The Free-Lance Pallbearers

by Ishmael Reed

  “You pair have been accused of trying to make it across the Black Bay in a rowboat full of boxes of mouthwash. Whaddaya have to say for yourselves?”

  “Well, your honor, all that I can say is that your mama must have humped a whole bunch of anteaters for you to have a snout like that. Which is to say more for her than SAM’s mother who gave a dying bull elephant the clap,” M/Neighbor’s son replied.

  Everybody in the courtroom got shook including me. I only wished that the punishment issued would be severe.

  “Now see here, you young punk, you can’t talk about me and SAM’s mothers like that They’ve been dead for years, God rest their souls.”

  “Yes and they’ve probably given all the worms in the cemetery lockjaw by now,” added Joel O.

  “Thirty days for contempt of court!” the judge screamed, weeping profusely.

  Suddenly a man ran down the aisle of the courtroom, swiped the pillow and dashed toward the side exit. “Come back here with that pillow! One of you Screws stop that man!” It was the president of the Yellow Cab Company. The man was captured and whisked off to a room near the courtroom. The Screws returned the pillow to the bench, lifting the judge’s nose and gently placing the pillow underneath.

  “Dat’s more like it,” the judge said, combing his pink bangs with a yard-long comb. His hair had been teased and fashioned at Mile. Matzabald’s Mudpie Factory. “Some of these art dealers ain’t got no RUTH,” the judge editorialized. “Now I’m going to give you ’linguints thirty days in the tombs for rapping about SAM’s and my ol ladies and playing the dozens like that.” An attorney for civil liberties rose to object to the arbitrary something or other. Seems that he didn’t like the way Judge Whimplewopper was handling the insolent youngsters. Before he could continue the Screws had tackled him, and putting a full Nelson on the man hustled him from the courtroom.

  “Object nothin’—this is my courtroom and I was duly appointed by the Dictator of HIMSELF and I don’t ’low a bunch of willy-nilly nervous Nellie chumps to kick up no fuss. Right, boys?”

  “Right!” answered the Screws, snapping to a position of parade rest.

  “So you creeps want to get tough, huh? Another remark about my ma and I’ll give you a contempt citation. We’ll see about burn the baby burn. Now what have you to say for yourself?” Whimplewopper said, turning to the boy anarchist.

  “We were going to take Sam’s Island, kidnap the motherfuker and make him tell the truth about those fourteen people who were killed up there in the John last week. We were going to pour gallons of mouthwash in the sucker’s mouth until he gave it to us straight,” Joel O. explained.

  “Well for your info, kiddo, I personally headed the commission what investigated that matter and there were pretty respectable fellas on it-including Mr. Nancy Spellman, Chief Nazarene Bishop and vicar of the Screws; Irving Gooseman, a well-known philanthropist and civic leader; Aboreal Hairyman, our roving ambassador; and a very nice colored gentleman who was a retired head of the colored Elks of the world. These are men with fine backgrounds and they don’t be telling no fibs so I’m going to give you thirty more days for holding these men in contempt and impugning their reputations. And that goes for all those commie joos out there who were writing up all them books and articles about me and the fellas who sat on that distinguished commission. If I ever get you guys in my courtroom, I’ll teach you commie scum a little trick. You know it was a rabbinical committee what wrote them articles what brought down the Roman Empire and I don’t want that happening here. We won’t stand for it”

  “How did a handicapped mind like yours ever get into judicial robes anyway, you weird-looking little moxy? I bet your joint’s the size of a flea.”

  “He may be tiny, Joel O., but he’s a swinger,” said M/Neighbor’s son. “I saw him in Time magazine once with some really boss-looking broads. He seemed a little high and was showing them how to do the black bottom singing corny stuff like boo-boop-a-doop and wearing a fun hat on his nose.” The two defendants cracked up and laughter resounded in the courtroom.

  “But he must be a switch-hitter, baby, because he had to go downtown on SAM in order to get the job.”

  “Wait a minute! Whatta you think this is, some lousy social work clinic? Thirty years for arson, possession of illegal drugs and going from city to city to start riots! I’m fed up with you kids doing nigger dances and wearing your hair long. You seem to be having a lot of fun. Maybe thirty years in a federal prison will straighten you guys out. Take um away, Screws.”

