Ishmael Reed: The Last Days of Louisiana Red

Minnie still pouted and wise-cracked when Ed greeted her in the morning. She was rude to Ed’s fellow Workers. Sometimes she’d get so angry she’d fly into Nanny Lisa’s apron, whereupon Nanny Lisa would fix her some pancakes. That would make the child happy. She loved pancakes, especially topped with syrup. She would gobble them up, and Nanny would smile broadly — real broadly — and say, “That child loves to put away them flapjacks”; after which Nanny would bathe her and tuck her in, perhaps while singing a rousing version of “Take It Right Back,” and other songs depicting negro men as brutish wayfaring louts. After the child was tucked in, Nanny would tell her those stories about the “Widow Paris,” and her running combat with Doc John, a mean uppity diabolical smarty pants.

Minnie loved these “Louisiana Red” stories in which the Widow Paris, Marie, would always best Doc John; prevail over this no-account ruffian. (She liked Marie to win and would laugh her little chirren chitter when Doc John was brought down to size.)

Minnie was becoming suspicious of her father.

What was this Gumbo? She would ask Nanny about this Gumbo, and Nanny would cook it for her; but she knew that her dad wasn’t in the restaurant business, so what kind of Gumbo was it? Nanny was as in the dark about the operation as she was. Once Minnie had seen her Nanny going through her dad’s papers, and Nanny and Ed had a fight about it until Nanny had finally convinced the man that she was merely looking for some change to pay the paper boy. Her father was touchy and uptight. What did he have to hide? Why did he use the code “Gumbo” for what he was really up to?

Years passed. Minnie enrolled in the University of California at Berkeley in Rhetoric (they have a Ph.D. program) because she was good at that. Sister opened a boutique business on San Pablo. Wolf went into his father’s Gumbo business, which was no surprise to Minnie; Wolf had been just like her father: secretive, taciturn, smart. Too goddamn smart for Minnie’s money. Bro. Street went to jail for busting one of his street companions on the head with a lead pipe.

Minnie stayed out a lot on Telegraph Ave. She’d go into the Mediterranean Restaurant for exotic coffee. It was there that she met T Feeler, who was propounding the idea known as “Moochism.” Moochism was being whispered about in cafés all over Berkeley; people had rallies about it. The administration in Washington began bugging it; its propaganda machine based in Berkeley and San Francisco rivaled Ezra Pound’s in the same places. Herb Caen’s column dropped names from time to time: Big Sally, Rev. Rookie, Cinnamon Easterhood and Maxwell Kasavubu. The Moochers had lots of parties to acquaint people with the idea; often T and Minnie would be the only “minorities” present.

Moochers are people who, when they are to blame, say it’s the other fellow’s fault for bringing it up. Moochers don’t return stuff they borrow. Moochers ask you to share when they have nothing to share. Moochers kill their enemies like the South American insect which kills its foe by squirting it with its own blood. God, do they suffer. “Look at all of the suffering I’m going through because of you.” Moochers talk and don’t do. You should hear them just the same. Moochers tell other people what to do. Men Moochers blame everything on women. Women Moochers blame everything on men. Old Moochers say it’s the young’s fault; young Moochers say the old messed up the world they have to live in. Moochers play sick a lot. Moochers think it’s real hip not to be able to read and write. Like Joan of Arc the arch-witch, they boast of not knowing A from B.

Moochers stay in the bathtub a long time. Though Moochers wrap themselves in the full T-shirt of ideology, their only ideology is Mooching.

Moochers aren’t necessarily poor, though some are; Moochers inject themselves between the poor and what other people who are a little better off than the poor set aside for the poor. Like the hoggish Freedmen’s Bureau crook, or the anti-poverty embezzler.

The highest order of this species of Moocher is the President, who uses the taxpayers’ money to build homes all over the world where he can be alone to contemplate his place in history when history don’t even want him. Moochers are a special order of parasite, not even a beneficial parasite but one that takes — takes energy, takes supplies. Moochers write you letters saying reply at once or at your earliest convenience, we are in a hurry, may I hear from you soon, or please get right back to me — promptly. Moochers threaten to jump out of the window if you don’t love them. The Moocher drug is heroin; the Moocher song is “Willow Weep for Me”; Moochers ask you for the same address over and over again. Moochers feel that generosity should flow one way: from you to them. You owe it to them. If you call a Moocher wrong, he will say, “I’m not wrong, you’re paranoid.” Freud gave the Moochers their greatest outs. Moochers talk so much about “integrity” when in fact they lead scattered, ragged lives.

Moochers are predators at the nesting grounds of industry.

Moochers decided to start an organization themselves.

T Feeler had spent many years on Telegraph Ave. before meeting Minnie, and he was getting grey. He wore beret, boat jacket, sneakers and would bicycle about town calmly smoking his pipe.

T taught a course at U.C. Berkeley called “The Jaybird As An Omen In Afro-American Folklore.” Just like him. T, Minnie and Maxwell Kasavubu, who was a “white” Literature instructor on loan from Columbia University, struck up quite a threesome. Kasavubu was writing a critical book on Richard Wright’s masterpiece, Native Son , and had been teaching at U.C. Berkeley in the English Department. He wrote short stories in which he would cite all of the New York subway stops between the Brooklyn Ferry and Columbus Circle. This impressed his colleagues who like many members of the northern California cultural establishment felt inferior to New Yorkers. He derived his power from this and was able to get a job.

T would entertain Max and Minnie while they sat in the Mediterranean Café drinking Bianco. T tried to impress Maxwell Kasavubu, a real “right-on chap” as T would say, by showing off his knowledge of Old English.

Max would smile indulgently when T rattled on about obscure English poets, but one night Max got drunk at a faculty party and before the startled guests, including the Chairman of the Department, some kind of Bible devotee, announced: “T Feeler is destined to be the first nigger to be buried in Westminster Abbey.”

The guests were too polite to laugh. They don’t laugh in Berkeley anyway, they go around smiling all the time. T was embarrassed and went into the kitchen, only glancing from time to time into the main room where the party was taking place and where Max and Minnie were doing a pretty fierce grind. After a few beers T rose, went into the room and said: “Well, if I’m buried in Westminster Abbey, I hope I’m dressed in the manner of the bard.”

The people laughed then. Minnie laughed too. T Feeler liked that, them laughing. Max came up to him and slapped him on the back.

In Berkeley, Moochism was becoming the thing to be. Books on Moochism appeared on the bookstore shelves, while the Partisan Review was hardly moving. The prose style was a little too “dudish” for this old-west town.

Minnie was happy about the outpouring of Moocher buttons. She was particularly pleased with one which read: “I Am A Moocher.”

Minnie had risen in the Moochers’ ranks, making quite a name for herself as orator and rhetorician. For her appearances she was provided with female bodyguards known as the Dahomeyan Softball Team who dressed in black knee-length pea jackets, dark pants and waffle stomper shoes. Sometimes they toted carbines.