Ishmael Reed - The Free-Lance Pallbearers

“Indeed, M/Neighbor,” interjected Nosetrouble. “We can have none of the bourgeois decadence that your son and his little teeny boppers were into. It was plain nihilism. They seemed to be having a lot of fun with savage boo-ga-loo dancing and love feasts. It was tactically correct of you to get rid of the boy, M/Neighbor, and further—”

“How is Georgia Nosetrouble?” I said, not wishing to hear Nosetrouble’s recital of ‘ol speeches made by the famous dead’ for which these remarks were usually an introduction.

“She left me a week ago. Didn’t you know? They’re at your father-in-law’s new town house that the munitions manufacturers and Texas oil money bought him. She’s become Fannie Mae’s companion. I read in the society page of the Amsterdam News that they were leaving for Europe next week. You see, SAM has appointed your father-in-law ambassador to Luxembourg.”

“Ambassador to Luxembourg!” I gasped. (What operators that ol man and his mother were.) “I’m sorry about that, Nosetrouble,” I said, offering my condolences.

“No need. At first I was upset but now I spend most of my time organizing so I don’t have enough time for self-pity. You see, we’ve formed a committee to get at the root of these mysterious child disappearances. We want to prod the Screws into some kind of action. Why, haven’t you been listening to the splendid speeches M/Neighbor has been making on the radio? Didn’t you see his picture in the Deformed Demokrat last week?”

“That’s right,” M/Neighbor added. “ Life be here tomorrow and Esquire comin’ down next week.”

“You know, Bukka,” Nosetrouble continued after a pause, “I wouldn’t be surprised if your man HARRY SAM didn’t have a hand in these disappearances.”

Now I could put up with some of these seditious remarks, but this was a bit much. Beside myself with rage I jumped to my feet and banged the table so hard that the beer suds spilled into the laps of both M/Neighbor and Nosetrouble. They abandoned their composure and held each other.

“I REFUSE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO YOU DAMN OUR LEADER LIKE THAT!”

“Aw knock it off,” M/Neighbor responded. “You sound like a tool and lackey of the capitalist class, cha-cha-cha.” Nosetrouble nodded approvingly, winking at me.

I held the sides of my head. My temples were pounding like crazy. I got up and slowly staggered out of the bar. The people sat at the tables with their hands over their ears and eyes bulging like gargoyles. Subversion was rife. Plots, subterfuge were the order of the day. What was to become of our beloved out-of-sight, our razz-a-ma-tazz and o-bop-she-bang? I contemplated these questions, walking aimlessly through NOW-HERE with my eyes downcast. I kicked a tin can from time to time and occasionally sighted Screws lining up teeny hoppers and frisking them. Leaves swirled about the streets, low-bent trees hooted with abandonment. Dogs howled and I ducked the too-close-for-comfort swoop of vampire bats.

I had reached the Emperor Franz Joseph Park. The ol men — having completed a day of kissing jive frames-were filing through an arch which stood at its entrance. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode on the top with fierce-looking eagles perched upon their shoulders. Under the steady bombardment of the elements over the years, some of the sculpture had broken away from its base. The ground surrounding the arch was littered with the heads of the famous dead. The ol men shambled into the tenements and ol brownstones of the street which adjoined this park of cannon balls stacked in triangular heaps. Through the windows of the fleabag hotels which stood in this strange community, some of the ol men could be seen lined up for showers. Others sat in the lobbies of hotel after dismal hotel playing chess or watching a television film of Neville Chamberlain’s airport speech which followed his conference with the Dictator. Still others leaned against the walls of several missions with bowls of soup in their hands. They watched with hawk eyes their possessions: the cans of film, flags and ladders which rested on the ground beside them.

A procession moved toward me from the other end of the street. It was composed of some elderly gentlemen who pushed carts filled with artifacts and relics. The leader of this parade was a wizened-faced creature dressed in a ragged World War I uniform. His cart contained some parched manuscripts belonging to Wilfred Owen, stacks of broken violin scrolls, some twisted marble toilet bases and a big rock, the only remnant of Hadrian’s wall. When his wheelbarrow came along the spot where I stood he suddenly dropped it and pointed to me. Then frantically signaling the other men, he approached me. Now I might be a Nazarene apprentice but enough is enough. I wasn’t prepared to take a similar beating to the one dished out at the theater so I picked up a lead pipe which lay on the sidewalk.

“Wait a minute,” the man pleaded. “We mean you no harm. I merely wanted to introduce you to some friends of mine. My name is Aboreal Hairyman. In my heyday I was an itinerant preacher but now SAM has taken me out of retirement — taken me out of the trees in a way-and he’s made me chief investigator in the case of the slashed mini-skirts and hip boots.”

The other men applauded one of their own who had made good.

“Now gentlemen,” Aboreal said, “it’s not for me to take the limelight but rather this young colored lad standing here deserves your deepest gratitude.”

“Wha hoppened? Come on, boss. Tell us wha hoppened?” asked the toothless many. The ol men loved tall tales, having little else to do with their time save play brinkmanship, mope over the “decadence” of the youth and empty their colostomy bags.

“You see,” Aboreal Hairyman explained, “I was in attendance at the public cinema viewing some film of the uprising from which our leader emerged victorious and this young man debated some rabble who were speaking ill of the faith. I’ve not seen such a display of valor in all my years.”

I was taken aback by all this notoriety and before I knew it I was bobbing on two shoulders as two of the men began to carry me through the streets. One of them pulled out a rusty trumpet and began to play the Marseillaise. Two others ran to the head of the procession and unfurled a banner which read “Buy Victory Bonds. The Nuns are Raping the Huns,” and each holding an end they began to goose-step through the streets.

“Why don’t we take him over to the Seventeen Nation Disarmament Conference Bar and buy him a drink?” Aboreal suggested. With Aboreal in the lead strutting proudly with his chest thrown out and his chin high our outlandish troupe shuffled up to the door of the Seventeen Nation Disarmament Conference Bar. A man came flying out through the swinging doors and landed in front of Aboreal’s feet He got up, brushed off his clothes and shaking his fist at the door shouted, “You’ll see, you’ll see, just like Munich. You’ll see.”

Tears streamed down his face as he, disillusioned, removed his Mickey Mouse button from his chest and angrily flung it into the gutter. We laughed good-naturedly and went inside the bar and soon were standing at the rail drinking giant steins and eating onions and horseradish on cheese. At the tables other ol men were ordering from menus. One sat nude except for a boiled vest and tall hat whose top had been ripped off.

“I’d like some cucumber soup, some jellied deer tongue and some Berchtesgaden 1936,” he requested of the husky walrus-mustached waiter who stood at his table.

When all the mugs at the bar were filled to the brim Hairyman raised his stein and proposed a toast “At ease, gentlemen. I want to introduce all of you to Bukka Doopeyduk, a brave young apprentice who single-handedly bore the assault of some of our detractors in the public cinema yesterday. Without assistance he took on those monsters behind us, who breathe fire into the neck of our tired generation. Long live Seato Nato Cento and the granny executioners in black sneakers.”