  Joel O. spat on the nose.

  “GETUM OUTTAHERE,” he screamed as a Screw dutifully polished his snout.

  “Fuk you and your generation of ghosts! We’ll convert the prisoners! None of you ol crow eyes over sixty will stop our drive.”

  “Get rid of um, willya?” Whimplewopper ordered his Screws, as he gulped down a fistful of Miltown. “I’ll surely wet the bed tonight. It was better in the fifties when I presided over the bird hearings. Everybody was polite and dignified. Used big words like quibbicale and didn’t take no offense because I youse to be a hog caller. Those boys made me muss my pink bangs, sniff, sniff. There will be a ten-minute recess while I get myself together,” the judge sobbed, as two Screws assisted him from the courtroom.

  When the nose returned, my case was called by the clerk. “Fannie Mae Doopeyduk versus Bukka Doopeyduk. Will the parties please come fawwad,” the court clerk said.

  Fannie Mae wore a black slouchy hat and stood in high black heels and a black dress which made her seem hipless. Her eyes avoided mine as we stood side by side before Judge Whimplewopper.

  “What seems to be the problem?” The lengthy bulbous nose peered at Fannie Mae.

  “I tried to be a good wife, yo honnah,” she began. “As my grandmother used to say, ‘A hard head makes a soft ass,’ so I told him to go to da Harry Sam Ear Muffle Factory where they was hirin’ and where they makes some good change. But no. He wouldn’t listen. Having a hard head he rather work in that hospital where they got all kinds of screwballs skipping around. We nevvah had ’nough money for the fun I likes to have and whenever my girl friends come over to the house to play whist, he was always rude. Then finally yo honnah, one day he tried to viscerate me!”

  “Viscerate you?” the nose said.

  “Yes, viscerate me.” A chorus of aws and a few psts swept the courtroom. The nose turned to me.

  “What do you have to say about visceratin’-I mean eviscerating your wife?”

  I lowered my head and folding my hands in front of me answered. “Well your honor … I did … it … because I had become a … a … a … hoodooed.” Tumult in the courtroom. Reporters holding the top of their hats rushed to telephone.

  “Quiet, quiet!” the judge said. “Order in the court. Do you expect me to believe such a thing?”

  “It’s true,” I said to the nose with freckles on the tip. “My professor, U2 Polyglot, was rolling a ball about Europe on his hands and knees and cured me after I galloped into him. This was about the time the Chinese drove into the suburbs on bicycles with skulls for handlebars and kidnaped those heel-kicking housewives hanging out the wash. Well, to make a long story short, the professor had gotten this bottle of de-hoodoo lotion from my wife’s grandmother who is an ol witch taking conjure lessons through the mail under the Mojo Power Retraining Act. You see, she looks after her son who sits about the house all day in antlers. Well, anyway, the professor transformed me into my normal self and I’ve been working very hard at the hospital where Nurse Rosemary D Camp put me in charge of an ol man who died kissing Versailles 1919, so now I have a lot of time to devote to the movement whose leader has been in the John for thirty years due to a weird malignant illness. You see, we want him to get up off his big fat-”

  “Wait a minute, Hooooollllllllllllddddddddittttt hoooollllllllldddddddditttttttt,” the judge said, turning his head to the ceiling, making visible two dark nostrils and a quivering red tonsil. “What’s all this talk about an old woman
who pushes a ball around the world and a nurse who sits in the John all day? Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “With all due respect, your honor, you got it all wrong. It’s Dr. Christian who pushes the ball all day through areas where nuns are raping the huns and my father-in-law kisses Versailles 1919. … I mean,” fumbling and stammering. “No, it goes this way … a … a …”

  But seeing my confusion a man in the audience sprang from his seat and stepping on the toes of his neighbors, rushed into the aisle. “You left out the ol woman who kidnaped Checkers.”

  And almost as swiftly another woman stood up and shouted, cupping her mouth with her hands, “Not to mention the plumbers’ mutiny.”

