by Ishmael Reed
Georgia Nosetrouble snickered behind the comic book.
Fannie Mae got up from the sofa, and hands on hips, feet spread apart, spoke hot fire.
“DERE’S PLENTY OF KONKALINED PORKPIE BEANIES ’ROUND HERE WHO THINK I LOOK VEWY VEWY GREAT. YOU START SOME MESS AND I’LL SLASH YOUR CLOTHES AND THROW THE FURNITURE OUT OF THE WINDOW. What’s wrong wit dese mens today, Georgia?”
“Don’t ask me, Fannie Mae. Must be some bug going around.”
“What you got to do with it, Georgia? What are you doing moving in here anyway? You jamming this ho.”
Rising to get her wrap, Georgia pouted, squinted her eyes and threatened me.
“Looka heah, Doopeyduk, whatever yo name is. I am not yo wife. Fuk with me and I’ll really give you something to complain about.”
Nancy’s portrait was damaged beyond recognition. All that remained were the puckered lips, the twinkly eyes.
Fannie Mae lurched for the door.
“Don’t go, Georgia. He jess showin’ out fo company.” She followed the girl into the hall. When she came back into the apartment, she laced into me.
“Now I guess you satisfied. She wasn’t botherin’ you, but you had to show yo ass. Dippyduk goofy mother-grabber!” And then grumbling, she went hissing into the bedroom, slamming drawers and after an hour in the bathroom profuse with whucking faucets and the opening and shutting of cabinets, she came out heavily made up. She whisked past me and stalked into the hall tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for the elevator to come up.
“What time do you intend to come back?” I asked submissively.
“Nighttime! And if you try to follow me, I’ll get a jeep full of dem Screws with turkey muskets after you.”
I went all out. Through my whole crying-the-blues repertory, even pulling a few new tricks out of the hat. Like—
“Fannie Mae, Fannie Mae, please don’t go, sugar, ’cause iffin you leave me, I’ll have bread done on one side, ’cause the toaster broke down, I’ll cry a fistful of clock hands over you, and walk the third rail, boo hoo boo hoo. What I gonna do? Consult the hoodoo man. Woe is me.”
But my words slap-dashed against the elevator door and slid down to the floor. My baby had done gone. The little children who had given the Nazarene apprentice the hassle were standing next to the elevator door. I stood there in my orderly uniform with the black stripe down the side of the pants. The kids broke up, rolling about the floor and laughing.
I went back inside and saw that my fly had been open during the entire episode. Embarrassed, I walked to the window just as the moon peeped over the summit of Sam’s Island. Fannie Mae and Georgia were hightailing it toward the lights from the jooks which surrounded the projects. I drunk some likker and got my head bad. At three o’clock in the morning there came a tap-dap-rapping at my door. A tit-tat-klooking at my hollow door.
“Who is dat rap-a-dap-tapping at my do’ this time of night? What-cha wont?”
“Have you seen some children playing in this vicinity?” asked the lean woman dressed in black. She shivered, clutching the top of her housecoat.
“No, I haven’t,” I lied, hoping that they’d been swallowed by the incinerator or some equally grisly fate had befallen them.
Mr. and Mrs. Nosetrouble moved into the projects shortly after that night. At last the Harry Sam Projects were integrated. Mr. Nosetrouble was white and the statue of HARRY SAM winked slyly from one stony eye. The moving van pulled up and dumped the basket chairs, bound and musty pamphlets, fish tanks, flags, short-wave radios, plants, chickadees, espresso machines, Band-Aids. Tumbling out behind these were stacks upon stacks of foreign language newspapers, and a fine little case. When the men started to throw this black leather case upon the rest of the items, Georgia’s husband had a fit.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Where you goin’ wit that case? Have a little respect, fellas. The nose inside that case belong to none other than L. Trotsky who in a speech before the cemetery at Prague said ‘Blimp Blank Palooka Dookey,’ and standing in a threadbare coat, shaking his fist in the rain for hours, said ‘Blank Palooka Dookey Blimp’ and who on more than one occasion warned the ruling circles ‘Dookey Palooka Blank Blimp.’”
