Ishmael Reed: The Free-Lance Pallbearers

“Excuse me for gettin’ all steamed up, little pink pussies. But when these clowns say I’m not lookin’ out for ya, IT MAKES ME MADI UNNERSTAND? Because you know that I’m nuts about ya. Gotta go now, all you little pimple-pie poopsies.

“This was Daddy. Take it easy, toots. Don’t take no wooden nickels and if you do, name um after me. Har, har, har, har. Good night, good night, good night. I hate to say good night. When the moon comes over the mountain and wherever you are Mrs. Kalabash. …”

(Dictators have always fumbled their exits.)

“Kee, kee, kee. Dat man tickles me.”

“Fannie Mae,” I said. “You’re not supposed to put down our leader like that. Why … why … I loves the man.” I fell to my knees and repeated the oaths I’d learned at the Harry Sam College: “Harry Sam does not love us. If he did, he’d come out of the John and hold us in his lap. We must walk down the street with them signs in our hands. We must throw back our heads and loosen our collars. We must bawl until he comes out of there and holds us like it was before the boogeyman came on the scene and everybody went to church and we gave each other pickle jars each day and nobody had acne nor bad breath and cancer was just the name of a sign.”

“Aw fool, get up off da damn flo. You look ridiculous.”

“Fannie Mae, you’re not supposed to interrupt me when I’m repeating my vows.”

“I’m not going to argue with you. I have to go downtown to Mlle. Pandy Matzabald’s head shop and pick up my wig.”

“Well, when you come back, the neighbors want us to come over and have supper with them.”

“Good, den I can leave da green chickens till tomorrow.”

“You’d need the Seventh Fleet to get into our frig anyway, it’s so full of arrogant bacteria.”

“What you say?”

“Nothin’ dear. Hurry back.”

The neighbor’s wife greeted us. She wore a hairdo called the porcupine quill. Her feet were chalked and her dress was covered with sunflower prints.

“Come on in, yawl, and res you self. My husband told me dat you was gone stop over tonight. We is all home folks so don’t be shamefacedy. M/Neighbor is ’n da baffroom but he be out directly. De rukus juice is on da livin’-room table and da chittlins is stirring and da hog jile and egg pone is jes comin’ long swell. Dere’s some oldie but goodie records on da victrola so yawl jes go on in while I makes da res of da suppa.” In the living room two pictures hung side by side on the wall. One of J/Christ and the other of Jacqueline Kennedy’s riding boots.

M/Neighbor came from the bathroom. “Why looka heah, if it ain’t Mister and Missus Doopeyduk. Glad you could come by. Here, let me pour you some rukus juice,” he said, filling our glasses with Thunderbird wine. We took a drink and were further accosted by the neighbor’s solicitations. Suddenly, rapid and spirited discussion came from a room in the rear of the apartment.

“Do other people live here?” I asked.

“Dat’s my teen-ager,” the neighbor replied. “He’s in da back room with a friend who visits him. Little white boy named Joel O. Dey got maps of SAM in dere on da wall.”

“Maps of SAM? Why that’s absurd,” I said. “SAM’s nothing but a o-bop-she-bang-a-klang-a-lang-a-ding-dong an out-of-sight not-to-be-believed …”

“Yes, that’s what they always told me and you, Mr. Doopeyduk. But dese smart-aleck kids tink dey can figure da MAN out.”

“This I have to see. Will you call them in here?”

“Sho, Doopeyduk. M/NEIGHBOR’S TEEN-AGER!”

“Whatchawont, Pop?” came the reply from the room.

“Me and Joel O. are studying for the lecture tonight down at the B.B.B. Club.”

“Boy, when I tell you to do something, you do it, boy. Understand, boy? Now git yo tail in here and talk to us grown peoples. Pay attention to what grown peoples be saying.”

“But grown people don’t say anything of significance any more, Pop. They’re just a bunch of middle-aged rukus-juice drinkers who drop bombs on people and listen to that smelly man who’s been holed up in the John for thirty years.”

I was appalled. “What! WHAT THE CHILD SAY?”

But before I could register my shock, the neighbor had slapped his son’s face.

“What did you have to go and do that for, Pop?” he asked, as the little white boy comforted him.

“Listen heah,” M/Neighbor continued, rukus juice hanging from his lips in spidery strings. “Repeat after me.

In my father’s house …”

“In my father’s house …”

“What grown peoples be saying …”

“But Pop. That’s not even correct grammar.”

“Damn the grammar, you black-assed bastard. Now repeat after me before I smacks you again. What grown peoples be saying …”

“What grown peoples be saying …”

“Is not never supposed to be joked around about.”

“Is not never supposed to be joked around about,” the M/Neighbor’s son replied. “Now, can me and Joel O. go down to the B.B.B. meeting?” he asked. Joel stood next to him wearing a parka. His hair was draped about his shoulders and on his chest he wore a “Flower-Power” button.

“Where you mannish kids going tonight? Don’t be comin’ in heah all time of da night again no mo. Dat boy Joel O. has got his own apartment and he can do what he wants to do but yo tail has to answer to me ‘cause I’m footin’ the bills … And before you go, ’pologize to Mr. Doopeyduk for getting him all upset.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Doopeyduk.”

“That’s all right, my boy. But you must always be careful about what you say about our great leader. You only give aid and comfort to our enemies when you speak ill of him. Of course you kids were only speaking in jest.”

“Jest, hell,” the little white boy said for the first time. “When we come to power, it’s going to be curtains for the generation that gave us Richard Nixon and his scroungy mutt, Checkers.”

“See you later, Pop, and it was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Doopeyduk.”

“Clao,” said the little white boy as the pair walked out of the door.

“Why, I must lodge a protest tomorrow morning about this man who’s subverting the young youth. Report this subversive to the authorities. How long has this been going on, M/Neighbor?”

“Dey always be readin’ some kinda books. Got da author’s picture on da wall. He’s a colored man but he look lak one of dem Anglishmens. Wears a goatee. Sometime dey wear dem tablecloths what African peoples wear and dat little white boy be talkin’ funny. Two, three words at a time. Somethin’ ’bout ‘psychedelic guerrilla/Mao Mao/folkrock fuckrock Ra cock/freak stomp group grope/sunra’s marimbas/yin yang.’ It’s way over my poor brains. And da B.B.B. thing supposed to stand for SAM has got body odor.”

“That does it,” I said, rushing to the telephone to dial the Screws.

“Aw fool, set yo butt down. Dem boys jess tryin’ to have some fun,” Fannie Mae said, after remaining silent throughout the entire episode.

F/Neighbor walked into the room with the platter of steaming hot chittlins and a side dish of potato salad.

“A man what’s been in the baffroom fo thirty years — no tellin’ what he smell like,” Fannie Mae continued.

“I gots to go along wif you, child,” the F/Neighbor interjected. “Unless he got a powerful deodorant, he smellin’ like dese chittlins when dey’s cookin’. But less stop talkin’ ’bout polotics and eats some food. Dere’s plenty.”

Although shocked at these pronouncements, the neighbor and I were so taken by the meal that we decided not to pursue the matter.

After the dinner, I asked, “Do you have any more children?”

F/Neighbor rose from the table and ran sobbing into the living room. Fannie Mae went after to comfort her.