Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

by Ishmael Reed

  Aw leave me alone Bo Shmo to doing my thing which for now is dying. You presume to be able to give other people decrees—living in your expensive neo-social realist retreat while common folk who follow your rants try to match their nickel plates with aeroplanes and tanks. One of these days those people are going to rise up from the pavement where they died clutching coupons and unredeemable refuse from shop windows and take it out on your hide.

  O.K. fat mouth, you asked for it. Discipline him fellows. The horsemen dismounted and began to put Loop through changes. Being neo-social realist and not very original they gave him a version of Arab Death. They smeared jelly on his face and buried him up to the neck in desert. Soon his face would be crawling with vermin which was certainly no picnic of a way to go.

  Suddenly above them a whirring noise.

  Gads! Bo said, the arch-nemesis of villains like me. The Flying Brush Beeve Monster. Let’s get out of here.

  The horsemen mounted their nags and with Bo Shmo out front headed back to their institution in the mountains.

  Not only would he be a desert carrion, but now something right out of Science Fiction was descending upon him from the heavens, Loop thought. It resembled a monster insect whatever it was and when it landed it stirred up the sand so that Loop couldn’t make out its dimensions. Much to his surprise a plainclothes Indian casually stepped out of the monster’s belly. He held a cigarette holder in his hand. He strode to the position where Loop’d been tied down in the sand and lifted a canteen to the outlaw’s lips.

  Champagne! Who are you?

  Never mind my man, I was on the way to Europe for an appointment with my tailor when I happened upon you surrounded by those mediocre bandits. The desert was fine until they moved into those hills coming out of their fancy hideout only to make raids on sniveling and s/m liberals that take that sick tour.

  What tour?

  O there’s this Royal Flush Gooseman, a rattlesnake heart if there ever was, he hires wagon trains which bring liberals out here for the purpose of having the trains surrounded by Bo Shmo and his henchmen. The whole thing is staged if you ask me. Since my people are no longer around to raise war parties Bo Shmo and his men are taking all the loot. Deserts are for visions not for materialists. Read any American narrative about crossing—apparitions, ravens walking about as tall as men, the whole goldern phantasmagoria. Maybe I can give you a lift to Video Junction, the town lying about 50 miles from here?

  Loop regarded the Monster with apprehension.

  O don’t worry about that. I created it to get around in, made it from spare parts I found in deserted ghost towns. I also used a new kind of plant called plastic I discovered growing in the hills like wildfire.

  I’m a kind of patarealist Indian going about inventing do dads. This machine comes in better than nags and creaky stagecoaches. Stupid shmucks and boobs around here think it’s some kind of flying ghost cow. Legends, whispering among the peasants, protective charms on the door of each house. The whole bit. Bo Shmo and the cattlemen are in the same routine. Afraid of anything that can get off the ground, materialists that they are—anything capable of groovy up up and aways strikes terror in their hearts.

  The Indian freed Loop and escorted him to his hobby lying in the sand.

  I call it a helicopter, lots of mileage on very little fuel, but I wouldn’t be surprised if bad medicine steals the patents and calls them his own. Honkie. Devil.

  Loop smiled.

  John D. Rockefeller didn’t have an original idea in his life and George Gershwin stole pillows from sleeping Negroes plush vampire that he was and where did you think Mae West got her manic depressive female swishing? In New York City as you read me now some woman done took Martha and the Vandellas “Dancing In The Streets” and calls it her very own.

  You listen to Soul Music, Chief?

  Sure man; all the time, the Indian replied releasing the wheel of the helicopter and breaking into a strong boogaloo from the waist up. The craft rocked.

  I don’t even want to go into how Moses sneaked around the Pharaoh’s court abusing this hospitality by swiping all the magic he could get his clutches around. If I run down that shit, Loop, the book won’t be reviewed in Manhattan…and look what the Fiend did to us. We showed the cat how to ride, what to wear, how to plant, woodcraft, how to tan, tried to teach them riding bareback but they were so repressed they had to use a saddle, and on Friday nights we introduced a new recreation for these dull creatures.

