Ishmael Reed - Reckless Eyeballing

“How are you going to bring it off? I mean, reading about Armenians is one thing, but writing about them — I don’t know.”

“I’ll do it. You watch. The play is about a conflict between a broken-down alcoholic Armenian actor, his hophead wife, and their two loser sons.”

“You talk about the Jews all the time. Why don’t you write something about them?”

“Are you kiddin’? Did you see what they did to Chester Himes and Langston Hughes? By the time they finished with Zora Neale she was mopping floors. No. No. I’m not writing about no Jews. I’ll stick to Armenians.” A cab pulled up and the doorman opened the door for Brashford. He climbed into the backseat. Ian was standing at the curb.

“Good luck with the play. With that Jim Minsk directing the work it’s bound to be a hit. He’s a great director.” The car pulled away before Ian could respond. He wanted to ask Brashford why he would praise Jim so when he knew that Jim was Jewish. How could Brashford have it both ways, put down Jews for an hour or so and then praise one? Brashford’s stack of white hair showed above the taxi’s backseat as the car disappeared into traffic.

Flying a plane these days was like playing Russian roulette; you never knew which one would have a pilot flying in bad weather just to make his schedule, or a pilot who was addicted to alcohol or drugs. Every time the plane Jim was aboard passed through dark clouds he felt as though he were riding a bucking horse. Finally he saw some lights below, and the fasten-your-seat-belt come on. The commuter plane landed.

The airport was small. Instead of a gate, the stairs for the passengers to descend upon were wheeled up. As he entered the terminal, he came upon a man with a gaunt, nearly skeletal face holding a sign: “Welcome, Jim Minsk.” The man was lemon-colored and grinning.

“Mr. Minsk,” he said, “it’s an honor,” extending his hand. Jim shook his hand and returned a smile.

“I’m glad to be on the ground. It was bumpy up there,” Jim said.

“We’ve had some bad weather these last few days. Do you have any more bags?”

“Just a carry-on,” Jim said, pointing to a black nylon garment bag. Inside the terminal there were pinball machines and video games lined up against the walls. Two commuter airlines shared the terminal’s single counter. He walked over to the newsstand, Professor Michael Steepes, as the man had introduced himself, following. A man was brewing coffee. There were sandwiches for sale. Minsk approached the magazine rack. He noticed some cheap pulp magazine with articles about the Nazis. In fact, there were so many books, television shows, and movies about the Nazis, he was sure that it was difficult for the younger generation, who saw the swastika as some kind of toy, to determine who had really won the war. Roosevelt’s name had become synonymous with welfarism; Winston Churchill’s best speech had been adopted by a fast food commercial; Stalin had been de-Stalinized. Only Hitler fascinated the 1980s as much as he did the 1930s and 1940s. He must have been a charmer for Gertrude Stein to nominate him for a Nobel Peace Prize and for even Walter Lippmann to say nice things about him. One magazine carried a photo of Eva and Hitler talking. They both held their hands behind their backs. He was wearing a three-piece suit including knickers and a Tyrolean hat, and she was dressed in a style that might be called Aryan peasant. The headlines on the cover said: TEETH FOUND IN BUNKER NOT EVA’S.

He bought a copy of The New York Pillar , and some Life Savers. While waiting for his change he glanced at the leading news story. The Flower Phantom had struck again. This time his victim was a feminist revisionist who had written that all of the black men in the South who had been accused of rape were actually guilty, and had deserved to be lynched. The same M.O. had been used. The man had tied the woman and then began to recite her alleged crimes against black men. He left her a chrysanthemum. Sick.

“How far is Mary Phegan?” Minsk asked as he and his escort, the lanky Professor Steepes, walked out of the terminal.

“We should be there in an hour.” They got into Professor Steepes’ small station wagon and headed toward the highway. They passed miles of farmland on which grew pecan trees, apple trees, cotton, and soybeans, and occasionally he noticed some tobacco. About thirty miles from their destination, the full moon appeared. Down here it wasn’t umbraged by manmade lights, and it gave the landscape an eerie and primitive slant. Steepes hadn’t changed his expression. His grin seemed frozen. There was something about him that gave Jim the creeps.

“I’m looking forward to the play.” He had been invited to Mary Phegan to be the celebrity spectator at an annual play that had been performed by the Mary Phegan drama department since 1912.

“We’re looking forward to your seeing it,” Steepes said, turning toward Minsk and grinning even wider. Minsk felt uneasy, and reached inside his trench coat for a cigarette. “Smoke?” he asked, turning to Steepes.

“No,” Steepes said. Steepes turned on the radio. Static came blasting forth. “In local news, the F.B.I. was involved in a shoot-out with the members of Nebuchadnezzar Legions, a vigilante hate group that has declared war on what they describe as the Zionist Administration in Washington. A search of their trailer turned up antitank weapons, hand grenades, and machine guns. As they entered the courtroom, the shackled prisoners began shouting, ‘Black Death Is Back,’ and ‘Crucify the Jews.’” Minsk felt Steepes edging a look at him out of the corner of his eye. Steepes turned to another station. They heard a frenetic voice. “Ah Sinful Nation!!! People laden with wickedness, evil race, corrupt children! That’s not your preacher talking but the word of the Lord, brothers and sisters, the word of Gawwwwd. The Jews are the lost sheep of Israel, brothers and sisters. Bending down to No-Gods. The No-Gods of communism, atheism, marxism. The Jews and the blacks are the children of Satan, ladies and gentlemen, descendants of Cain.” The preacher’s comments were accompanied by enthusiastic shouts of a-men, and hallelujahs. “It was this nation of harlots, the Jews, who killed Jesus Christ, brothers and sisters. Killed him, because the Lord was on to these idolators. They hanged him and pierced his side.”

“Would you turn that thing off,” Jim finally requested. Jim Minsk decided that he didn’t like Michael Steepes. Finally, Minsk saw the campus of Mary Phegan looming on a mountain in the distance.

“Well, we’re here,” Steepes said. “Hope that we can make it as exciting for you as New York. We’ll try. The last excitement we had around these parts was in 1912. A lynching. I’m sure that you heard about it,” Steepes said with a nasty chuckle. It was wasted because Minsk had fallen asleep.

Professor Steepes and Jim Minsk walked from the parking lot toward the campus’s main building. The architectural style was of the Paranoid School of the late 1880s, an austere fortress-styled building made of brick and equipped with a tower that one finds in parts of Ohio, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. There were two men standing at the top of the gray wooden steps. As they came closer to where the men stood, Jim saw the pair begin to smile. One man, wearing a three-piece suit and striped tie like Professor Steepes, stood with his hands behind his back. He had the slitted eyes and long, oval face of John Carradine. The other man was younger. He had red hair and a red beard, and eyes like a goat’s. Outside of these two and Michael Steepes, who was carrying his bags, there were no other people around. Professor Steepes introduced them as James Watson, the tall man, and Thomas Rhodes, the medium-sized man with the red hair. Watson was the president, and Rhodes was the provost.