Ishmael Reed - The Free-Lance Pallbearers

Cipher shoved the man aside and continued toward the office. “Sir, Mr. Doopeyduk and I have to go into my office to relax. The performance was truly exhausting,” Cipher lisped.

But the man kept talking. “We just thought that you might want to sign this petition concerning the erosion and bastardization of the tongue!”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Cipher answered, fluttering his eyelids. “I’m neutral in all things. Besides I have a very nice soft and juicy tongue, so there,” Cipher said, sticking out his tongue at the man and continuing toward the office.

The man and his wife went back to the mayor, Stephen Wolinski, who standing in the corner asked, “Did he say anything about da snowplows and da bombed-out swimming pools?”

Inside the office Cipher pulled the gag off my mouth and then I BLEW MY COOL.

“WHADDAYA MEAN PUTTIN’ ME UP THERE WITH THEM BASEBALLS KNOCKING ME FACELESS AND THEM CRAZY SPEECHES AND STUFF? YOU TRYIN’ TO GET ME BUMPED OFF OR SOMETHIN’? WHY I GOT A GOOD MIND TO HIT YOU RIGHT SMACK IN THE KISSER!”

“Cutey poo,” he said, prancing about the office, the tips of his left and right hands touching. “Sweetheart. Dearest. I’m completely pooped from the BECOMING! You were so absolutely adorable,” he said, “come here. Let me puck you one on the cheek. Let me grease your palm,” he said, applying some Vaseline to my palm which had been bruised. As a Nazarene apprentice I was completely disarmed in the face of such kindness.

“ALL RIGHT, BUT YOU’D BETTER COME UP WITH SOMETHIN’ GOOD, BUDDY.”

“Do come back tomorrow and we’ll discuss the BECOMING,” he said.

“All right. I yield to art this time, but tomorrow I want a full-dress review of this thing.”

I walked down the steps into the streets. Just as I stepped into the area in front of the loft, someone whispered from the shadows. “Psssssssssst, Bukka Doopeyduk, Bukka Doopeyduk. Come over here.”

I walked over to the figure standing in the corner.

“Look, Bukka,” the figure said. “Dose people over there told me dat you knew where I could get some snowplows and some cement. See dim Chinamens came into Williamsville and Snyder last week and bombed out all da swimmin’ pools?”

“I’m sorry, Jim. I can’t help you,” I told the mayor of Buffalo, Stephen Wolinski. “I know that it is an inconvenience and all, but I got troubles of my own.”

I left the mayor of Buffalo looking like a sad sack as he walked holding out the insides of his pockets toward the student and faculty delegation who stood next to sight-seeing buses looking disappointed. I was surrounded by fans holding autograph pads. BECOMINGS’ followers were standing deep in front of the buildings discussing the performance. Ratner’s was filled to capacity.

The next morning I ran out of the house and returned with an armful of newspapers. I nearly fainted dead away when I read the headlines in the ny teeth .

ACTOR CALLS FOR GUERRILLA WARFARE AGAINST SAM.

CALLS DICTATOR A BARN BURNER.

POPE GIVES UP AS BINGO CRISIS ESCALATES. TAKE THE GODDAMNED CARDS, WEARY PONTIFF SAYS.

CHINESE ESCAPE THROUGH DUMBWAITER.

M/NEIGHBOR AND NOSETROUBLE DEMAND PARLEY ON MISSING TOTS.

I put on my shoes and rushed downstairs to the telephone. I would have to call the ny teeth and get an extraction. But before I could pick up the receiver, the phone rang.

“Mr. Doopeyduk,” a voice said. “This is Allen Hangup. I’m emceeing the controversial new Allen Hangup Show . We are going to have a discussion on how the migration of the eastern brown pelican affects the civil rights movement.”

“Man, I don’t know nothing about no birds,” I told the kat.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Tweet, tweet, see you soon.” (Click.)

The phone rang again. “Hello, Mr. Doopeyduk,” another voice said. “This is Poison Dart magazine, the magazine of black liberation. We are having a symposium on the role of the black writer in contemporary society. We will be covering such issues as: Should he glare at Charlie? Should he kinda stick out his lower lip and look mean? or should he just snag at Charlie’s pants legs until his mouth is full of ankles and calves and he gets the sweet taste of Max Factor on his tongue? We shall also be discussing whether the brothers should part their hair on the side or part it down the middle. These are grave issues and you as a friend of the liberation movement shouldn’t want to miss the discussion.”

“Look,” I answered. “I’m not an actor. I’m more of a clown.”

“Good, Mr. Doopeyduk,” the voice said. “So are we, tweet, tweet. See you soon.”

This thing was getting all out of hand. I would have to go to the only man who was capable of setting the matter straight: CIPHER X. I ran out of the house and up the stairs of the factory building and pounded on the door. Cipher peeked out, followed by heavy clouds of smoke.

“Look, Bukka, I’ll see you at the performance tonight. Right now I’m having a press conference, sweetheart.” But before I could answer, the door was slammed in my face. I rushed to the corner and bought the afternoon paper the ny whine .

BUKKA DOOPEYDUK HAS EVERY RIGHT TO KILL, CIPHER X SAYS. JACKIE COUGHS. BOBBY HAS HICCUPS. TEDDY OPENS TOYTALK FAIR.

read growing up in soulsville first of three installments

— or what it means to be a backstage darky

by Cipher (o)

I ran back to the loft. Press conference or no press conference, this kat wasn’t going to get me killed. This time I was trampled by reporters who flew down the steps and out of the loft to file their stories. (Man, I have to tell you that little J. Lapp Swine was keeping right up with them, galloping along like a jet-propelled groundhog.) I rushed into the office where Cipher X was pounding away at the typewriter.

“What’s the matter, my man? Can’t you see I’m writing this jazz review for Buck magazine?”

“Fuk Buk magazine,” I said, jabbing my finger into the very pulp of the ny whine . “Are you trying to get me killed? You said that all a BECOMING was was a fusion of light, sound and film, always expanding, never complete. What are you telling the reporters these lies for? I have a good mind to punch you out, you fuken maypolegrabber with a skinny neck.”

“Relax, my man, relax. I thought that you were hip. That you were into somethin’. But you’re turning out to be as lame as all the others. Those headlines bring in the bread, my man. We couldn’t eat without those headlines. Look at this,” he said, pulling a wad of dough from the desk drawer big enough to choke a horse. “Why man, these rich kats are coming down here busting their nuts over you.”

“But I’m not interested in fame or fortune. I just want to correct certain loopholes in the Nazarene manual. Sort of fortify the faith, so to speak.”

“Well, man, you’re interested in loopholes. I’m interested in hoopla hoops. I can’t see why we can’t collaborate-they both have diphthongs. This morning those diphthongs brought me twenty-five grand from some top government officials.”

“GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS?” I said, tearing to the window and looking to the street below for suspicious-looking cars.

“What’s your worry, my man?” Cipher X said. “They were in here all morning hopping around my er … er … maypole in the nude. They paid me twenty-five grand for twenty hoopla hoops.”

“Government officials?” I asked again, astonished. “What government officials?”

“Why, those kats across the Black Bay at the motel. They were up here this morning posing for some of my underground films. Didn’t you hear them panting in the rear of the audience last night? Why, they all thought you were raw and powerful. And ‘a little cute too’ as one of the high officials put it.”