them. I decided to put my mind at ease by going to the newsreel theater in Soulsville. This proved to be my undoing.

En route to the movies I passed the amusement truck which was parked outside the projects during the day. Most of the children were merrily riding the swans, ponies and other animals. In between these figures stood dwarfs, gnomes and witches. A lone child had his arm around one of the dwarfs. He seemed to be weeping and moving his lips as if speaking to the mute figure.

“What’s wrong, little tot?” I offered.

“He won’t take me across the Black Bay like he said he was going to.”

“Who won’t?” I said, looking around me.

“He won’t,” the little boy continued, pointing to the long-nosed dwarf who had the jokers’ smile painted on his face.

These kids today have the darndest imagination, I thought.

“He doesn’t play fair. He took the rest of those kids over there and they play in gardens and fly like birds.”

I sought to appease the tiny chap. “If ol meany won’t play with you, here’s a nickel. Play on one of the rides.”

But instead of doing cartwheels over my gift, the little kid became indignant. “Why don’t you leave us alone, you grown-up boozehound? Why don’t ya go play pinochle or start a war or something? Who asked your opinion anyway?” he said, hugging the dwarf.

“Now see here, you little brat, apparently your father has never read the passage in the manual about how little Nazarenes are supposed to behave toward grownups. You should never deride the utterances of grownups. What you need is an ol-fashioned spanking.” I yanked him from the dwarf, spun him around and brought my hand swiftly against his backside. The little kid howled as I walked away from the truck wringing my hands.

A distance from the truck I looked around. The kids were still playing on the rides and the little fellow had his arms around the dwarf’s shoulders. He was rapidly moving his lips.

Long lines of customers wound around the block leading to the theater. They held packages of Camembert, Gouda, provolone, port salut, Liederkranz, Brie, Edam, bleu and cheddar cheese. You see, there were these furry creatures inside who over the years had developed a pretty sophisticated palate. So as not to be maimed, it was advisable for patrons to bring something along with which to entertain the critters. I dropped my block of Swiss at the box office and paid my fare.

The newsreel was an account of the previous week’s events: the choking of SAM’s valves by bantam roosters’ feathers, the dislodging of these feathers by Rev. Eclair Porkchop and his subsequent coronation as Bishop of Soulsville. Finally SAM surrounded by his attendants, little men wearing white smocks and bow ties replete with the familiar butterfly pattern, appeared on the screen. Our leader’s stomach swelled over the rim of his shorts like a drooping balloon. I applauded wildly but mine was the only applause. In fact I detected some snickers among members of the audience. The black rowdies in the front row began to heckle and catcall. A few even made wolf whistles. I rose from my seat and rushed down the aisle until I stood before the area where they were seated. With one hand resting on a hip and wagging my finger I gave them a “brutally frank” lecture, as the typists at several Civil Service offices are fond of saying.

“How dare you insult our sacred institutions, our cherished heritage, you roughnecks — you low-life rakes.”

“Aw man, set yo behind down,” came someone’s gruff reply.

“Indeed, ‘seat myself,’ you reprobates,” I continued, to the taunts of several ruffians seated in the front row. “When one hears subversive remarks, it is one’s duty to report them! Why it says right here on page seventy-seven of the manual …” I demonstrated, removing the torn book of creeds from my tweed pocket.

“Are we going to listen to you, schmuck, or listen to the newsreels?” the owner yelled between the chawed black cigar which leaned from his fat lips. “Whaddaya tink runs this dump? Cheese? Now sit down or I’ll have one of my bruisers kick you out!”

I ignored the owner who stood to the rear of the theater next to a short man who was waving a college pennant. Casting a shadow upon the movie screen with my person I unflinchingly stood my ground, taking on all comers. The theater seemed to heave and rock from the commotion caused by the indignant customers, as I defended our big klang-a-lang-a-ding-dong and antiseptic boplicity. Paper cups, yellow greasy popcorn, and candy wrappers rained upon my head. With the strong burning lungs of martyrdom I repeated my oath. “HARRY SAM does not love us—”

But before I could continue a rough hand gripped me by the shoulder and lifted me until I was kicking thin air. “I’ll make a citizen’s arrest upon the entire theater!” I shouted but was drowned out by the cheers of the audience who seemed delighted by my unceremonious exit. With guffaws and belly laughs coming from his garlic-smelling mouth, the usher threw me to the pavement outside the theater where I landed flat on my backside. As I was being ejected, tussling up the aisle with the usher, I was to hear the owner comment to his assistant, “Got to hand it to him, Slickhead. He may be a crackpot but he’s got a lot of chutzpah.”

I started to report the entire incident to the Screws but seeing as how I was shoulder high in difficulties — what’s the use, I thought, heading back to the Harry Sam Projects.

When I arrived at the bar outside the Harry Sam Projects, I was still smarting from the sound thrashing received at the usher’s hands. The bar was a broken-down joint with a few scarred topped tables and an ol-fashioned stove with paws whose pipe disappeared into the roof.

Seated at the barstools were the workers from the Harry Sam Ear Muffle Factory. My M/Neighbor and Nosetrouble sat at a table in the back. Nosetrouble was talking in a spirited manner and M/Neighbor was nodding his head. This meant that they were discussing Nosetrouble’s plot to get SAM. M/Neighbor had a peculiar-shaped head with a sharp curvature in the back of the skull which prompted many people to deride him with colorful names like “watermelon head” or “football head.”

Nosetrouble’s distinguishing features were a sharp jaw and receding hairline. He had the habit of narrowing his eyelids whenever he spoke of his plot to get SAM. He was wearing open-toed sandals, a boat-neck sweater, and corduroy slacks. When I approached the table they greeted me vigorously, pumping my hand. Nosetrouble ordered me a beer.

“Haven’t seen you in a long time, Bukka Doopeyduk. Where you been hiding?” Nosetrouble began.

“I’ve been getting special assignments at the hospital and in my spare time I go over rather obscure passages in the Nazarene manual and make red pencil marks in the margins of the pages. Sometimes I meditate over these issues on long walks.”

“You’re still in dat bag, huh Bukka? Don’t you know dat HARRY SAM is full of shit?” asked M/Neighbor.

I was shocked by M/Neighbor’s newly acquired political acumen. But maintaining my cool I parried his rib. “I didn’t know that you dabbled in politics, M/Neighbor, and if I recall correctly, it was YOU who viewed with consternation the remarks your son made about our self-made Pole and dauntless Plymouth-pusher who ‘nobody could undersell.’”

“You got it wrong. Me and my son don’t see eye to eye on some issues. I even keeked him out da house ’cause I found some reefers in his room. And he kept on wearin’ tablecloths and started talkin’ funnier than dat little white boy Joel O. he was palling around wit. But he’s right on one thing. Da man do smell no matter which way you look at it. And since I became a leader of my people, me and Nosetrouble gone have it out wit dis man.”