The two husky movers scratched their heads and grinned at little Nosetrouble as he scampered into the building, precious black case in hand. Nosetrouble was Crazzzzzzzzzzzzzzzy about the workers. Wanted to be around them all the time and wear the workers’ clothes and eat the workers’ food and drink the workers’ drink and look at um all a time. Once Nosetrouble raised such a stink in HARRY SAM that SAM had to go into a huddle with his washroom attendants. But being the sellout hippies that they were, they came up with a slick ploy.
SAM went on television. Sitting at a workman’s bench he patted a little cocker spaniel on the head. They had applied synthetic soot to his face. He took a swig of beer from a can and addressed the nation.
“Hi folks. The MAN here again. Got a few minutes before the whistle is blown on us down in the John, a signal for me to go back to work. Didn’t know I worked, did you dumplings? Pardon me. …” (He took a sandwich from a brown bag and filled his mouth to the brink of his lips with liverwurst.)
“At least all those who know me and love me ’preciates the fact that I work, which makes it come as a surprise when these people go around here bitchin’ about the way I handle the workers.
“Geeze, folks, solidarity forever and o yeah while I’m at it, we shall overcome. Hell, I got injured in an industrial accident once, see?” The dictator raised his nightshirt and pointed to a scar which traveled north from the spine to his left breast.
The New York Times called the speech an eloquent and poignant plea for industrial peace.
Georgia’s husband was mauled the next day by the workers for being a tool of jabberwocky conspirators who’s ginst us ’mericans. He was nearly lynched when they discovered the two slices of Polish ham in his lunch pail.
“We ain’t innerstead in L. Trotsky’s nose,” the workers said in chorus as they gave Nosetrouble the old heave-ho. They began to chant in fact: “TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT TOY TALK/TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT TOY TALK/JING-A-LING/DIPSY NOODLE/N.B.C. and/COCK-A-DOODLE/TOY TALK/TOY TALK/WE WANT/TOY TALK.”
Nosetrouble never forgot the humiliation. He moved into the Harry Sam Projects and vowed to get the tenants involved in direct action. He received no help from the other labor leaders. Indeed, they were the most avid visitors to the dark and gloomy motel which loomed over not-to-be-believed. Why, women would jump out of cakes for them. Little boys would entertain them with madrigals. Each night they carried their toilet articles in eerie procession like the judges, generals, and Chief of Screws who had preceded them. They were second only to the leaders of the blacks who mounted the circuitous steps leading to SAM’s, assuring the boss dat: “Wasn’t us, boss. ’Twas Stokely and Malcolm. Not us, boss. No indeed. We put dat ad in da Times repudiating dem, boss. ’Member, boss? You saw da ad, didn’t you, boss? Look, boss. We can prove it to you, dat we loves you. Would you like for us to cook up some strange recipes for ya, boss? Or tell some jokes? Did you hear the one about da nigger in da woodpile? Well, seems dere was this nigger, boss …”
SAM would sit stone-faced under this steady barrage of limericks, slapstick and handstands and hoedowns and jigs and cotillions until he’d finally melt.
“Har, har, har. You boys sure know the Bible good.”
Georgia’s husband had also been abandoned by the others who carried around L. Trotsky’s hair in their pocketbooks inbetween the diaphragms. They had moved into quaint little towns in the thicket of SAM called Freedom Village. They itched SAM once in a while by showing up on picket lines with their teased hair and Montgomery Ward originals, holding aloft signs which read: “For Heaven Sakes Allready, Don’t Bomb Our Swimming Pools.” Or they took ads in the Times which read: “We the undersigned are unalterably opposed to misery.” Followed by five hundred handsome names.
But despite his idiosyncrasie
s, Nosetrouble was an intrepid and scrappy little guy. As soon as he settled in the projects, his campaign began. He accused the soap companies of not putting enough powder into the tubs of dead laundromats. And that if it wasn’t put in by two weeks, he and his committee would put the whammy on high-strung police horses, causing them to throw their riders.
The soap companies gave in, sending out a statement: “How was we supposed to know? Are there washroom signs in our brains? A dozen boxes of Oxydol will be sent over first ting inda morning. Tanks for being innerstead in the tubercular tubs. All spots will be removed from their revolving lungs.” The souls were confused by the issue.
But next washday when the clothes came out sparkling white, the housewives lifted Nosetrouble to their shoulders and paraded him through the projects. Victory! Now Georgia’s husband would consolidate his gains and move for a showdown with the low-down occupant of the bottoms himself. Nosetrouble was getting the goods on the self-made Pole and former Plymouth pusher.
