Yellow Back Radio Broke-Down

by Ishmael Reed

  O Chief Showcase how loyal of you to come see Drag. Why just a few minutes ago we found some horrible material stuffed in his pillow. It was made up of putrid matter I analyzed to be: a one-eyed toad, wings of a bat, cat’s eyes and some strange powder. Things look grave indeed.

  Chief Showcase gently sat on Drag’s bed and put a hand on the Cattleman’s forehead. Drag’s eyebrows fluttered. The room was spinning as his eyes opened.

  O Chief Showcase, he said weakly, good of you to come and visit me before I ride off into the eternal sunset.

  Think nothing of it Drag, I was on my way back from Paris and I stopped off at that makeshift acreage they call the Capitol.

  Even in his dying spasms Drag laughed as did the Doc, who beamed at the Indian for bringing a little humor into the room.

  I overheard them talking about you Drag and it surprised me seeing as how any fool could tell that you are in charge, the top dog and the one who is really number 1.

  O thanks sweet Redman, Drag said clasping the Indian’s hand, but looks like Drag is about to enter the Great Corral in the Sky.

  That’s what they were saying Drag. They said they might raise a cavalry and investigate those mysterious wife deaths. They said you might fill up boot hill quicker than you think. They said you called them corny dudes and all but at least back East they either kills niggers or prizes them to death. Here sign this autograph.

  Drag obliged, scratching a feeble signature on a scrap of paper provided by the Indian.

  Well they ain’t no threat, even in my dying breath I know that Unification it’ll never happen. Why I understand that the largest bank in the country is out in this territory now.

  The door opened. A messenger ran into the room and handed Drag a note. Drag’s eyes popped. He sat up in bed and slapped his hand against his forehead.

  Now I get it. Of course. Too much. That’s it. Me getting sick and the cattle dying like that. Yeah of course. Now it makes sense. Hot diggity joe joe—won’t be long now—The Indian and the Doctor were amazed at this rapid recovery by one who only a few moments before had taken out a passport for the beyond. Whatever the contents of this note—it provided a powerful curative.

  What’s wrong Drag, what happened, they asked him eagerly.

  A note from the Pope. It won’t be long now. Everybody take off his hat. Imagine that—I am nothing but a lowly cattleman, ugly fat and ignorant, why I use to slop hogs and ride drag, that’s why they call me Drag, because my first job was taking care of back tracking and sick cattle. But now—a royal visit!

  Drag leaped out of bed and in his nightgown and cap ran past the Indian and into the hall. Below the men were making bets on his hour of departure. They scooped up their money when they saw the boss at the top of the stairs…

  Men, things are really going to change now—tomorrow all the way from Rome the Pope is arriving to straighten out this inner sanctum mystery once and for all. Hang out some confetti, get the fiddler, round up all the hurdy gurdy girls from the Rabid Black Cougar—a big huzza huzza time.

  Everybody made eager preparations for the visit. Banners were hung over the street, ikons strategically placed, the whole town was incensed. And everyone was engaged in furious preparations for the Pope’s visit. Everyone, that is, but Chief Showcase, who was sneaking towards the Hotel to send off a telegram.

  Woooooooo wee!! Um ma um ma um ma ha ha!! Su ha su ha su ha!! Soo-kee o soo-kee soo-kee. Lalalalalalalalala lalalalalalalalala. My my my my goodness. O get it. Get it

  GET IT GET IT OOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooo oooo

  o o Mewwwwooooooooooow.

  Your charm certainly works. Your strong black hands just seem to make my bones jump and shout for joy. Please ask the owner for my car keys. You can come to my apartment and take anything you want. Take my credit cards, take my status—it doesn’t mean anything just do it to me more often, you know how you do things so fine and sweet. You the finest pipe fitter I’ve ever known, O I just wish I could do more to reward you for your thrilling expertise.

  The Field Marshal nestled his head next to the black masseur’s thighs as he lay in semi-consciousness on the table of an underground rub down Palace in the basement of the Army’s headquarters.

  Think nothing of it boss-man Theda, the masseur said, you know I’ll do my bit to help relax you in these troubled times. The ship of state needs strong arms at its oars now don’t it.

  O you’re so beautiful and understanding. Theda’s eyes became moist as he closed in on the black man and started to purr like a kitten.

  Mee-yow, mee-yow, he purred while the masseur softly stroked his back. O I think I’ll just go out of my mind if you start sucking my toes like you did last week, Theda said.

  The pink mist of the room was heavily perfumed and across the area on other tables, high ranking members of the Army were babbling softly out of their minds while big black masseurs in turbans and baggy pants were running their jazzy hands across their bodies.

  You know, sweet and ample black man, I tried to get that provision in the Declaration of Independence, a forth-right resolution, but nothing happened. The Southern planters were dead set against it and we needed their support.

  I know, Theda, I read the broadsides, I know you did all you could. Me and my wife have a picture of you on our wall. Each morning we light candles fo it and pray fo you and Mr. Thomas Jefferson. He’s a good man too.

