Ishmael Reed: The Terrible Threes

“Maybe you’re right,” Krantz said, stunned.

“Now you’re beginning to see it our way,” the black one said.

“We’ll give you another chance. Pretty soon Jones will need all of the help he can get. Try to get to him. Offer your services,” the white one said.

“What about Clift?”

“We’ll take care of Clift,” the black one said. He pulled a ray gun from the holster on his hip and vaporized the handcuffs that had been on Krantz’s wrists. “Krantz, I hope that you will succeed this time. Try to get over your addiction to things earthly. We’ll do something for this planet. Rejuvenate it. Look at what these people have done to it. Why, that ozone belt is about depleted. It will destroy all life on earth. If we get rid of these earthlings, we’ll save the earth, before they finish it off.”

“I hope you succeed, Krantz. If you don’t, we plan to kidnap all of the American women and hold them hostage until these inferiors submit to our demands.” Krantz laughed for about three minutes. The black one looked at the white one. They were puzzled as Krantz laughed until he eased out of the chair and began to roll about the floor, holding his stomach. “What’s so funny?” they finally asked.

“Go and read Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams, and Edward Albee. You’ll find out.”

Though the Xmas advertising has sometimes shown Peter with as much sensitivity as a colon, he always answers a voice in distress. Just part of his nature. He really can’t bring himself to be mean, and hasn’t given a child a switch in hundreds of years. Besides, you switch a modern child, and they might have enough sense to dial 911 on your behind, or call some social worker to charge you with child abuse. He knew what everybody in the country knew. That Black Peter had been eclipsed by Saint Nicholas. Nicholas’s material was larger, more global, and after the testimonies of James Way, the Social Darwinist columnist, who mixed up a little Skinner and Malthus in his theories, and Nola Payne, fifty-two Congressmen and just about half of Washington, Black Peter’s miracles involving Tommy Turkey, Beechiko Mizuni, and Fryer Moog, plus a number of surps, and others at the bottom, didn’t seem to amount to much in the public’s eye. All that they did was to deter him from his mission. That of putting the impostor out of business, permanently. Little did Black Peter know that the ersatz Black Peter was out of business alright. He had been discarded like an old wind-up toy. Jack Frost had the hotel change the locks on the door, and when he tried to phone Frost for an explanation, Frost was unavailable or “in conference.” He read the Wall Street Journal the next day and got the explanation. There was a boom on Nick, and a bust on Peter. All of the prices on Black Peter’s goods had been slashed drastically.

They always seem to be able to find each other, and so Peter went over to Saint Nicholas’s earthly headquarters to wish him congratulations.

As he entered the compound where Saint Nicholas and his party were staying, he heard roaring laughter and drunken yells. It sounded like Geneva’s old town on a Friday night. It was a Spanish-style house, and through the window he could see men and women dancing around a huge Xmas tree. The señoritas were playing the castanets, and the men had their hands behind their backs and seemed to be doing a dance which resembled one of tap dancing’s ancestors. Men and women were wearing the heads of mice, to symbolize the animals which came with Nick and Peter from Spain. Peter made his way through the dozens of couples who’d come to get Nick to bless them with fertility. Nicholas was seated at the head of a long table; he had a huge barrel of wine to his lips and he was drinking it all down. It was like the party scene in Eisenstein’s Ivan the Terrible , as each elf at the table was trying to keep up with Nicholas. Nicholas was known all over the ancient world for his garish appetites, which explains why his followers were condemned in the Book of Revelations. Peter knocked on the door. It was finally answered by Destar D’Nooza, an elf with an evil temper. He was frowning, but when he saw Pete, his black eyes glistened with merriment. “Well, look who is here, you lost dis time.” Everybody turned toward the door. It became silent.

Nicholas stopped guzzling the wine. Pete walked in. He looked around the huge room which was covered with Xmas decorations: holly, ribbons, bows, poinsettias. In the middle of the feast was a wild boar with an apple in its mouth. There were huge bowls of fruit on the table, and before each guest was a Bemplatte, and a package of Rolaids. Tree lights. Stuffed stockings. Animal shaped cookies.

“Well, how do you like it, Pete?”

“You used to not go in for this kind of thing, Nick.”

“One changes with the times, Pete. Maybe that’s why I’m on the covers of all the magazines and you—”

“Look, I just came over to congratulate you. I thought what you did was marvelous. The Supreme Court Justice, the hard-boiled conservative newsman, and the others. I just don’t see how you’re going to be able to top that.”

“I plan to.” Nick turned to some of his chief elves and winked. “By the way. I heard that there was some impish person who was impersonating you, taking credit for all of your work. The fellow made a fortune, I understand. They said that you were angry, and were coming here to vanquish the unfortunate chap.”

“Yeah. He was in way over his head. I got distracted, though.”

“You always were a soft touch. I don’t know how you got the reputation for being so mean and nasty. Why you were the one who was always handing out the gifts and going down the chimney, while all I did was sit on my ass and ride a white horse.”

“So you finally acknowledge that.”

“Why not? This Xmas has solidified my reputation. I can afford to be generous.” Pete walked to the head of the table and shook hands with Nick. The elves and the guests applauded. Destar D’Nooza fumed. “Sure you won’t have something to drink, or a bite to eat? There’s plenty,” Nick said. He was wearing a wreath of laurels which he always donned for special occasions. “Destar, get Pete a glass of wine.”

“No, I think I’ll be heading on back.” D’Nooza was relieved.

“You mean you’re not bitter? Jealous?” Nick said, rising, and removing a turkey drumstick from his mouth.

“Naw. Forget about it. The best man won. I don’t have any excuses. Look at the turkey who was getting such a bad reputation from his classmate, the Japanese girl who wanted to be blonde, the musician who was dependent upon machines. He got back his chops. Certainly they were small, modest miracles, but they brought happiness to those people who experienced them. And what would have happened had I just returned to this place seeking revenge? History would have given me another black eye. No, I think I should be pleased with myself this season. Nick, you change the world; all I want to do is to help the little folk from time to time, individuals caught in situations that they can’t seem to get out of.”

Pete turned around and slowly walked out into the snow. As soon as he left the fiddle started up again, and the laughter and the drunken singing.

It was Xmas, and Nance had to leave his car in one of La Guardia’s parking lots. He rode the bus to the subway to head toward home. On the train a man was sitting across from him. The man looked familiar. Nance kept staring at him, and the man, perhaps feeling that he was being stared at, awoke. He looked as though he hadn’t shaved for days. His clothes were filthy, and a bruised knee was sticking out of a hole in his pants. His shoes lacked shoelaces, and he wasn’t wearing socks. His ankles were ashen and bony. His hair was in dreds and it looked dirty, as though it were covered with white powder. He had cuts all over his face, and his lips were busted as though he’d been in a fight. His military jacket was in shreds. Black Peter leveled a defiant gaze at Nance Saturday. “Hey, Bro. Can you give a fellow a dollar or two for some Xmas soup? I haven’t eaten today.” Nance reached into his coat pocket and gave the man a five-dollar bill.