Fannie Mae had left earlier in the day. I had given her money for groceries and she decided to look in on the Nosetroubles, now in the middle of unpacking. I remained indoors to nurse some lumps received the night before while coaxing a patient into the room which contained the little black box. My general appearance had deteriorated. I was beginning to look fierce. Ill-tempered and morose, I flew off the handle at the slightest provocation. My hair had grown long and shaggy and stubby patches began to appear on my face. I no longer carried myself in the proud erect style of the Nazarene apprentices, but shambled along with my shoulders drooped and my chin pinned to my neck. I slept a lot and would arrive late for work under the hawk eye of a piqued head nurse. Increasingly, I would go to M/Neighbor’s apartment and get stoned. We would drink until the stuff trickled down the corners of our mouths.
That afternoon, while watching a succession of kiddie shows, F/Neighbor came into the room where her husband and I sat.
“Mr. Doopeyduk. Now I don’t want to get into yo business but seems lak someone done put the hoodoo on you. Why don’t you go out and buy some John the Conquerer roots?”
“Why that’s absurd,” I said. “It’s just a bug. That’s all. It’ll go away.”
“Don’t look lak no bug to me. I never seen nobody bugged dat had fangs and pointed ears. No, I think dat you have definitely been hoodooed.”
“You superstitious lame-brain! I don’t know why I’ve been wasting all this time with your type of backward riffraff anyway. Why, I could be listening to some interesting Nazarene lecture on radio station WBAI.”
I stalked from the room and slammed their door behind me. Inside the apartment, I dozed off and dreamed:
I am walking through a forest of eucalyptus trees. Sunbeams like millions of fireflies show through the foliage. A hooded woman guides me to a clear mountain lake. Vegetation can be seen at its shallow bottom. She removes her shoes and wades through the lake to a cliff which borders one side. Below the cliff, the thunderous sound of a primeval ocean. She beckons me to follow her, hinting that there are wondrous sights below. In the distance, there are mountains smoldering from dormant volcanoes. As I step into the lake, dark tentacles rush me. I escape, climbing back upon the bank now packed with fancy objects (associated wit what peoples in da West call BA-ROKE or somethin’ lak dat). She lowers her hood and laughs. Suddenly Nancy Spellman appears on the bank. He is dressed in his little red smock and red skull cap. He chastises the woman who flees into the forest. He holds a sign which reads: EAT AT SAMS. THREE TRIPS PER DAY.
My shirt clung to my body. The area about my genitals was damp. I went into the hall without bothering to groom myself. People were surrounding the woman who had knocked on my door in search of the missing children.
“Dey gone, dey gone,” she was saying. “Dey jess vanished in thin air.”
I scowled at the gathering and rushed past the amusement truck toward the apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Nose-trouble. Nosetrouble answered the door.
“Have you seen Fannie Mae?”
“They went outta here ’bout three hours ago. Said they were going to a movie. Why don’t you come on in and wait, Mr. Doopeyduk? You can be one of the first to be in on my grand strategy for gettin’ the goods on SAM.”
He was having trouble with his wife Georgia who would lie about the house all day in a hefty mess when she wasn’t with Fannie Mae. She would tell him to kiss her behind whenever he’d want dinner or his clothes laundered. Sometimes she would return home after a three-day spree and Nosetrouble would get ill and threaten to hang himself. I dozed off while he recited his grand strategy, and when I awoke he too had fallen asleep, curled up in one of the basket chairs and coddling a Leadbelly album. Our slumber was disturbed by quick giggling coming from behind the door. I opened it and was greeted by Mrs. Nosetrouble and my wife. Their dresses were rumpled. Their breaths stank of strong drink.
“Where’s the fuken grocery money, bitch?” I asked Fannie Mae. “You were supposed to buy: two pounds of neck bones, marked-down day-old bread, a can of beans, four cartons of beer, a bottle of milk, a bunch of greens, a can of Spam, a pound of rice, coffee, a pound of hog maws—with what I gave you.”
Georgia walked past me and into the living room where her husband sat fuming.
“Where did you get the money to go drinking with Fannie Mae?” he asked her.
“I pawned that tiny black case you’re always playin’ wif.”
