Ishmael Reed - Mumbo Jumbo

But surely you will sign this autograph to your volume of poems. I would be most grateful, Hinckle continues, extending a pen for Brown’s use.

Nathan Brown interrupts his walk to stop and sign an autograph for this stranger. He then resumes his walk, moving along the street, the stranger alongside him.

Do you reside in Manhattan? Nathan decides to inquire of the gentleman who persists in accompanying him on his journey.

I have a modest place…a cottage…on Long Island. Spiraling Agony. It’s where I spend my time during my declining years, courting the muse and feeding sea gulls. I am what you could consider a gentleman editor. I publish a magazine called the Benign Monster. You’ve heard?

Haven’t I! It has a bad reputation in these parts…lurid, tasteless like an overgrown glossy tab.

We’re short of staff but we do the best we can. That’s why we need someone like you to give it class, taste.

I am committed to teaching school. I wouldn’t be in any position to help you…

But your vast knowledge of civilization, Christ, Abelard, Prospero, your word order, Think Not instead of the vulgar Don’t Think, your consciousness of your Black heritage but never allowing it to become a mystification as J. A. Rogers, Hughes, McKay and some of that contingent; the way you recorded that Simon, the servant, the servant who carried our Lord’s Cross, was colored.

I have been educated in both cultures and so I use the advantages of both.

That’s why you would be such an addition to our staff, the publisher of the Benign Monster insists to this poet whose biographer has written “[his problem] was that of reconciling a Christian upbringing with a pagan inclination…”

You never become bogged down in Marxist clichés and nationalism: all of these qualities are needed with the plague occurring. Look, we can make you the dominant figure in Negro literature today: King of the Colored Experience.

“All Coons Look Alike to Me,” mutters Nathan Brown vacantly, examining the trees which lined the street, uncomfortable as he listens to the stranger’s extravagant praise.

What was that?

I think that when people like you, Mr. Von Vampton, say “The Negro Experience” you are saying that all Negroes experience the world the same way. In that way you can isolate the misfits who would propel them into penetrating the ceiling of this bind you and your assistants have established in this country. The ceiling above which no slave would be allowed to penetrate without stirring the kept bloodhounds…I’m afraid that I won’t be able to help you, Mr. Von Vampton. I am teaching school to Harlem youngsters so that they won’t be influenced by people like you…

Hinckle is desperate; there is only another month remaining and if he doesn’t create this Android, according to the bargain, he’ll have to drink the poison.

Look, you little yellow bastard; we can make you powerful, Striver’s Row, Sugar Hill, you name it…don’t you think that people are sick of this Jes Grew thing, this malady that’s hanging over America like a black…cloud?

It may be a malady to you but many of us are attempting to catch it. Now if you will just remove your hand from my shoulder I want to continue my walk. I have an appointment with someone who will perhaps make me vulnerable to it.

He leaves Hinckle Von Vampton standing on the street in Harlem.

He would get even with him. He would call his friends and tell them that they will publish more work from this poet at their peril…

Hinckle Von Vampton returns home and spends a night dreaming of things too horrible to repeat. New Jersey. Things like that. He awakes the next morning and after bathing goes downstairs to fetch the newspaper. The headline causes his ancient wound to feel. Cab Calloway had startled a Cotton Club audience by announcing his candidacy for President on the strange Jes Grew ticket. Then he outlined his platform in some kind of strange Satchmo language. The show was headlined by a group known as the Dancing Bales. Was this some kind of nigger code?

A telegram arrives. From the Wallflower Order. It consists of 1 word.

WELL?

Time was running out. He would have to come up with something, Knock It Dock It Co-opt It Swing-It Bop It or Rock It were the orders.

…But the woman he really loved was a voodoo queen

From Creole French market, way down in New Orleans

— Stackalee

THE TROLLEY CAR FACES the Hudson River. A strange ship has been docked there, a huge black freighter which, although appearing shabby, distinguished looking Blacks, many of them well dressed, have been boarding and disembarking. Funny that the ship should be anchored at this particular pier because it had been closed down and in the many years of his route he hadn’t noticed any other ships using it. It rested there in the water which undulated, shining like black silk. It was a yellow moon with spots of red appearing as if they had been left by the wild brush strokes of a painter. After the cloud passed the bright, full moon remained, as white as cocaine. The ship flying the black and red colors wasn’t any of his business.

He was 1 of the few trolley car operators of his race. After the riots of 1900 when Whites ran amuck and murdered or assailed every Black in the streets of New York City they could lay their hands on he had been hired as a concession to the sentiments of a protesting Black committee. They still wouldn’t give him a holiday and he wanted to have this 1. He and his wife had been married for 20 years. He wanted to be home with her and the 3 children. As he sat in the trolley resting for 2 minutes before resuming his route he removed a wallet and smiled upon the photos of his family. He put it back in his pocket. Across the street was an illegal blind pig. It would be 2:00 A.M. by the time he returned home and maybe he would just stop in after this last round and have a drink. A drink of King Korn and then home. This night was special. His wife had gotten some “wine” for the occasion from one of Buddy Jackson’s boys. He was going to get his head spifflicated. He looked in the rearview mirror hanging above his steering equipment. That passenger was still on the trolley. He had picked her up on the corner each day in Harlem and brought her downtown, but this time she hadn’t got off. And she was giving him the eye. No mistake about it. He had been around; even served in the 1st World War. But she didn’t seem to be a harlot. He had seen harlots on his journeys around the country and Europe and recognized the signal from their waist up. Man, if he wasn’t a married man! The perfume enticed him. He had noticed it when she got on the trolley. She wore the long skirts the fresh white bandanna the tropical blouses all the women were wearing now. His wife even had 1. Tonight she was going around in the circles of his route. Maybe she was lonely. Well, wasn’t his business; he would have a drink when he returned to his stop, then on to the carbarn and home.

BERBELANG HAS DECIDED TO return to the basement to relieve Thor who’s been watching Biff Musclewhite, now object of a city-wide manhunt. The street is unusually quiet as he enters the block. He feels a tingling at the nape of his neck. Something’s wrong but he doesn’t quite know what. He starts to enter the basement…Those cars across the street. When he turns around Biff (Musclewhite orders his men to open up. Between the eyes. Berbelang grabs his forehead. But the blood pours out like fire hydrants gush water into the summer street. Strange, he feels O.K., he doesn’t feel a thing. He’s just getting weaker, losing consciousness. Biff Musclewhite climbs from the police car and with 2 other men walks across the street. They stare down at the corpse. Berbelang’s mind has rushed out to the pavement: Yellow, Red, Blue. Fire Opals.