  What was that?

  Taught them to pop corn and when you got that popcorn covered with maple syrup you got crackerjacks. Man they didn’t know from dick. We gave them all those things and you know what we got in return?

  What?

  Liquor smallpox and guns. Well, Royal Flush Gooseman came through and sold our tribe some defective rifles and that was the end.

  How did you escape?

  I was away spearing salmon. You see the tribe was so busy trying to organize they forgot that they were clandestine by nature, camouflage, now you see now you don’t, what some blockheads call esoteric bullshit. But now I’m trying the same thing on him he put us through.

  What was that?

  Foment mischief among his tribes and they will destroy each other. Not only that. I have my secret weapon.

  O, said Loop yawning.

  The Chief Showcase revealed a pipe. He put some tobacco in its bowl.

  If I can’t get their scalps I’ll get their lungs. My fellow tribesmen, I told them we were outnumbered, but they were in a meat thing, rushing like the buffalo over cliffs to certain disaster. You think I wanted to end up in front of a barber shop with a tomahawk in one hand and box of cigars in the other or have my face printed on a nickel? No, this time it’ll be done by an idea, not toying around with gumshoes.

  What handle do you go by Chief?

  Chief Showcase.

  Chief Showcase, Loop thought, remembering the Indian names he’d heard like Toohoolhoolzote, Looking Glass, and Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horse which opened up new possibilities of being named after phobias, objects or even words that didn’t mean anything but sounded like music.

  I know what you’re thinking Loop. You’re thinking that from all of the beautiful Indian names, Chief Showcase is kind of a letdown. I assure you it works though. You see, I’m Chief Cochise’s cousin so that makes me Chief Showcase. Yuk yuk yuk.

  The helicopter sped on its journey.

  I don’t want to take you out of your way Indian.

  No sweat, the Chief replied, I’m sure my accountant can come up with something like “entertaining the Great Meshuga,” Chief Showcase winked at Loop.

  You have heap bit gnosis to be such a young man and only to have lived one life. The Loop smiled sadly.

  I recognized you right away, O Morning Star. Besides, Indians and black people have been roaming the plains of America together for hundreds of years. Why one of the chiefs of my tribe, the Crow, was James P. Beckwith, and Dick Gregory represented our Washington tribes in their treaty fights. Knappy hair rises like grass from the tracks through the Mandans and the Arikaras made by Sgt. York. And the Seminole fought invasion after invasion against the Fiend to protect black fugitive slaves. Take a look inside that compartment, the Chief said, pointing to one of the panels with one hand and steering the copter with the other.

  Loop opened the door to see a plate of steaming chitterlings with potato salad on the side, collard greens, and a champagne bottle wrapped in a towel immersed in a bucket of ice.

  What you might call Soul D Luxe, hey Loop? The Indian whistled cheerfully.

  Loop finished his supper and leaned back. He thought malicious thoughts. He would woodshed. He would follow Zozo Labrique’s instructions to the T.

  You know, Loop, we Crows are called the Beau Brummels of the Indians, so in order to show that my attributes are contagious I’m going to give you this credit card to one of the finest stores in Video Junction. Bet you’d look good in black buckskin with pink fringes.

&
nbsp; O come on Chief you’ve done enough already.

  No take it Loop, get yourself refreshed, and there’s an occult bookstore around the corner from the Hotel. It’s a bodega front and they sell John the Conquerer roots and rattlesnake vertebrae.

  Well Chief if you insist, but if I ever sell this mind sauna to Hollywood I’ll give you all of Gene Autry’s bicycles.

  How did you like that champagne Loop? It was made by a friend of mine in the mountains. California grapes no less. Get to that. I’ll bet they’ll be as in as this helicopter or French vintage a 100 years from now.

