by Ishmael Reed
“I see. What do you do for a living, Mr. Doopeyduk?”
“I am a psychiatric technician.”
“What precisely does that involve?”
“I empty utensils and move some of our senior citizens into a room where prongs are attached to their heads and they bounce up and down on a cart and giggle.”
“That must be engaging work.”
“Yes, it is. I’m learning about the relationship between the texture and color of feces and certain organic and/or psychological disturbances.”
“Excellent! What do you intend to do in the future?”
“Well, my work has come along so well that I have been assigned to the preparatory surgery division of the hospital.”
“What does that involve?”
“You see, when someone undergoes a hemorrhoidectomy, it’s necessary that there are no hairs in the way. I’m sort of like a barber.”
“Why do you want an apartment in the Harry Sam Projects?”
“I’m getting married this afternoon and as a Nazarene apprentice, it behooves me to start at the bottom and work my way up the ladder. Temperance, frugality, thrift—that kind of thing.”
“Why Mr. Doopeyduk,” the priest exclaimed, removing his glasses. “I find that to be commendable! I didn’t know that there were members of the faith among your people.”
“There are millions, simply millions who wear the great commode buttons and believe in the teachings of Nancy Spellman, Chief Nazarene Bishop. Why, I wanted to become the first bacteriological warfare expert of the race. That was when my level of performance was lower than my level of aspiration. Now I’m just content to settle here on the home front. Wheel some of our senior citizens around, clean out the ear trumpets and empty the colostomy bags.”
“The more I hear about you, the more impressed I am. You must come out and address my Kiwanis Club sometime, Doopeyduk. If there were more Negroes like you with tenacity, steadfastness, and stick-to-itiveness, there would be less of those tremors like the ones last summer, shaking SAM as if he had the palsy.”
He gave me the keys to my apartment in the Harry Sam Projects and brought down the stamp of approval on my application.
That afternoon we sat in the front row of the Church of the Holy Mouth, a big Byzantine monstrosity that stood smack in the middle of Soulsville. Fannie Mae quietly chatted with her friend Georgia Nosetrouble. The two were inseparable so it seemed only natural that Georgia would be recruited as a witness.
We were waiting for Elijah Raven, a friend of mine who had consented to be best man, and of course Rev. Eclair Porkchop whose star was rising fast in SAM. Elijah was the first to arrive. He wore a dark conservative pin-striped suit and colorful beaded hat. He was bearded.
“Flim Flam Alakazam! Brothers and sisters.”
Wrinkling their noses at each other, Fannie Mae and Georgia smirked.
“Flim Flam what?” I asked Elijah.
“O, of course, you wouldn’t know, would you? I mean—being the brainwashed Negro you are who believes in everything that SAM runs down. Your mind is probably in the attic with all the other dummies and hand-me-downs.”
“But Elijah!” I persisted. “It was only a few weeks ago that you were saying familiar things like ‘Hello’ or “Hya doin” or ‘What’s happening, my man.’ Sometimes even slapping the palm of your hand into mine.”
“That was last week. I have rejuvenated myself by joining the Jackal-headed Front. We are going to expose SAM, remove some of these blond wigs from off our women’s heads, and bring back rukus juice and chittlins. You’d better get on the right side, brother, because when the deal goes down, all the backsliding Uncle Toms are going to be mowed down. You hear? Every freakin’, punkish Remus will get it in the neck, Doopeyduk.”
Elijah scowled, moving his finger across his neck to stress the point and revealing cuff links the size of Brazil nuts on which were engraved: “To Elijah from Sargent Shriver.” But before he could expound his separatist views, the door in the back of the church opened with a slow, labored creak. I felt a chill on my shoulders and the others indicated that they too were cold.
“Ain’t dey got no kindlin’ in dis place?” inquired Georgia Nosetrouble.
We fixed our attention upon the door. An outline hesitated in its well. A man wearing a cape and tall hat. Removing his gloves, he seemed to float down the aisle. Soon Rev. Eclair Porkchop stood before us, resplendent in tuxedo and walking cane. Clicking his heels together, he kissed Georgia and Fannie Mae’s hands.
“Good eve-a-ning. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eclair Porkchop, head of the Church of the Holy Mouth. I am sorry to detain you but I had to do some work downtown for SAM.”