  Tom’s all right, Theda said, but he’s such a rake, nothing but a dirt farmer and anarchist. Hangs out with Jacobins like that Paine fellow. I’ve even seen him out with women from time to time. And he doesn’t know how to keep his britches on at all. Some man in Conn. is suing him for adultery right now and he reads French books and plays electric fiddle with some rock group called the Green Mountain Boys. O he’s disgusting sometimes.

  Well suh, the masseur said, his hands pressing against Theda’s neck, causing him to wiggle, what about Benjamin Franklin?

  O he’s just as bad, he and that Westerner Henry Clay, they carry on—Franklin draws cartoons—he invented balloon speech you know. And that Clay always brawling. Me and the fellows tried to get Randolph of Virginia to head the Convention but he was overruled. Some delegate with a squirrel cap and a filthy backwoods buckskin jacket on spread the word that Randolph was second rate at what jackasses could do infinitely better—o democracy sometimes. Phew.

  Big Woogie?

  Yes Theda?

  What about this Hoo…this religion the Hoo-Doo that your people practice?

  Big Woogie stepped back. Some of the other black attendants started to roll their eyes and drop their towels. Confusion broke out as the members of the Army asked their attendants to continue massaging their tired bones. Snapping his fingers, Big Woogie gave them the signal to return to their work.

  O it’s nothing Theda, nothing to get upset about. Just some kind of superstition that our people brought from Africa. People believe in hants and such things, that’s all.

  O I see, the Field Marshal said.

  The page, now wearing his Hoover’s cap and knickerbockers, walked into the room.

  Hey fuck-face Doompussy, whatever your name is.

  Theda jumped from the table.

  Well I never. Who gave you this address? I told them to never give out this phone number—why this is one of the few luxuries I have in this life…

  Aw be quiet, the page said. I just came to give you this telegram that just arrived.

  Theda went into one of the phone booths for privacy, his bathrobe still wrapped about him. He slapped his knees and gave a great hoot when he read the telegram’s contents.

  Drag is about to tip away.

  The whole thing belongs to you baby.

  Come on in your Highness.

  Showcase

  V. A Jigsaw Of A Last Minute Rescue

  The Pope rode on a loud red bull in front of a great stagecoach full of attendants, with footmen on each side. The bull wore a garland of hyacinths around his neck. The people of Yello
w Back Radio, still high out of their minds from devil’s pills and accustomed to fantasy in their lives, stood on the sidelines and cheered for this gigantic whopper now appearing before them.

  All the notables stood in front of Big Lizzy’s Rabid Black Cougar to greet the Pope. Big Lizzy held a bouquet of violets, ignoring the scorn of the town’s women, standing on the sidelines.

  The Banker stood next to Drag and Doc. He had made an honorary batch of traveler’s checks with the Pope’s picture on them.

  Only Rev. Boyd was missing. He was in the saloon sucking like a champ. He felt that Drag had double crossed him when he promised that Protestantism would last at least a month and there was only a day or so to go and here Drag was greeting some foreign discipline.

  No children in sight, the Pope distributed pennies to the townsfolk. The people scrambled about in the dust for them, except for those too mind blown to move, who just stood on the sidelines and clapped while answering the Father’s waves with:

  Work out, Pope. You got the business! Rap, Pope! Run down strong things and be as savvy as you always have been.

  When the procession stopped in front of the Rabid Black Cougar, Drag Gibson stepped down and handed the Pope a welcome-to-our-city gift:

  On behalf of the citizens of Yellow Back Radio, I give to you this jumbo-size cheeseburger.

  The Pope smiled indulgently, although he turned up his nose and ordered one of his footmen to take charge of the big beef between two half-done buns.

  The people applauded.

  Thank-a you citizens of Yellow Back Radio. I’m-a come to cool tings out and get rid of this maleficiem what’s been making the cattle break out in sores, their milk to dry, that’s parching your fields with-a plague—in other words howdy pardners before I’m-a adios everything will be really really fine as wine in the summertime.

  Wow, everybody said, what a showman this Pope is, man-o-man.

  Drag curtsied and fell flat on his face. Everyone laughed while the men helped him out of the dirt and brushed off his clothes. In the prevailing good mood Drag chuckled along with the peasants.

  We’re going to make your visit very enjoyable Pope. How long you want to stay in Yellow Back? The town is yours.

  I have-a no time to tarry, the Pope said looking at the pocket watch he brought from underneath his gown.

  Drag tried to remove the skull cap the Pope wore on his head. The Pope started to slap Drag around the arms. Get you cotton pickin hands off my head!

  O I’m sorry I was just trying to make your visit comfortable. Well Pope we’ll take you and your coachmen footmen and aides up to the ranch where we can all have a big celebration tonight.

  At the celebration the Pope sat on a throne Drag had made for him. Drag sat next to him looking important. Whenever the Pope leaned over and whispered into his ear, he would look on to the proceedings knowingly, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger as if he had been privy to secret knowledge.