He caught her with an uppercut which sent her flying against the bookcase, spilling pamphlets and documents to the floor. She bellowed like an animal whose paw has just been crushed by a fire truck. Nosetrouble stood triumphantly over his wife.
“If you have spent that grocery money, I will kick the livin’ shit out of you!” I continued to Fannie Mae.
Fannie Mae stepped back from me a few paces. “You lay a hand on me, I’ll see to it that your behind is shoved under the mothafukin’ jail.”
Nosetrouble dropped to his knees and embraced Georgia. He told her how much he loved her and said that he had lost his temper and that I had prompted him to take drastic action which was totally out of keeping with his character.
I started to maul the kat but my hands were full. Fannie Mae bolted for the elevator door, slamming the door of the Nosetroubles’ apartment in my face.
In the hall I waited for the elevator to rise again. From the apartment I could hear effusive squeaks and groans. Finally I reached the bottom floor and ran across the projects grounds, my arms swinging from side to side in front of me.
I emerged from the building just as Fannie Mae shut the door to our apartment. With strength that surprised me, I tore the door from its hinges and slammed it to the floor of the hall.
“What’s come over you, man! You lost yo mind or something?”
I walked toward Fannie Mae, forcing her against the wall, and tried to sink my claws into her throat.
“This will be the last time you spend my hard-earned money on Screen Gems magazines and liquor,” I growled.
She pried herself loose from my grasp and ran into the hall.
“HELP/LAWDY/JESUS/MOSES/ELIJAH/DANIEL/MERCY/MAMMA/DADDY/HELP ME! DA MAN DONE GONE APESHIT!”
M/and F/Neighbor’s eyes appeared through the peephole of their apartment. Once outside, she yelled up to me at the window.
“I’m goin’ over to my father’s house. You as looney as dey come. Don’t try to follow me neither.”
“Here’s a gift for your grandmother,” I snarled, throwing a broom out of the window which landed at her feet.
That night a phone call from the Grand Exalted Ruler of the Elks Ret. Himself.
“Uh, O. You done gone and did it now, Doopeyduk. You ’sturbed my daughter so with yo conniptions dat she got upset and nearly slipped into the oven. She is suffering from burns and shock and had to be took to the Harry Sam Hospital. If you ever upset my daughter again, I’m gone send my clean-jawed and bald assassins after you. Dey don’t eat pork as you know and dey make their wives wear
dresses whose hems reach their ankles. So dey is in good condition.” (Click!)
I walked to the window of my apartment. The full moon. I marveled.
I wore my cap over my eyes and gloves to conceal my claws. I reached the hospital where my mother and father were sitting in the lobby. My mother had enough chinchillas on her to weigh down a whole garment pusher’s detail. My father wore a Petrocelli suit and toyed with his hat.
“We tried to raise you right, Bukka. But you never know how dey’s going to turn out, as Mrs. Nosetrouble just said up in Fannie Mae’s room.”
I was reticent “Could you tell me where the room is?”
“It’s over there, but Bukka, we just gone have to pray for you. By the way,” she continued, “Fannie Mae told me a while back you got a raise of five dollars at the hospital. Least you could do is turn me and your daddy on to a few dollars a week to help us add that garage to the new house we just bought to rent out.”
“I was demoted, so I can’t help you out.”
“I knew he’d never amount to anything,” she said to my father as I walked toward the entrance of the ward where the indigent patients were placed. Nurses’ aides were putting bundles of soiled sheets into dumbwaiters. Some women in flimsy robes held together by safety pins were walking slowly down the aisle holding their groins. Nurses were carrying cups with pills to beds which were emitting rough guttural sounds.
Fannie Mae lay in the middle of the room with dark circles under her eyes. Tubes protruded from her body as if she had taken root. A bottle hung next to her bed where she fed intravenously. Her face was sallow and cheeks sunken.
The nurse said, “Don’t stay too long. She has been delirious and is under heavy sedation but I think she will recognize you.”
Fannie Mae batted her eyes then looked up at me. “HELP! HELP! HE GONE VISCERATE ME. HE-”
“Calm down,” I said. “I just wanted to apologize for disturbing you so.”
“Well, Grandmama said dat da hoodoo had been put on you ’cause you were a loser and a creep and nothing would ever come of you. She told me I should leave you.”