“I bet that ain’t all you did, you faggot and enemy of the people. When the shit hits the fan, your life ain’t gone be worth two cents.”
Eclair Porkchop sneered at Elijah Raven. “O, if it isn’t that silly little separatist! I thought you’d be wearing a bone through your nose by now. All of that talk about going back to Africa. What happened? They dispossess your stepladder and five-dollar public-speaking permit?”
“Now see here, cocksucker,” Elijah said, moving closer to the preacher.
“Break it up. Break it up. Are Fannie Mae and I going to get married or are you two going to debate?”
I looked around for Fannie Mae and Georgia who had been seated in the pews. They were nowhere to be seen. Voices came from the direction of the outer hall.
“Excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll get Fannie Mae and her friend so that we can begin.”
Fannie Mae and Georgia were embracing in the shadows outside the door. Georgia was sobbing. “Oh baby, what will I do without you,” she panted as she massaged Fannie Mae’s thighs. Seeing me, Fannie Mae removed herself from Georgia’s clutch.
“What you doin’, spying on us or somethin’! Can’t people be by demselves sometime without you snoopin’ around!!!”
“O forgive me, dearest. I didn’t mean to interrupt your departure from a lifelong friend and companion,” I apologized sheepishly. “But Eclair Porkchop said he had to attend a meeting over there in the motel and I thought we’d better get on with the ceremony.”
“Well, yawl jess have to wait a minute.”
“Of course, dear. Certainly. No rush.”
The wedding ceremony was performed in the pastor’s study. Afterward I bade Elijah good-bye and accepted his and Eclair Porkchop’s congratulations. Georgia sadly straggled off to her home.
“Why were you and Georgia giggling at Eclair Porkchop and Elijah Raven?” I asked my new bride as we walked down the steps of the Church of the Holy Mouth.
“Both da niggahs crazy,” came her reply.
“Why do you say that, dearest poppy-stick and honey-pie sugar-bunch?”
“Well, to tell it like t-i-s, Porkchop got bubble gum in his brain. Wads and wads of it hunchin’ all up ginst his skull walls. I’member when he was runnin’ da numbers and selling reefers to people. Now he goin’ round heah talkin’ all proper, tellin’ folks he been called. Hee, hee, hee. Fool sound lak Count Dracula or some spook lak dat. And dat otha niggah talkin’ ’bout he don’t eat pork no mo. Shoot! Me and Georgia saw him back of da Soulfood Restaurant last night. And da niggah was wearing shades so nobody’d recognize him. Next thing we know he was rolling all ’round da floor with a big hog maw ’bout to choke him to death. Dey had to call da ambulance to get some oxygen, for da fool who by then was turnin’ green and callin’ on da lawd, his mama and ’bout six or seven prophets to save him. Well, when dey revived him, dey removed his shades and everybody recognized him as Elijah. ‘I thought you didn’t eat pork, Elijah,’ somebody asked. You know what da niggah answered? What? Said dat he was doin’ research on some beast name megamorphesis. And, if you ask me, da only beast in da place was dat hog maw which almost carried da fool on way from heah.”
As I walked arm in arm toward our new home with my bride, an amazing thing occurred to me. Fannie Mae knew the inside dope on
everybody in Soulsville. My sweet, innocent bride, who was fond of saying, “I loves to party and I know where I can find a party,” was really together.
Fannie Mae and I stood near the amusement truck outside the Harry Sam Projects. The rides consisted of plastic and stainless steel drolls, giraffes and horses. The children were chitterwhimpering and higgledy-piggledy playing pickaback. A statue of HARRY SAM reigned over all, this time standing with his hands draped over two marvelous Victorian urinals. A black Screw sat at the entrance to the high-rise building that contained our apartment. (Screws are men armed with turkey muskets who patrol HARRY SAM.) At his feet was a victrola which played the jug music of a hot Memphis band. He wore a cracked cowbell around his neck marked Carnegie. (Elijah Raven and his gang had placed it there telling him that it was an award in recognition of his valor for preventing homicide by mediating a dispute over highjacked piecrust which involved several tenants. The bell provided an early warning system for the Jackal-headed Front busily involved in some sinister pranks in the Harry Sam Projects.)