  A commotion was caused in front of the door near the garden. Suddenly it opened. The preacher stood in its well. Iridescent wings annexed to his shoulders were flapping and his eyes were bugged. His tail was ignited with electricity. The Preacher started across the floor towards the Pope. The Pope’s aide brought a giant can of DDT and the Pope started to squish. The Preacher grabbed his neck and stumbled back. He keeled over with his feet up and his wings oscillated until they were still. Never again would it oviposit eggs.

  I’m-a sorry I had to do that to one of your dignitaries, Pope said to the Drag.

  O that’s all right Father. He tried his best but Protestantism was the heathen German’s reaction to the glory of Rome. He was bound to go all atavistic sooner or later. Besides this was no costume party anyway. We is big time and serious.

  Glad you understand Drag, the Pope said while people gathered around the Preacher on the floor.

  Where can we talk about this Loop-a Garoo Kid?

  Now you’re talking there Father, Drag said, come on into my study.

  The men went upstairs, the cowpokes stomping their boots so as to impress the hurdy gurdy girls they brought from Big Lizzy’s on how they had access to high places.

  Upstairs the Pope had an aide roll out a map while he held a pointer. It was a diagram of Yellow Back Radio.

  Do you know where he’s hiding out?

  No, that’s just it, the Drag said, there are so many caves around here he could be hiding out in who could tell. Why the night he came to our party there the men fearlessly rode after him and they couldn’t find him. Right, men?

  The foreman looked on as the other men lowered their heads. Right Drag, that’s what we did. We almost had him but couldn’t catch up.

  Snow is the ticket, the Pope said, removing a cigar from his gown pocket and lighting up.

  What happened to your final A’s there Pope?

  Shit, man! That’s for suckers. Me and you cattlemen are in the same bag, always have been, moolas where it’s at, look at that Sistine. Whatdaya think bilt that dump. Cheese? The mob loves final A’s, them Protestants they never know, no ritual no class, so that when a generation of kids came along who could concentrate on more than one thing at a time they couldn’t handle it.

  The Pope’s aide was handing out cigars and the men, leaning back in their chairs, laughed at one another while pulling forward their suspenders.

  That was no threat for us. We hand out them wafers, and swing them censers, lot of loud singing, organs, processions. They like it that way.

  That’s the way I was running things Pope, till this nigger come in here and turned the place out.

  Well we’ll see about him—when we were threatened by the Albigenses, the Waldenses and other anarchists way back there when we couldn’t absorb them we burned or hanged them. Where was I? the Pope continued.

  You were talking about caves.

  Look for the Peak of No Mo Snow, Drag. He hates snow.

  Why I seed a naked mountain top just the other day, Skinny said. Let’s go boys.

  The men rose and were about to head for the hills when the Pope cautioned them:

  Hold it, hold it, you don’t go in there with your cowboy thing like that—shoot-em-ups won’t work this time. He’s got power stored in that mad dog’s tooth hanging on that necklace he wears. The mad dog’s tooth is the thing.

  You have to find some way to remove it from his neck. Then he’s powerless. In Haiti it’s called an arret but here in America it’s liable to be named anything. America is such a strange place that according to the new occult dictionary that just arrived at the Vatican Library there are more queer sects here than anywhere in the world. The religions turn out to be as rag-time a collage as the American Episcopalians who received their charter from a heretical Irish group.

  Just for the record Father, Drag asked, what is he putting on us anyhow?

  Well we’ve figured it to be the Hoo-Doo, an American version of the Ju-Ju religion that originated in Africa—you know, that strange continent which serves as the subconscious of our planet—where we’ve found the earliest remains of man. Ju-Ju originated in Dahomey and Angola. You’ll find that wangol, one of the magical terms of the system, is a play on that country’s name.

  Who knows what lurks in the secret breast of that Continent, shaped so like the human skull? We’ve tried to hide the facts by ridiculing the history of Sub-Sahara Africa and claiming that of North Africa as our own. Notice how the term “blackamoor” was dropped from St. Augustine’s name, and how our friends the German Aryan scholars faked the History of the Egyptians by claiming them to be white. Have you ever seen any examples of their art? If you just look at the pictures—the way they painted themselves black—and ignore the propaganda in our texts or Nefertiti which is a fraud, you will find that undoubtedly they are black people. The overwhelming majority of their art depicts black people.

  Sometimes I suspect that if Eve had remained in that garden, probably located in Dahomey, because that’s where the snakes are, Rome woul
d be merely one of the centers of the Ju-Ju religion and I’d be nothing but a poor wretch, stomping grapes or directing traffic in New York City.

  The men were falling asleep. Drag stood and fired into the ceiling. Wake up you guys, have a little respect for the Vatican.

  Well anyway, the Pope continued, when African slaves were sent to Haiti, Santo Domingo and other Latin American countries, we Catholics attempted to change their pantheon, but the natives merely placed our art alongside theirs. Our insipid and uninspiring saints were no match for theirs: Damballah, Legba and other dieties which are their Loa. This religion is so elastic that some of the women priests name Loa after their boyfriends.

  When Vodun arrived in America, the authorities became so paranoid they banned it for a dozen or so years, even to the extent of discontinuing the importation of slaves from Haiti and Santa Domingo.