  The Flying Brush Beeve tolled its way across the sky. Loop didn’t hear the Chief’s last one liner. He was musing. In his dreams Loop scribbled on a postcard a note to an old friend.

  Dear Joy. This time the

  Witches win. Love

  Loop Garoo

  Ahead the lines of Video Junction moved in.

  The other cowhands, unable to save their comrades who had been mauled by the burning Bear, rode back to the Purple Bar-B to report to Drag Gibson. Drag sat on a black velvet couch, his belly peeking out over his waist as if to say hello through its tiny red mouth of a navel. His reading of Catherine was interrupted by the jingle of guthooks mounting the steps of the Purple Bar-B’s Big Black House.

  Well boss we took care of them hard boppers who were camped outside the town. Only 4 casualties. One of the hands was eaten by a grizzly and some of the brains spattered our clothes, tasted something like veal. And there was this Juggler who shot so fast the stars abandoned their heavenly places to become his spectators but we plugged him too.

  Good, Drag said sticking a pudgy pink hand into the pocket of his monogrammed silk robe recently ordered from St. Louis.

  Gee Drag something stinks in here—phew. It’s worse than the smell out there in camp where the circus lies in smoking ruins. Like the smell of tallow my ma use to burn for soap—like death, Drag.

  Drag tapped the table next to the sofa while his eyes innocently scanned the ceiling.

  Wonder what it could be boys? Go over and get Preacher Boyd to walk around with his hazel wand so’s the women’ll be satisfied. You know how women folk are. They love rhythm and ritual. Shuts them up all the time. Few flowers and a handful of shiny minerals, those crosses we left on Normandy beaches all tidy and in a neat row a couple of horns doing taps. Hell, their whole bodies are drawn by the goddamn moon. It plays upon their hides as it does the tides. Can’t help themselves. Telegram from the War Department sung at the door, couple of guys folding flags they’ll forget all about them punks. Another generation they’ll be sending more out to get slaughtered. All you have to do is say Mother Country play upon their vanity.

  Glad you got rid of them hooligans boys, they didn’t like to march and was lazy. Talked about love and such things which is mush, right boys?

  Mush is right, Skinny answered as he and two cowhands, as if to emphasize Drag’s remarks, ran their hands across their lips and spat out repulsive and invisible kisses.

  I don’t know if Preacher Rev. Boyd will work out this time Drag, last time we saw him it was when the forces of the old recaptured Big Lizzy’s Rabid Black Cougar Saloon. He started to have d.t.’s and said something about a gila monster who was God.

  Those Protestants, so lazy with allegory.

  What did you say boss?

  Nothing boys, just a blue streak inflaming my mind, it’ll go away.

  Anyway boss you’d better see after him now. Whenever he uses that stick only dogs of Yellow Back Radio gather about to watch. Others poke fun and prod.

  Drag thought a minute then snapped his fingers making a flat blubbery thick.

  When State Magic fails unofficial magicians become stronger Somebody say something? What was that? Did you say something foreman Skinny McCullough, one of you cowpokes say something?

  No Drag, Skinny said shaking in his boots and spurs.

  Drag looked around the ceiling again. He stared at the open window. Tiny black fingers were crawling over the sill. Drag drew his six shooter and fired into the night. The men climbed back from beneath the furniture where they had hid during the unexpected gunplay.

  Boss, Skinny cried, what’s wrong with you?

  Thought I saw some hands at the window.

  Drag’s breathing became rapid. Sweat poured down his cheeks. He placed the smoking gun on the table.

  Anyway boys, good work. Why don’t you go over to Big Lizzy’s Rabid Black Cougar and have one on me. Paint Yellow Back Radio red. You’ve done a good job. No more furious aggressive wiggles of them kids and the clown show closed down too. Can’t say we were humorless—let them go out with a carny. Har har.

  Well not exactly boss, Skinny said, two of them kids escaped and the Loop Garoo Kid from the circus rode off towards the town fifty miles from here. He seemed to be savage mad.

