Ishmael Reed - Reckless Eyeballing

Today, Becky wore a P.O.W. haircut, khaki-colored blouse, and baggy pants. She was wearing red high heels. He thought of himself relaxing against a bedroom wall, a smile on his face, and arms supporting his head while she raised and lowered herself on his Johnson, grunting and working hard as she tried to “earn” her orgasm, as Clarence Major would write. She wore some jewelry. Turquoise bracelets (fake). She had no lips, feline eyes. He sat down.

“Terrible about Jim,” she said, studying him to get his reaction to her words. “He showed such promise.” Promise, he thought. Jim was one of the best directors on the New York scene and here was this twat saying that he had “promise,” Ian thought.

“I’m going to miss him. We were buddies,” Ian said.

“We’re still trying to piece together the details of this tragedy. We tried to get in touch with the college, Mary Phegan, but the Georgia operator said that there was no such college. Would you like to have some coffee?”

“I need some,” he said. She went over to a table that stood in front of a window. Outside, old wavers, new wavers, and future wavers; writers, poets, playwrights, and tourists could be seen strolling down Avenue A.

She had her back to him. “Cream and sugar?” I’d like to cream you, Ball thought. He wanted to go up behind her, rub a stiff erection against her ass, and cup her breasts with his hands. He could imagine her closing her eyes and her tongue sliding over the part where her lips would ordinarily be, but he thought differently. She had a reputation for being difficult to bed. Some had even said that no man’s panzer division had ever crossed her tight Maginot Line. She poured the contents of a white thermos into a ceramic cup that had Lord Mountbatten’s heraldic shield on it. She gave him a professional smile as she handed him the coffee.

“We still plan to do your play, of course; Jim’s death won’t change that. I mean, we wouldn’t think of scratching a play that Jim had such interest in. We’d like to make one change.”

“Change?”

“Yes,” she said, sipping from her cup and lowering her eyelids. “We think that the play still has some rough edges, and so we’d like to move it from the Lord Mountbatten to the Queen Mother.” She studied him as he formed his response. The Queen Mother didn’t have good equipment. Lights were bad, the stage small, and the seats uncomfortable. There was a limited supply of dressing room space, and it seated only ninety-nine people. It didn’t have the Mountbatten’s prestige.

“We’re going to give it a workshop, and, well, if anything comes of it, we’ll perhaps — well, there might be some room at the Mountbatten next season.” He rose. He was angry.

“A workshop?” He looked down at her. He saw her finger move to the button that would summon Mr. Ickey. “But, but, Jim thought that it was a major play. Deserving of the Mountbatten. I don’t get it. A workshop!”

Becky’s assistant Ickey had gotten his mocking smile from her. She sighed. “Look, Jim’s dead. I also don’t mind telling you that I was against doing your play, originally. It read like a first draft. I was only complying with Jim’s request.” Yeah, I know all about it, Ball thought. He brought in all of the grants. He wished that the Flower Phantom would get this bitch, but reproached himself for even entertaining such a thought.

“Well, how do you feel about it? Take it or leave it.”

“I guess that the Queen Mother is better than nothing.” He thought of all of the fellas who weren’t even able to get that. You should be grateful, he heard his mother say.

“I’m glad that you see it our way,” she said, more relaxed now. “You know, Ian, you’re pretty good. You continue to write and maybe one day you’ll be as good as Tremonisha Smarts, and I might tell you that Tremonisha and I feel that you’ve come a long way from that misogynistic piece of drivel Suzanna that all of the male critics applauded.” She looked up. Her assistant was standing in the doorway. He wore a smirk. “Tremonisha is on the phone.”

“Tell her I’ll call her back,” Becky said, glancing at her watch. Ball could take a hint.

“Jim said that you were thinking of doing a play about Eva Braun.” She’d returned her attention to the papers on her desk and seemed annoyed that he was still in the room. Probably liked to fuck with the man on the bottom, Ball thought. Probably masturbated to ragas.

“You say something?” She was impatient.

“Yeah. Jim said that you were considering a play about Eva Braun.”

“Oh, yes. Eva’s Honeymoon . We’re going to do it in the Mountbatten.” His mind flashed to the plump blonde who wore her hair like the 1940s Claudette Colbert. She was usually romping about that place in the mountains that Hitler built. Playing with puppies and making home movies. She was always smiling. He thought of what Brashford would say. “Shit, a white woman was married to Hitler.”

“God knows we’ve heard enough about what the men thought.” She stared hostilely at Ball when she said men . “And that little k — Jewish girl, Anne Frank, she’s almost discussed in this town as much as the Rosenbergs. So now, Eva will have a chance to tell her side. How she was victimized.” This bitch is incredible, Ball thought.

“Victimized? I don’t follow, Becky. I always thought that Eva Braun was a Nazi.” She jumped to her feet. She was shaking, she was so full of rage. “Just like you men! You rehabilitate the Waffen S.S. because they’re men. But Eva! No, Eva’s a woman! She was an innocent bystander in conflict between Jewish and German men! All of those women, victims in a war of male ego.” She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. As she did, he thought of the newsreels showing the women crying into their handkerchiefs and squealing as Hitler’s motorcade passed, their arms raised in Nazi salutes just like everybody else’s. Women throwing flowers, screaming, breaking down, wanting to wrap their legs around the Führer’s hips and party all night.

“Yeah. Well, I gotta be going. One thing.” He needed some air.

“What is it?” she asked, stamping a foot impatiently.

“Who’s going to direct my play now that Jim’s gone?”

“Tremonisha Smarts. She’s read your script and will be contacting you. She said that she’s having problems with some of your female characters.” Becky said all of this with her head buried in the papers.

“What?” he said. His legs felt weak.

“Tremonisha Smarts is directing your play. Now, I have a lot of work to do. I—” He turned around and walked out of the office. She’s having problems with some of your female characters . The words, said with a mean, sarcastic smile, stayed in his mind as he stood momentarily outside her door. Soon he heard her voice behind the door. “Hello, Tremonisha. He just left.” This was followed by a triumphant laugh. Ickey looked up at him and chuckled. He looked up at the portrait of Shakespeare. Even Shakespeare seemed to be smiling, mocking him. “Nigger,” the bard seemed to be saying, “who do you think you are, trying to express yourself in English? Don’t you know that English is white peoples’ language?” He left the theater with Shakespeare’s laughter ringing in his ears. Becky, Ickey, and Shakespeare all seemed to be laughing at him, their faces in a heavy-handed montage like in an old film. He left feeling like something that sticks to the soles of your feet and smells bad.

For some reason, Tremonisha wanted their meeting to take place at the Oyster Bar located in Grand Central Station on East Forty-second Street. The building’s artwork was elaborate. It reminded him of Henry James’ prose style. Excessive, equivocating. It contrasted with the modernist temple, the Pan-Am Building, that stood behind it. Tremonisha was about forty-five minutes late, which gave him an opportunity to read The New York Pillar . The Flower Phantom, as the man who assaulted Tremonisha Smarts was called, had struck again, this time tying up at gunpoint and shaving the head of a feminist writer who had suggested in a book that the typical rapist was a black man. The newspaper was calling the culprit a hair fetishist because of his practice of collecting the victim’s hair and placing it in a black plastic bag. A sketch of the Flower Phantom appeared in all of the newspapers. Panels of experts discussed him on television. Some black men began to appear in public wearing a chrysanthemum pinned to their clothes. Ian’s head told him that this man was a lunatic who should be put away for a long time, but his gut was cheering the man on. His head was Dr. Jekyll, but his gut was Mr. Hyde.