Ishmael Reed - Mumbo Jumbo

He picks up the Aunt Jemima pancake mix box. He studies the picture. Hey…maybe the Talking Android could be a 19th-century Mammy Juddy on the plantation who would once more serve me, the slavemaster, by scolding his daughters for behaving like tomboys and prevent Jes Grew from continuing its rise. No, that’s too obvious. No, it seemed that the only 1 would be Woodrow Wilson…! Of course he’s too black… hey but wait a minute. He examines the skin-lightener ads in a Race newspaper he had bought for leads on Talking Android candidates.

HUBERT “SAFECRACKER” GOULD? COME in here!

The Peter-Lorre-eyed bunched-up man, about 5’1” enters the room.

Yes Hinckle?

Listen, I got a great plan; by the way, where have you been all day?

I was in Harlem watching the little colored waifs play in the school yard. Some of them dropped their notes which I immediately swept into my briefcase and they would bawl but then I appeased the little chocolate dollops by awarding them peppermint candy. I am sure that some publisher will be eager to accept such a manuscript; some of it is quite good. I’ll dash off an introduction and with the royalties why…why…I’ll be able to buy a summer home in the Berkeley hills of that rising community on the West Coast where everyone goes about saying things like: Well can you prove this? I mean don’t you think we need evidence for this? Who’s your source?

Good for you, Hubert. I think I’ve solved the problem of the Talking Android, someone to…well, you know the assignment.

When did you recruit him? Today while I was gone?

He’s been here all along.

What do you mean? I don’t understand?

W.W.!!

Why he’s too dark, Hinckle; they’ll never accept him. I know, I’ve been to Harlem 3 maybe 4 times and I read the magazines.

Look at this…Hinckle says shoving the Race newspaper in front of his face.

Hubert “Safecracker” Gould’s eyes expand.

Why Hinckle! Of course! You’re a damned genius.

BUT I DON’T WANT to put that mess on my face. That stuff burns your face. There ain’t nothing in the contract got to do with putting that cream on my face…procuring them old nasty animals is enough for me to be doing.

Well, I thought you wanted an editor-in-chief position with the Benign Monster, but I guess we overestimated his abilities, Hubert; come on let’s go…

Wait…wait a minute, Woodrow Wilson calls to the men who are about to leave his suite located at the rear of Spiraling Agony. Bring it back here a minute.

Hinckle smiles at Hubert and returns to where W.W. sits at his desk. W.W. dips his fingers into the cream from the jar Hubert holds.

Bring that mirror over here.

Hubert takes an oval-shaped mirror with a scallop-decorated frame from the wall and hands it to Wilson. W.W. applies some of the lightener to his face and looks into the mirror; Hinckle and Hubert, stand behind him, beaming.

It don’t look too bad; a little more and I’ll be a light brown and then…

LAWD! LAWD! LAWD! WE COMES UP HERE TO FETCH THE PRODIGAL SON AND HERE WE IS GOT D WHORE OF BABYLON! LAWD IT’S WORSE THAN I THOUGHT!

The 3, Hubert, Hinckle and W.W., turn to see a huge man dressed in a black Stetson, Wild Bill Hickok flowing tie and black clergyman outfit and cowboy boots.

PA!!!

The 3 deacons accompanying Rev. Jefferson kneel as Rev. Jefferson stretches his hands toward the heavens.

Lawd we axes you to pray over this boy …mmmmmmmmmmm An’ deliver this child away from these naked womens…mmmm And sweet back mens. And save his soul from torment…mm

What is the meaning of this? Busting into my estate unannounced like this? Who are these men, W.W.? Hinckle asks, turning to his columnist.

W.W. is sobbing softly. It’s my paw and his deacons, Publisher Hinckle Von Vampton.

Well it’s a pleasure to meet you, Hinckle says, slithering over to where the quartet stand, menacing and strong in the doorway.

O no you don’t. You wants to make 1 of them things out of me as well; I’m not going to stand for it.

Rev. Jefferson slugs Hinckle Von Vampton with a fist that has toted many a grain sack and tamed many a horse. Hinckle kind of floats to the rug, out cold. Hubert “Safecracker” Gould tries to flee through the door but is grabbed quickly by the 3 other deacons who’ve accompanied their pastor from Rē’-mōte Mississippi.

That’s right men. Bust him up. It ain’t no use to planting potatoes when it’s hog-killing time.

In the other room, sure enough, Hubert “Safecracker” Gould can be heard squealing and knocking over furniture trying to escape their grip.

Pa…I was just trying to get out there.

Don’t be using none of the city talk at me. We’ve been driving for 1 week. I couldn’t believe it. You told me you were working for a magazine and I was proud and went around telling everybody about it then 1 of the sisters brought me a copy and I knew, son, that you had left the teachings of d church and well son, I’m here going to take you back to Rē’-mōte and try to heal yo’ soul, you up here posing with all types of trash. Come here.

No, pa! Don’t do that!

I said come here boy! Raising your voice at me! Rev. Jefferson walks toward his son with an open 12-foot cotton sack and doesn’t stop until he gets him all the way. One squirming shoe shows and he pushes that in too.

Rev. Jefferson brushes his hands. Puts the wiggling, protesting sack over his shoulder steps over Hinckle Von Vampton and starts out to join his men to begin the journey back to Mississippi. The Rev. Jefferson, his deacons go outside and climb into their T Model Fords which at that time had such a reliable engine you could plow with it.

Once inside their cars, Rev. Jefferson and one of the deacons ride in the front of their car; the sack is on the backseat.

Rev.?

Yes, Deacon Jones.

Rev., what are you going to tell the folks back at the church when they find out that you resorted to beating on these men?

I got it all worked out, deacon.

How’s that?

John 2:14.

I don’t understand, Rev.

Christ and the money lenders. New Yorkers ain’t the only 1s possess a science.

The deacon scratches his head as the 3 T Model Fords rumble on out of Spiraling Agony’s path toward the highway.

Hinckle Von Vampton comes to. He looks about W.W. Jefferson’s suite. That preacher had a pretty solid punch to be a man of the cloth. Hinckle climbs to his feet and staggers out to the front of the mansion. The place is a mess. Chicken feathers are all over the floor. Brogan prints. Half-chewed chunks of tobacco. How had 1 man put it? “Quintessential Americans.”

Well that’s what these Southern preachers are; man, could they bop you one! What was that? The sound of moaning coming from the front yard. Hinckle walks out to see Hubert “Safecracker” Gould lying face down in the mud, groaning. He goes into the kitchen and returns with a pitcher of water. He walks over to where Gould lies and turns him over. His face is covered with the black mud. Why of course, Hinckle thinks, why not? Hinckle is desperate and would resort to any means in order to come through with the flying colors. He pours cold water on Hubert’s face, and Hubert wakens from his unconsciousness. Hinckle helps Hubert to his feet and then goes into the house to make a phone call to a woman he knows.

AN ANDROID IN MINT-GREEN long johns which cover everything but his face rolls into the room and salutes the Hierophant 1.

Yes?

Trouble, sir. Everything has been confirmed. He just entered the Lincoln bedroom, locked the door and removed a clandestine Victrola from under the bed…he then…he then…the thing muttered in its vocal monotone, flashing its eyes.