  But the nose, resting on the bench like a stout lizard, interrupted the spectators. “Now look here, do you think I’m some kinda dunce? I mean, if SAM has taken Checkers, then who is in the John?”

  Another man hopped to his feet and said, “Hey, yo honnah, that’s catchy.” He then went into the aisle and started a chant. “If SAM has kidnaped Checkers, then who is in the John?” He snapped his fingers and began the old a-one, a-two, a-three, kick. The courtroom audience joined, clapping on the beat. Another woman stood behind him and put her hands on his waist. Together they began a conga line. Soon the whole courtroom was in a conga line singing the ditty, “If SAM has kidnapped Checkers, then who is in the John? A-one, a-two, a-three, kick.” Suddenly the doors of the courtroom flew open and an orchestra of men in damp white dinner jackets rushed in. Their hair was dripping wet and fish flew from their pockets. The musicians accompanied the spectators, putting their soggy violin bows to strings and playing marimbas and steel drums.

  I went apeshit. “WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS IS, SOME KINDA JOKE OR SUMTHIN? STOP THIS MONKEY BUSINESS RIGHT NOW! YOU KNOW THIS PLACE IS NOWHERE. NOTHIN’ BUT A BIG KLANG-A-LANG-A-DING-DONG-A-RAZZ-A-MA-TAZ.”

  The judge jumped up and waving his arms cried, “STOP IT! STOP IT!” He took out a whistle, puffed his jaws and blew. “DO YOU THINK AMERICAN JUSTICE IS SOME KINDA WEIRD CIRCUS? SOME FREAKISH SIDE SHOW? A CARNIVAL ROUTINE?” Everybody hurried back to their seats and the orchestra rushed from the courtroom.

  “Now that’s more like it,” the nose said. “We will continue with the case.” The nose turned to me and with its beady eyes piercing through the wig said, “I’m not going to have my circus … turned into a courtroom … dog bite it.” He combed his bangs again. “I mean I’m not going to have my courtroom turned into a circus, unnerstand? It’s clear to me, Mr. Doopeyduk, that you are a disagreeable person whose head is always in the clouds. Imagine such ravings. If I didn’t know that you were a Nazarene apprentice, I’d think you were off your rocker.”

  “He talks like dat all the time, yo honnah,” Fannie Mae added, putting her two cents in, tapping her foot and looking at me evilly. “Always talkin’ all out his head.”

  I looked up to the nose and said, “I’m sorry for turning your courtroom into a circus, your honor. I’ll take whatever’s coming to me.”

  “Very well, then,” the nose said. “I award your wife a separation and fifty per cent of your salary will go to her for support” With this he banged his gavel and called for the next case. I turned around to leave, almost bumping into the next case which was the bearded lady and the fat woman who had brought the juggler into court for hitting them over the head with the lion tamer’s stool. I walked down the steps of the courtroom just as the limousine with antlers sticking from the roof pulled away from the curb.

  PART IV

  Loopholes and Hoopla Hoops

  The next morning I was fired from my job. When I opened the door of the floor the orderlies were waiting for me. “Mrs. Nurse Rosemary D Camp wants to see you, Doopeyduk.”

  I went into Mrs. Nurse Rosemary D Camp’s office. Standing next to her in a gray double-breasted business suit with a stethoscope hanging around his neck was Dr. Christian. “Mr. Doopeyduk,” Mrs. D Camp began, “I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about the action the hospital is going to take against you so I brought down Dr. Christian to explain to you why we deem it necessary to let you go at this time.”

  “Let me go,” I said. “I don’t understand.”

  “You tell him, please, Dr. Christian, please,” Rosemary D Camp said.

  He walked over to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Yes, my boy,” he said, shaking his head, “we were all prepared to give you a job in the surgical department where you would be in charge of the other nurses’ aides and orderlies who clean up leftovers from the operations. But you see, Bukka, it’s hard for us to keep on people who have outside financial trouble.”

  “Outside financial trouble?”

  “Yes. Show him the order,” he said, turning to the nurse. It was the greenish-brown seal from the court ordering the hospital to deduct 50 per cent of my salary each week.

