Ishmael Reed: Reckless Eyeballing

“But you’re not in combat. You have this terrific studio, and I hear that your home on Long Island is a regular villa. Yet you’re always going after somebody in print. Attacking people. Those nasty letters you write to The New York Pillar . I mean, put a piece of paper in your typewriter and all of a sudden it becomes a war zone.”

Brashford shook his head. “You guys don’t know how hard it was in the fifties. Nobody gave a damn about you unless you were writing some sensational, titillating play.” You should know, Ball thought.

“Sure, I lucked up and got a hit. But that doesn’t mean that I was supposed to relax after that. The play ran on Broadway and I invested the money. Everything that I have, I earned, but don’t think that I don’t know that to them I’m just another nigger. Listen, let me tell you a joke. A Jew, a Pole, and a black man arrive at the pearly gates and are told by Saint Peter that they can only enter the Kingdom if they spell a word. The Jew and the Pole are asked to spell God. They do so and are admitted. The black man is asked to spell chrysanthemum. It is always going to be twice as hard for us. In fact,” Brashford continued, “I’m thinking about going into business. I don’t want what happened to those Afro writers of the forties to happen to me. I’m going in the rent-a-male-chauvinist business.”

“What?”

“Rent a male chauvinist. This will solve the unemployment problems of black men. See, some of these black feminists and the white ones who are backing them like Becky French have made the afro man into an international scapegoat. Man, you even got German, East Indian, and Japanese women writing things against black men in America, as if the men in their countries spend all of their time doing the dishes and changing diapers.

“So what I will do is rent out these black men. You know all those female vice-presidents and college professors who’ve sold out to white men for the androgynous god Mammon? They’re not going to bite the hand that feeds them, so I will rent them black men they can cuss out and abuse. I would charge them a thousand dollars an hour. I would even have group rates. I would give discounts. I would send these black men all over the world, and let these liberated women in all of the countries kick these American black men in the ass for a fee. I would do quite a business, because everywhere these bitches’ books and plays have gone, a hysteria has been built up against black men.”

Ian Ball couldn’t help laughing. No matter what he and the fellas thought about Brashford, nobody denied that he was funny. He could have made millions as a stand-up comedian, people were always saying.

“Anyway, here’s your play.” He walked to a table he said he’d bought in Italy, picked up his script, and threw it at Ball. “It’s a good play except for that woman’s monologue. Shit, a white woman was married to Robert E. Lee. There are white women in the Klan, and the Nazi party. I guess next you’re going to write a play praising white women in the Nazi party, claiming that they, the niggers, and the Jews are in the same boat. That all of them are victims.”

“It’s being done. Becky French. She’s producing a play about Eva Braun. It’s about how Eva Braun was a victim.”

“What?” Even Brashford’s jaw dropped, he who let nothing excite him.

“Sure. In fact, she even tried to push me and Jim out of the Mountbatten so’s she could put the play about Eva Braun in there.”

“See. I told you these feminists, or whatever they’re calling themselves, had lost their minds. What’s the difference between them and the right wing? You see them down there on Times Square picketing against the pornographers. What’s wrong with those women showing some tits and ass? And then they beatin’ up on poor Mose ’cause he ain’t got no job no pride no power no nothin’, cannon fodder for their wars, scapegoat for their failures, a two-legged insurance policy and safety valve for America. I knew that it wouldn’t be long before they’d be romanticizing some Nazi. You see, it’s logic like Becky’s that makes me and some of the other guys say that the women can’t handle reason and ought to be put back in the kitchen.”

“How’s the new play coming?” It came out before he could catch himself. He merely wanted to change the subject, but knew that this would begin another misogynist tirade.

“Yeah. Well, you’re not the only one asking me that. Directors. Producers. All callin’ me for twenty-four years, ever since The Man… asking me where’s the new play. Well, I’ll tell you why I haven’t finished the play. It’s because the Jews have stolen all of the black material, so there’s nothing for me to write about. Every time you turn on the TV or go to the movies or read a new play or novel, there’s some Jewish writer, director, or producer who thinks that he knows more about niggers than they know about themselves, and who’s cashing in on the need of Americans to consume the black style without having anything to do with niggers. Ralph Ellison was right. We’re just a natural resource to them. Something that they can rip off. Their views of us haven’t changed since the days of slavery.”

“So if the Jews have stolen all of the black material, what are you going to write about?” Brashford looked at his watch.

“Armenians. I’m going to write about Armenians. I’m going to create characters with depth and nuance.” He rose, went to the full-length mirror, and put on a tie. He went to the other end of the spacious room and removed a jacket from a closet. It was velvet. Brashford wore suits and sports jackets, his shoes were always shined, and his hair trimmed. It was rumored that he’d had a drinking problem, but had been cured. (In the 1950s he’d gone around saying that in order to write like O’Neill, one had to live like O’Neill.) “I’m doing my research and I’ve been taking notes for about three years. I’m going to ask for complete control over this play, because you know some of these directors and producers and people will probably get upset about me writing about Armenians. Joyce can write about Jews, Updike, Malamud, and Wolfe can write about blacks, but when we try to write about something outside of the black experience, as they used to call it, we’re accused of, well, like the title of your play, Reckless Eyeballing .” Brashford pulled out his wallet and inspected his cash and cards. He spent a lot of time buying clothes and eating in fancy restaurants.

“I’m glad you liked something about my play,” Ball said. Brashford walked over and touched Ian’s shoulders.

“Look, Ian, I wouldn’t have gotten you those fellowships and grants if I didn’t think you had talent. You remember after the then incipient feminist movement got their contacts among the patrons to stop you, it was my contacts that kept you going. That Suzanna was a disaster, but I got them to give you that award.”

“Sure came in handy.”

“You see there. I mean I would have helped some of your other friends if they weren’t so pushy. Said all of those mean things about me. That Randy Shank. Called me those names. Hear he’s in bad shape. Cleaning restrooms or something. You can’t get help from the people in this town with a hostile attitude.” He was combing his hair as he said hostile. He had white hair and a white beard. He looked most distinguished.

“Look, I got to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “Some German scholar is writing a book about my plays.” Plays? Ball thought. “He and his wife are taking me to the opera. I think it’s Wagner. Did you know that they used Wagner’s music in the soundtrack of The Birth of a Nation , and that the Americans commissioned Wagner to write the music for the American Centennial? Man, these American and German Nazis were together even way back then in 1876. Anyway, I hope that it’s not a whole lot of fat white people jumping up and down screaming and hollering at the top of their lungs.” They laughed as they started out of the building. The white doorman greeted Brashford, but ignored Ian. He looked him up and down again. The doorman blew his whistle to get the attention of a cab driver.