Ishmael Reed - The Free-Lance Pallbearers

“No, you’re wrong, boys,” SAM said. “Gravity has gotten the best of me and I’m a little flabby and sick and not pleasant to be near, but them guys go around posing all day, talking about ethical … ethical …”

“Ethical neutrality,” my little escort said. But before he could continue the Chief Nazarene Bishop started for the little man’s throat and soon they were rolling about the tile floor, fighting. The other little men and the remaining chiefs encircled them, rooting for their favorite.

Finally SAM said, “STOP IT! STOP IT! WHAT’S COME OVER YOU GUYS? GET UP OFF DAT FLOOR!” The men rushed back to their places in line, except for the little man who was slowly brushing off his smock and staring at the Chief Bishop evilly.

“Next time you do that, I’m going to drown you in the Black Bay-preacher or no preacher,” the annoyed little man threatened.

“Shaddup both of youse. One more crack and I’ll plug you,” SAM said. “Now, what’s the matter wit youse, preacher?”

“Well, sniff, sniff,” answered the Bishop Nancy Spellman, “you said I could be the one allatime comment on ethics but each time I try to say somethin’, he’s always puttin’ his two cents in.”

“Look, preacher, do you want to go back to Marble Collegiate and sell mustard seeds to a bunch of sexless Sunoco Oil widows?”

“No, SAM. I’m very happy up here giving up strange and exotic recipes,” the Bishop replied.

“That’s more like it,” said Sam. “Now where was I?” he said, turning once again to me.

“You were talking about ethical neutrality,” I answered.

“My philosophy,” SAM said, smashing his fist into his open palm, “is when they act up or give you some lip, bomb the fuken daylights out of um. When my ol man’s roosters give him some cackle, that would fix um every time. That’s the only thing they understand. And that goes for spicks and gooks and all the rest what ain’t like us. Why, it would be no skin off my nose if all the Chinamen in the world got stuck in a dumbwaiter. Saving face and fulfilling your commitments, making alliances with da Arabs and all dem other baggy pants you can trust is okay. But if you don’t stop the others where they are, before ya know it, they’ll be surrounding NOTHIN’ which is ME like a bunch of Free-Lance Pallbearers.

“Step up here and feel that muscle, Bukka.” He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a lump nudging the crease at his elbow. I was a bit nervous but SAM assured me. I put my hand on the lump. It was as hard as a rock. “Gee SAM, that’s sure powerful,” I said.

“Every night when we go to bed, we is thankful for that lump, boss,” the chorus said.

“That is what you call ‘intestinal fortitude’ as we use to say down in the Republican Club in the perfumed stockade. But it won’t last. You see, I’m getting old, Bukka. Maybe forty years from now you can have the job. The top-secret specialty what keeps me alive is bound to run out but as long as I’m dictator of ME …” his voice rising and pounding his thumb into his chest so hard that the gas mask shuddered, “elected in free and democratic elections, I’ll do my best to improve NOTHING.

“Now I been looking out these glasses at Soulsville and I’m not happy with what I see. The people seem to have a lot of FRUSTRATION, ANXIETY and DESPAIR down there. I know all about that; I read the ny whine every day. But this stuff is taken a nasty turn. Last week some hoodlums attacked my friend Eclair Porkchop and I had to bring him up here until the heat was off. They nearly kilt the preacher. He’s been on the phone upstairs trying to get Miles Davis to translate the Bible. But I don’t think that’s going to save his neck. Back in the old days he use to go out in the snow rounding up votes for old SAM. He use to spellbound them colored people saying ‘Glory’ and stuff-even taught me to say it-GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, JEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSUUUUUUSSSSSSSSUSSSSS. I SEE DAT OLE WHEEL TURNING IN THE SKY,” SAM said, waving his arms.

“LET THE CHURCH SAY AMEN AND HELP ME LAWDY,” said the chorus.

“But now I think he’s lost his drive, that certain spark. Seems a little gumless and stick-to-itiveness without. I want you to take that job. Go down there in Soulsville and tell them IT’S GOIN’ BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY.”

“Say it again, SAM,” I said, not wanting to jumble my first assignment as Nazarene Bishop. I was overjoyed!

“Now we want you to have breakfast with us tomorrow and we can discuss the details. After which Lenore the maid will show you the grounds. Show him to a room,” SAM said to one of the Screws standing next to me.

I rose and said, “Thank you, HARRY SAM, former Polish used-car salesman and barn burner.”

“Don’t mention it, Bukka. I like your spunk. You remind me of myself. Why, I sit here all day readin’ Ernest Hemingway and practicing strange out-of-the-way dishes.”

“Thanks again, SAM,” I said, following the Screws into the mobile library.

“Don’t take no wooden nickels and if you do, name him after me, har, har, har, har, har, har, har …” was the last thing HARRY SAM said as the bookshelf moved from the side of the wall.

“Honest to Pete, boss. You’re a regular summer festival,” said the chorus.

The ascent, unlike the trip down, took about five minutes. The Screws led me out of the library into the hall near the ballroom. The thunder streaked into the trees which, gnarled and macabre, stood outside the garden doors. The shutters slammed violently throughout the house. The hoopla hoops bounced against the wall. Eerie organ music came somewhere from the very roof of the house. There was no sign of the gay crowd. Having stomped up a storm the party guests had flit.

Upstairs in the huge guest room I decided to spend the night going over lines to be delivered to the audience of Soulsville. “IT’S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY. … IT’S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY.”

But I couldn’t concentrate; my mind was still aglow from the wonderful news from the summer’s festival. I lay in the bed with my hands supporting my head, dreaming about what direction my career would take. What would the other Nazarene apprentices think of me now? A Bishop of Soulsville and only twenty-three. I would be one of the youngest, if not the youngest, Bishop in the history of out-of-sight. I rose and went to a mirror. Primping and preening myself I reflected on what kind of Bishop I would be.

Would I be stern and aloof but benevolent to my constituency? Or would I be the gregarious type, indiscriminately mingling with all sections of the population, dipping my fork into their pots of collard greens and hog maws-to show how, after all, I too was of humble origins and had “soul”?

SAM had no real hard-and-fast rule about celibacy. In fact most of the Nazarene Bishops were celibate by inclination rather than by dogma or coercion. Think of the international beauties on my arm as I strolled through Soulsville telling everyone, “IT’S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY. … IT’S GOING TO BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY!”

I was lost in thought as the shadows gave way to complete darkness and the wind rustled through the yellow-eyed trees. The moonlight bathed the room.

At first it was a short irregular noise somewhat like a whimper; a muffled quick moan. Then it became louder, adding wails and high-pitched screams-like the night sounds of the tropics. Someone was in trouble, I thought, removing a turkey musket from a rack on the wall of the guest room.

Tying the rope of my robe around me, I rushed into the hall. The noise seemed to be emanating from below the first floor of the building. I ran down the stairs past the ballroom and parted the curtains in front of the library. But instead of a door there was a solid mass of steel. At the other end of the hall there were four other doors, all marked “classified.”