  “Yes, you see, Mr. Doopeyduk,” the doctor said, his back turned to me as he looked out of the window, “we can’t afford the clerical help necessary to take care of garnisheed wages. We are a nonprofit institution here to service mankind, the Hippocratic oath and all that,” he said, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to take back your golden bedpan.”

  I dropped to my knees and threw the kat all kinds of Al Jolson mammies one after the other, but he wasn’t impressed. “O, don’t,” I cried, tugging at his pants. “Don’t take the golden bedpan, don’t take it, do anything but don’t take the golden bedpan.”

  A sparkling tear of rainbow colors appeared in Nurse Rosemary D Camp’s eye and rolled down her plump pink cheek. “Don’t worry, my boy,” Dr. Christian said. “I’m sure we will hear great things from you. You shouldn’t have any trouble at all, you look just like Sidney Poitier, Jackie Robinson, Nat King Cole, Joe Louis, Harry Belafonte, and Ralph Bunche, so, no sweat. Good-bye, Bukka, here is three weeks’ salary,” he said, giving me a small envelope.

  I walked down the steps of the hospital. It had begun to rain. Here I was, I thought, twenty-three years old. Lost a job and lost a wife. The future looked quite dim. I drew up my collar and walked through the streets to the sound of the foghorn coming from the pier. I reached into my pocket for a smoke. I felt a card. It was a pink card given to me by the ol man in the Seventeen Nation Disarmament Conference Bar. It was wrinkled and moist. It said, “Go to Entropy Productions. Collect 200 dollars.” Things were looking up. A cloud moved above sagging with rain. It seemed as if it had eyes, nose, lips. It did, my eyes, nose, and lips. Get it. Clouds. Head in the clouds.

  Entropy Productions was located in the Lower East Side of this WAY OUT BRING DOWN, this sifting area of BAD NEWS, this ugly TRIPS FESTIVAL. Its manager was Cipher X who graduated from M.I.T. in mechanical drawing—but having abandoned this career, he lived in a loft where he made big black gorgeous hoopla hoops with his own wittle hands.

  Well, not exactly. Cipher, which means zero, would make a sketch including his specifications and send it off to GENERAL DYNAMICS CORPORATION which in turn would send him a brand new hoopla hoop every two weeks. Cipher was the darling of the fire insurance underwriters, airline ticket reservation clerks, female book editors from Skidmore and the wives of these groups who would flock to the loft to witness his BECOMINGS, as they were called. The loft was situated in a run-down factory on Oriental Avenue.

  I had moved from the projects that morning because of that rule which forbade single people to live in them. I was broke, having spent three weeks’ salary on some rare Nazarene books so as to better prepare myself for a deep thoroughgoing scrutiny of the faith. I must have seemed a little bedraggled as I walked along the street with the bag containing my belongings. The bag was tied to a stick and I carried it over my shoulder.

  The door said: ENTROPY PRODUCTIONS: FLOAT IN. I opened the door and was tackled by a slim, agile man who wore tight-fitting black pants and a black T-shirt. His feet were bare. Sitting on my chest he began to measure my neck and wrists with a tape.
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  “You’ll do,” said the angular nose, the thin lips, the sterling high cheekbones.

  “I’ll do? I’ll do for what?” I asked, sitting up.

  “You’ll do for my great BECOMING ‘Git It On.’”

  “But I don’t understand,” I pleaded. “The man over at the Seventeen Nation Disarmament Bar didn’t say anything about a theatrical production.”

  “Theater? Acting?” He frowned. “Those old men over there are just a bunch of losers talking nothing but a lot of dumb cannon fire and the way things used to be. Their notion of the world went out with the proscenium arch.

  “All things are theater,” he said, vaulting to his feet and wildly gesticulating. “A child playing with a beach ball, a bus driver taking a token instead of twenty cents. Why when I attend a concert, I’m more interested in the spit that leaks from the horn valves than the music. O, I can go on and on. Why every time I hear a newborn baby cry or touch a leaf or—”

  “But how do you know I’ll do well in this BECOMING?” I said, cutting him off.

  “You,” he said, holding my chin, “are a natural. That face, the face of a sphinx, your ample neck, those lean, hard wrists. Tomorrow night’s BECOMING should be a stirring one.”