  He’ll never make it—across those cow skulls, cactus, rattlesnakes, stinging lizards, vinegarroon, cougars and whatever heathen lies out there now that we got rid of them injuns—speaking of injuns how did them Coult rifles work for you?

  They’re good for us boss—we’re going to really get rid of the next heathen that raises his feather from behind the rock.

  Too bad you let them escape though-sometimes I think I’m short of the genuine article around here boys.

  Boss we tried to get em but never seed no hombre ride off like that—he was fastern a souped-up hare. Don’t worry boss if he shows his face in Yellow Back Radio, if indeed he manages to through some miracle escape—if lowly desert vermin don’t get him the Flying Brush Beeve will. As for the kids they’re done for before they started. They headed for this unexplored territory to the south. Some kind of heathen co-operative society down there too. They’ll be eaten or boiled in a caldron.

  Now get, boys, so’s I can be alone with my thoughts which is a pretty spooky situation since Drag is not only nickname for the horseman who rides to the rear of the herd catching the dust, bringing up the stragglers and sick among the cattle but my name is also shorthand for something scaly, slimy and huge with dirt.

  Gee Drag it’s great to have a smooth talking white man like you leading us you must get all that information from the book you’re always reading, Skinny McCullough said as he and the ebullient cowhands departed for Yellow Back Radio.

  Just suppose that the Loop Garoo Kid managed to get through all the tests waiting for him between Yellow Back Radio and the town lying fifty miles from here. He’ll come after me. You know, the revenge motif. What the hell may as well make hay while the sun shines. Take my wife for an instant. Black cows donated their organs, orphans, widow women, squatters and sheep herders donated their teeth I stole eyeballs kidneys livers from road agents and injuns all stored down in the basement. What a mess. Still she’s getting worse. Anyway what did the old Woman on the talk show say, “I suggested the sits bath and herbs to make her last months comfortable Drag my darling listener. Truth is she will die off shortly like some great red hog who has swallowed tacks, she will end up on Forty-second Street a pale reminder of a government inspected hotdog.” Here I am, old, ugly, mean and ignorant. Fish fill my lakes as if they were spawnings paradise my barnyard overflows with the pecking order of erotic cocks. My fruit is so plentiful their orchards weigh down the valley. Black diamonds, black gold and other precious minerals lie in great untapped beds so huge they would dwarf even my ego. And about 3000 head started up the Chisholm to market yesterday. But what would happen if I popped off like the rest of the swells what’s pushing up daisies out in the bone orchard?

  The old Woman told us chances are 1-65,000 poker odds that a new crop of kids would come on the scene protesting, having love feasts and trying to turn the town into an open city. What I gotta do is start the flow towards docility a-gushing. Get rid of this broken seed stored in my loins. It aches. I will have some nice obedient progeny who will manage all the forms after I’m gone and nickelodeon for the worms.

  What am I waitin for? I got to knock
off that horrible hybrid in the kitchen and take a swell looking art nouveau broad. But before he could act he looked around. It was like a monster flickah drammer—the confrontation. Horrible hybrid meets Spooky Situation. Horrible hybrid was dripping wet. She walked across the room on her leafy feet webbed hands outstretched and the scales of horrible hybrid’s body shown green by the kerosene lamp.

  In a quivering voice the Various Arrangement of Dead Parts said: What happened Drag dear husband you were supposed to bring me a towel?

  Spooky Situation removed the six shooter from his holster and emptied it into Horrible Hybrid but the junk kept coming, sloshing across the floor to embrace Drag.

  Drag managed to get over to the gun rack. There he picked out a Winchester and fired ball after ball into the creature’s chest until it made some unusual groan and dropped to the floor.

  Chinaboy, Chinaboy. Come in here will you? The chinaboy ran into the room. His slanted eyes became orbs and he threw up his small yellow hands when he saw whatever it was lying on the floor.