He slept while flies zoomed around his bean. Like the nasty little dive bombers they were, they dashed against his forehead. He jerked, one eyelid open and one shut, then went back to sleep.
Fannie Mae and I reached the door of our apartment and I put the key into the latch. Wheezing, I lifted Fannie Mae for the traditional threshold caper.
“Put me down, fool! You simple or somethin’?”
“But Fannie Mae, dearest. This is included in the marriage rite prescribed by the Nazarene manual.”
“Aw dem white folks done fussed yo skull wit all dat crazy talk. Let’s go inside like somebody’s got some sense. You come on like some senile mailman with a case of dropsy.”
Inside we examined the five empty rooms of our first apartment. Through the walls came the voices of our neighbors: “Who ate dat last piece of pie son of a bitch you ate it who ate it he ate it then what’s the crust doin’ in you greasy choppers if he ate it cause he snuck and ate it while you was sleepin’ fool did you eat the pie yes I ate it woman you gone whup me about it aw woman don’t whip da man let him res woman why don’t you jess hush and let peoples res. …”
Outside the belching of foghorns. The interminable helicopters. The snow falling. EATS EATS EATS EATS.
The next morning my father-in-law called. A ninety-year-old punkish-looking mothball, he was devoted to thumb-sucking and living with the tales-of-the-crypt voice who decorated his house with crocheted pillows of Niagara Falls. He had been president of the colored Elks in 1928 and once kissed Calvin Coolidge’s ass. He now sat about the house all day drinking Champale malt liquor and watching daytime melodramas on TV. Cobwebbed antlers rested upon his head.
He said, “Fannie Mae, dahlin’. I am spitting up dese colors, see, and I would like for you to come over and put some pink powder in between my toes for dey is crawlin’ wit what appears to be some kind of anamuls. Also, baby, as you know, I is real sceered of da dak. Dere are dese spooky shapes sitting atop my bedposts and dey won’t go a-way, no matter how hard I huff and puff. Now baby, you know dat don’t make no kind of sense. Yo daddy, as you will recall, was da head of da colored Elks in 1928 and I must send out correspondences. Granmama put some Uncle Jeeter’s powder under da pillow and dat didn’t seem to help a-tall. In fact, DEM SPECTERS DONE GOT BOLDER! Please come over and shoo dem away ’cause dey is makin’ me wet the bed and scream and hollah fo Granmama who’s tryin’ to get her witchcraft doctorate and make somethin’ out of herself. I will expect you fust ting in da morning and tings can be da way dey was ’fo you married dat boy what sticks prongs in people’s heads and makes dem bounce up and down lak dey is some kinda acrobat. Dis is da Grand Exalted Ruler of da Elks signin’ over to his daughter.” (Click.)
“My father wants me to come over to his house and read old-timey pamphlets to him,” Fannie Mae announced. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”
“Why can’t his mother do that?”
“She’s taking a course under the Mojo Power Retraining Act, dat’s why. You so simple.”
“Somebody ought to take a stick and bang the big sissy upside the head with it. Rusty dusty overgrown Mickey Mouse flapper afraid of the dark and calling for that ogress. Heh, heh, heh.”
“Don’t be thinkin’ ugly ’bout my family. You’re jess jealous ’cause he was da head of da colored Elks in 1928 and all you can do is take care of all dem screwballs skipping around what needs a shrink.”
“Well, a kat who sits in the house all day wearing a moose headpiece got a whole lot of marbles to collect.”
“Don’t be laffin’ at my daddy,” Fannie Mae said, hurling a pan of lye at me. I ducked and the solution went through the window. Below, there was the sudden clang of a cowbell accompanied by a scream. Then many klang-a-langs in rapid succession quietly dying in the distance.
“I was just jokin’, dearest. Don’t get excited.”
“You best be jokin’. Now I’m gone go over to Daddy’s and take care of him. Dere is some week-old green chickens dat I bought at Gooseman’s supermarket for seventy cents a pound. You can nibble on dat for a while.” She threw her garment about her and rushed from the apartment.
But she forgot something. I went to the closet and removed a plastic container from the shelf. I opened the window and yelled at Fannie Mae.
“YOU FORGOT SOMETHIN’, SWEET PICKLE BUNCH.”
“Whatchawont?”
“You forgot … the antler polish,” I screamed.
