Ishmael Reed - Reckless Eyeballing

But on the other hand, suppose Cecil Brown was right when he said that there are probably more female Hitlers than male. That got Ball to thinking. Weren’t women the ones who were always interested in what was going on in their neighbors’ intimate existence, like the Mouth Almighties in Their Eyes Were Watching God? Weren’t they the ones who rummaged their children’s possessions, and went through their husband’s pockets? Weren’t they the gossips? Hadn’t some of the feminists said that what went on in your house was also political? Suppose they gain power. Would they send people into your house to see what you were doing in there? Go through your pockets, spy on your children? Were women more fascistic than men? Was this why men wanted to get away, like a prisoner escaping from some domestic Devil’s Island? The North, Ball decided, was one hell of a complicated mess. That’s why it fascinated him so; his mother complained that he was trying to become more northern than the Northerners, with his video cassettes, comic books, Coca-Cola, rock-and-roll records, baseball. Ball called the airlines to reconfirm his reservation that afternoon. He would pick up the reviews in the airport. He couldn’t wait to get South.

The commissioner pinned the medal on O’Reedy’s chest to the sound of enthusiastic applause. A few people got up from their seats, and soon the entire gathering of police was on its feet applauding “Loathesome” O’Reedy, who was retiring from the police force after thirty years’ service. Somebody had placed pots of yellow flowers on each side of the lectern and alongside the place where the dignitaries sat was a large American flag. Larry’s wife was standing next to him. She was in tears. She wore a large corsage and had her hair tinted blue for the occasion. She wore white gloves. She was dressed in what some irreverents dubbed Mamie Eisenhower pink. As soon as the applause subsided some rookies in the rear of the auditorium began to chant: “Give me something to write home to Mother about, Give me something to write home to Mother about,” the line O’Reedy had always shouted before giving some creep his Kingdom Come. O’Reedy put out his hand, a signal for the rookies to stop. The only noise that remained was made by the shuffling of feet and some coughing. O’Reedy approached the speaker’s stand. “I’ve been thinking about this day for thirty years now. What I would say on the occasion of my retirement. You all know how hard it is to be a cop. People don’t know how hard it is. The murder and the mayhem we see. We see human beings behaving like animals, and it’s tough to take. After a while you get to thinking that maybe that’s what we are. I’m not saying that we’re apes or nothin’ like that.” His line was interrupted by a flurry of giggles. “Well, you know what I mean. It’s just that in this business you learn that there’s no difference between man and the lowliest beast you find in the jungle. You try to do your best.” A lone voice yelled, “Give me something to write home to Mother about.” The shout was followed by more giggles, then the entire room was chanting again, “Give me something to write home to Mother about.” O’Reedy quieted the audience again. “But seriously, folks, animal or no animal, we showed these punks that they can’t take the streets from us, and though our methods were a little unorthodox”—the audience rose as one and applauded wildly for about two minutes. After the applause died down this time, the audience spent some more seconds agreeing with O’Reedy’s statement and nodding their heads in approval, “I guess I’m a lucky guy. I have a good wife.” Mrs. O’Reedy was hesitant to stand but the audience’s applause was so unstinting that the police commissioner encouraged her to stand and take a bow. O’Reedy walked over and kissed his wife, as the audience continued its applause and whistled. “Got a great kid, too, has a head on his shoulders, not like this dumb cop you see standing before you; he’s going to study Irish-Americans…ah…you know, that’s about how great we Irishmen are, which a lot of you bozos don’t appreciate. Stand up, son.” Sean rose and bowed all around. “Well, I thought — what the hell — back there a few months ago that my retirement would be uneventful, but I guess you all read the papers last night about what happened.” The audience went ape. They started laughing and some cried, and people were chanting, “Give me something to write home to Mother about.” “And I tell you what,” he said after they finished, “I would have been a goner had it not been for Lieutenant Brown. Stand up, Lieutenant.” Another huge ovation, and some of Brown’s colleagues razzed him with “Way to go, Brown.” “The women of this city can wake up this morning with the knowledge that at least one creep won’t be around to make their lives miserable and cause them to live in a state of fear. I was against Brown, the other blacks, the Hispanics, and the women coming on the force. You know how hard it is for an old guy like me to change, but you know, now that they’re here I’m wondering, hey, how did we get along without them all these years,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. The Hispanics and blacks and women cheered, and about ten percent of the white males applauded too. “Well, you guys won’t have Larry O’Reedy to kick around anymore, me and the missus are leaving for Vero Beach tomorrow, and I’m not going to do anything for the rest of my life but fish and sit on my can and watch the ball game.” O’Reedy smiled at the new round of applause that he was getting.

He looked at the domed ceiling. He stepped back. Stopped talking. People in the audience began to whisper. The ceiling was blank but he saw an ascension mural with a lot of browns reds blues and whites. His eyes were wide open as he stood there, fascinated by what he saw. The black jogger was floating in his black and red jogging suit, his hands thrust in front of him floating toward heaven — and all of the other people were off their feet, floating also, all of them ascending behind the jogger, and there was the Amazon who had laid down her sword and removed her helmet and she was ascending, and his relatives; his Mom and Dad, they were folding their hands and they were ascending together, and everybody was looking heavenward, and there were people in chariots pulled by snorting horses, and he recognized dead aunts and uncles, his grandparents rising, and those three Spanish guys, don’t forget the three Spanish guys, they were also in robes and wore wings, and some kind of Mexican hats, and one of them was playing the saxophone. And there they were, also ascending, and some little black and Puerto Rican babies with puffy cheeks and diapers and wings were blowing little trumpets.

He started running toward the ceiling and he was flying toward the others who were leaving him behind and he was shouting “Wait for me, wait for me.” He staggered across the stage, and as he did he saw his wife’s mouth open and the police commissioner show a frown of concern, and his hands went up as he staggered across the stage floating in slow motion, and trying to grab on to the American flagpole, but he missed it and fell off the stage. He heard the screams.

He came to momentarily. Sean, his son, was lifting his head. Somebody was giving him a glass of water. The police commissioner was on his feet telling others to “Get back! Get back!”

“I — did you see.”

“Don’t try to talk, dear,” his wife said. She was kneeling next to him. He took her hand.

“I guess I won’t be gettin’ to Vero Beach.”

“Dad, take it easy, they’ve sent for an ambulance.”

“Yeah.” He smiled. He tried to rise, but he couldn’t. He looked up at his wife. “You’ve been so great to me, and I’ve been like a — a—I stink — I had my whores.”