Ishmael Reed: The Free-Lance Pallbearers

The two husky movers scratched their heads and grinned at little Nosetrouble as he scampered into the building, precious black case in hand. Nosetrouble was Crazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzy about the workers. Wanted to be around them all the time and wear the workers’ clothes and eat the workers’ food and drink the workers’ drink and look at um all a time. Once Nosetrouble raised such a stink in HARRY SAM that SAM had to go into a huddle with his washroom attendants. But being the sellout hippies that they were, they came up with a slick ploy.

SAM went on television. Sitting at a workman’s bench he patted a little cocker spaniel on the head. They had applied synthetic soot to his face. He took a swig of beer from a can and addressed the nation.

“Hi folks. The MAN here again. Got a few minutes before the whistle is blown on us down in the John, a signal for me to go back to work. Didn’t know I worked, did you dumplings? Pardon me. …” (He took a sandwich from a brown bag and filled his mouth to the brink of his lips with liverwurst.)

“At least all those who know me and love me ’preciates the fact that I work, which makes it come as a surprise when these people go around here bitchin’ about the way I handle the workers.

“Geeze, folks, solidarity forever and o yeah while I’m at it, we shall overcome. Hell, I got injured in an industrial accident once, see?” The dictator raised his nightshirt and pointed to a scar which traveled north from the spine to his left breast.

The New York Times called the speech an eloquent and poignant plea for industrial peace.

Georgia’s husband was mauled the next day by the workers for being a tool of jabberwocky conspirators who’s ginst us ’mericans. He was nearly lynched when they discovered the two slices of Polish ham in his lunch pail.

“We ain’t innerstead in L. Trotsky’s nose,” the workers said in chorus as they gave Nosetrouble the old heave-ho. They began to chant in fact: “TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT TOY TALK/TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT TOY TALK/JING-A-LING/DIPSY NOODLE/N.B.C. and/COCK-A-DOODLE/TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT/TOY TALK.”

Nosetrouble never forgot the humiliation. He moved into the Harry Sam Projects and vowed to get the tenants involved in direct action. He received no help from the other labor leaders. Indeed, they were the most avid visitors to the dark and gloomy motel which loomed over not-to-be-believed. Why, women would jump out of cakes for them. Little boys would entertain them with madrigals. Each night they carried their toilet articles in eerie procession like the judges, generals, and Chief of Screws who had preceded them. They were second only to the leaders of the blacks who mounted the circuitous steps leading to SAM’s, assuring the boss dat: “Wasn’t us, boss. ’Twas Stokely and Malcolm. Not us, boss. No indeed. We put dat ad in da Times repudiating dem, boss. ’Member, boss? You saw da ad, didn’t you, boss? Look, boss. We can prove it to you, dat we loves you. Would you like for us to cook up some strange recipes for ya, boss? Or tell some jokes? Did you hear the one about da nigger in da woodpile? Well, seems dere was this nigger, boss …”

SAM would sit stone-faced under this steady barrage of limericks, slapstick and handstands and hoedowns and jigs and cotillions until he’d finally melt.

“Har, har, har. You boys sure know the Bible good.”

Georgia’s husband had also been abandoned by the others who carried around L. Trotsky’s hair in their pocketbooks inbetween the diaphragms. They had moved into quaint little towns in the thicket of SAM called Freedom Village. They itched SAM once in a while by showing up on picket lines with their teased hair and Montgomery Ward originals, holding aloft signs which read: “For Heaven Sakes Allready, Don’t Bomb Our Swimming Pools.” Or they took ads in the Times which read: “We the undersigned are unalterably opposed to misery.” Followed by five hundred handsome names.

But despite his idiosyncrasies, Nosetrouble was an intrepid and scrappy little guy. As soon as he settled in the projects, his campaign began. He accused the soap companies of not putting enough powder into the tubs of dead laundromats. And that if it wasn’t put in by two weeks, he and his committee would put the whammy on high-strung police horses, causing them to throw their riders.

The soap companies gave in, sending out a statement: “How was we supposed to know? Are there washroom signs in our brains? A dozen boxes of Oxydol will be sent over first ting inda morning. Tanks for being innerstead in the tubercular tubs. All spots will be removed from their revolving lungs.” The souls were confused by the issue.

But next washday when the clothes came out sparkling white, the housewives lifted Nosetrouble to their shoulders and paraded him through the projects. Victory! Now Georgia’s husband would consolidate his gains and move for a showdown with the low-down occupant of the bottoms himself. Nosetrouble was getting the goods on the self-made Pole and former Plymouth pusher.

Fannie Mae had left earlier in the day. I had given her money for groceries and she decided to look in on the Nosetroubles, now in the middle of unpacking. I remained indoors to nurse some lumps received the night before while coaxing a patient into the room which contained the little black box. My general appearance had deteriorated. I was beginning to look fierce. Ill-tempered and morose, I flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. My hair had grown long and shaggy and stubby patches began to appear on my face. I no longer carried myself in the proud erect style of the Nazarene apprentices, but shambled along with my shoulders drooped and my chin pinned to my neck. I slept a lot and would arrive late for work under the hawk eye of a piqued head nurse. Increasingly, I would go to M/Neighbor’s apartment and get stoned. We would drink until the stuff trickled down the corners of our mouths.

That afternoon, while watching a succession of kiddie shows, F/Neighbor came into the room where her husband and I sat.

“Mr. Doopeyduk. Now I don’t want to get into yo business but seems lak someone done put the hoodoo on you. Why don’t you go out and buy some John the Conquerer roots?”

“Why that’s absurd,” I said. “It’s just a bug. That’s all. It’ll go away.”

“Don’t look lak no bug to me. I never seen nobody bugged dat had fangs and pointed ears. No, I think dat you have definitely been hoodooed.”

“You superstitious lame-brain! I don’t know why I’ve been wasting all this time with your type of backward riffraff anyway. Why, I could be listening to some interesting Nazarene lecture on radio station WBAI.”

I stalked from the room and slammed their door behind me. Inside the apartment, I dozed off and dreamed:

I am walking through a forest of eucalyptus trees. Sunbeams like millions of fireflies show through the foliage. A hooded woman guides me to a clear mountain lake. Vegetation can be seen at its shallow bottom. She removes her shoes and wades through the lake to a cliff which borders one side. Below the cliff, the thunderous sound of a primeval ocean. She beckons me to follow her, hinting that there are wondrous sights below. In the distance, there are mountains smoldering from dormant volcanoes. As I step into the lake, dark tentacles rush me. I escape, climbing back upon the bank now packed with fancy objects (associated wit what peoples in da West call BA-ROKE or somethin’ lak dat). She lowers her hood and laughs. Suddenly Nancy Spellman appears on the bank. He is dressed in his little red smock and red skull cap. He chastises the woman who flees into the forest. He holds a sign which reads: EAT AT SAMS. THREE TRIPS PER DAY .

My shirt clung to my body. The area about my genitals was damp. I went into the hall without bothering to groom myself. People were surrounding the woman who had knocked on my door in search of the missing children.