Fannie Mae escaped from her dad’s house just as her grandmother was about to shove her into the oven in one of the grimmer exercises prescribed by the witchcraft syllabus. We met our neighbors shortly after she returned home. Our only contact with them had been the creaking of bedsprings and the “O sock it to me good joogie woogie” that came through the rice paper the housing authorities tried to pass off as a wall. Riding in the elevator one day, having just returned from work, I stood next to a man who was reading a comic book. He seemed amused by its cover: King Kong atop the Empire State Building with the Joint Chiefs of Staff wriggling in one hand while the other hand is flinging down all the fuken airplanes.
Also aboard the elevator was a Nazarene apprentice and two children. The children were involved in a scuffle.
“Gimmie my cap. Gimmie back my cap,” said one to the other. One child drew back his fist and was about to strike his companion when the Nazarene apprentice put down his clipboard and intervened.
“Now children, you mustn’t fight. HARRY SAM won’t hold you in his lap when he comes out of the comfort station.”
The children looked at one another curiously before examining the priest.
“How would HARRY SAM like this?” one of the children said, before hauling off and kicking the priest in the shins.
The other child delivered a quick karate chop whose impact caused the priest to slump to the floor in a coo-coo daze. I nudged the man standing next to me.
“Don’t you think that we ought to put an end to this?”
“Aw dem jess chirren playing,” was his reply.
I was about to pull the children from the helpless Nazarene apprentice when the elevator opened and they scooted out between the legs of the black Screw who was walking down the hallway. The cowbell was jarred. Ting ting. Half of the Screw’s face was white. The Screw unbound the Nazarene apprentice and removed the gag from his mouth as the man reading the book and I walked toward our respective apartments.
“No tellin’ what dese kids gone be doin’ next,” the Screw philosophized.
“Thanks,” said the Nazarene apprentice, assembling his scattered notes and the copy of the magazine Studies on the Flank.
“Here, let me hep you up suh.”
“Don’t bother, Screw. What on earth happened to the other side of your face, Screw?”
“I don’t know, suh. I was sitting out de doors yestiddy and some fire rain come out da sky and scalded my face.”
“Fire rain. Isn’t that interes
ting? One of those many bizarre happenings in the ghettos, I presume. O, this is so thrilling! I even enjoyed the roughing up those kids gave me. You see, I’m working on a paper on the mores of segregated housing projects for the University of Chicago. I might even write this incident up in a magazine I edit called Studies on the Flank. It enabled me to observe culturally deprived children at first hand.”
“Kulchur prived chirren? What’s dat Yo Excellency?”
“O that means they can’t go to Lincoln Center and devour Lilly Ponds.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute, suh. Hold on. Now, I’m jess a poor Screw who is a traitor and abomination of my peoples but even I know dat Lilly Ponds ain’t gone hep dese kids. Dey needs somethin’ stantial in dey stomicks, like roast pork or steak. Lilly Ponds! Why dat’s food fishes eat, ain’t it?”
The flies which constantly swirled about the black Screw’s head suddenly buzzed into the face of the Nazarene apprentice before he could reply. The elevator door closed as the Screw repeatedly slapped the apprentice so as to relieve him from his latest misfortune. The apprentice cooed in ecstasy.
In the hall the neighbor spoke to me. “You must be the couple that moved in here a few weeks ago.”
“That’s right. My name is Bukka Doopeyduk. What’s yours?”
“My mother lost my name in a lottery, Mr. Doopeyduk. Why don’t you jess call me the neighbor, and so’s you kin ’stinguish between me and my wife, refer to me as M/Neighbor and my wife as F/Neighbor.”
“Fine with me,” I said. “I have a hard time remembering names anyway.”
“Why don’t you and your wife come over and get ’quainted tonight? Dere’s plenty of rukus juice and chittlins, Bukka Doopeyduk. You lak chittlins?”
“Yes, indeed, I do,” I said. “The ancient Etruscans ate them, you know.”
“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no truscans, but I know dey is good.”
It was apparent that the intellectual diet I had become accustomed to at the Harry Sam College was remiss in the projects. But I had become bored with my Mahler records and had studied the Nazarene manual so often that the pages were dog-eared. Besides, Fannie Mae was getting restless. Maybe getting together with the neighbors might do her some good. No matter how dull they were.