The Free-Lance Pallbearers (8 page)

“All you little pretties and swingers of Soulsville, this is your main man Irving Gooseman and Slickhead Fopnick telling you all the bargains at the USURA pawnshop. No cash down—all you have to have is a gig. Take as long as you wont, all you souls, little pretties and swingers, boppers and groovers. Come on over to the store and look at some fine jools, dig some blond coffee tables and some zebra-skin couches. Now as an introduction to USURA pawnbrokers, we offer you a record that no home should be without It's historical. It's edjoocational. It's a credit to you people. A forty-five disc of the historic meeting between HARRY SAM and Soulsville's own Eclair Porkchop: ‘A Meeting of Titans.' Just so that you can get a sample of this dignified recording, we're going to play a little bit of it.” With this he pulled a folding stand from beneath his overcoat, set it up and mounted a small victrola on the top. He put the needle on the record and soon the voices of the two leaders could be heard.

The sleep-in maids, porters and redcaps, hustlers, junkies, and Nazarene apprentices threw nickels, dimes, and quarters into the basket. All at once two Screws appeared around the corner and spotting the mad slum lord and Slickhead gave chase. Irving and Fopnick got their gear together and jumped into a T-Model Ford which was parked behind the crowd. The car rattled and bustled so, a door fell from its hinges and into the street. Smoke and oil spouted furiously from its radiator cap.

The Ford sped toward the railroad tracks where the eight-thirty express of the B.&O. Railroad was bearing down on the crossroads like gangbusters. The Screws were hot on the pair's trail, speeding in a jeep. Some of them were standing on the runners firing BB pellets at the car wheels. The crowd watched as the train came nearer and nearer and nearer and nearer (drum rolls) until the old T-Model just slipped across the tracks almost running down an old woman in white who was dripping wet and holding a yelping mutt by the scruff of the neck as she dashed across the road on the other side of the tracks. The Screws were left jumping up and down in the jeep, throwing their helmets into the road shoulders, tearing out their hair and slapping their fists against their foreheads in frustration as a lot of dumb numbers on boxcars whizzed by at one hundred miles an hour.

Fannie Mae did not return from the hospital. Instead I received a summons in the mail, directing me to appear before Judge Whimplewopper on such and such a date in this incredible nightmare of a NOWHERE. Fannie Mae was demanding a separation on grounds of mental cruelty. Georgia Nosetrouble's name was scrawled above the line designated “witness.” The receipt of this intelligence sunk me into deepest pall. I had failed my first test as a Nazarene apprentice on a quest in the grimy grim world of HARRY SAM, not-to-be-believed, out-of-sight, run from the low-down nasty room.

Now there would be hard decisions to make. First, I would have to yield my apartment because of a rule which forbade single people from dwelling in them. I decided to put my mind at ease by going to the newsreel theater in Soulsville. This proved to be my undoing.

En route to the movies I passed the amusement truck which was parked outside the projects during the day. Most of the children were merrily riding the swans, ponies and other animals. In between these figures stood dwarfs, gnomes and witches. A lone child had his arm around one of the dwarfs. He seemed to be weeping and moving his lips as if speaking to the mute figure.

“What's wrong, little tot?” I offered.

“He won't take me across the Black Bay like he said he was going to.”

“Who won't?” I said, looking around me.

“He won't,” the little boy continued, pointing to the long-nosed dwarf who had the jokers' smile painted on his face.

These kids today have the darndest imagination, I thought.

“He doesn't play fair. He took the rest of those kids over there and they play in gardens and fly like birds.”

I sought to appease the tiny chap. “If ol meany won't play with you, here's a nickel. Play on one of the rides.”

But instead of doing cartwheels over my gift, the little kid became indignant. “Why don't you leave us alone, you grown-up boozehound? Why don't ya go play pinochle or start a war or something? Who asked your opinion anyway?” he said, hugging the dwarf.

“Now see here, you little brat, apparently your father has never read the passage in the manual about how little Nazarenes are supposed to behave toward grownups. You should never deride the utterances of grownups. What you need is an ol-fashioned spanking.” I yanked him from the dwarf, spun him around and brought my hand swiftly against his backside. The little kid howled as I walked away from the truck wringing my hands.

A distance from the truck I looked around. The kids were still playing on the rides and the little fellow had his arms around the dwarf's shoulders. He was rapidly moving his lips.

 

Long lines of customers wound around the block leading to the theater. They held packages of Camembert, Gouda, provolone, port salut, Liederkranz, Brie, Edam, bleu and cheddar cheese. You see, there were these furry creatures inside who over the years had developed a pretty sophisticated palate. So as not to be maimed, it was advisable for patrons to bring something along with which to entertain the critters. I dropped my block of Swiss at the box office and paid my fare.

The newsreel was an account of the previous week's events: the choking of SAM's valves by bantam roosters' feathers, the dislodging of these feathers by Rev. Eclair Porkchop and his subsequent coronation as Bishop of Soulsville. Finally SAM surrounded by his attendants, little men wearing white smocks and bow ties replete with the familiar butterfly pattern, appeared on the screen. Our leader's stomach swelled over the rim of his shorts like a drooping balloon. I applauded wildly but mine was the only applause. In fact I detected some snickers among members of the audience. The black rowdies in the front row began to heckle and catcall. A few even made wolf whistles. I rose from my seat and rushed down the aisle until I stood before the area where they were seated. With one hand resting on a hip and wagging my finger I gave them a “brutally frank” lecture, as the typists at several Civil Service offices are fond of saying.

“How dare you insult our sacred institutions, our cherished heritage, you roughnecks—you low-life rakes.”

“Aw man, set yo behind down,” came someone's gruff reply.

“Indeed, ‘seat myself,' you reprobates,” I continued, to the taunts of several ruffians seated in the front row. “When one hears subversive remarks, it is one's duty to report them! Why it says right here on page seventy-seven of the manual …” I demonstrated, removing the torn book of creeds from my tweed pocket.

“Are we going to listen to you, schmuck, or listen to the newsreels?” the owner yelled between the chawed black cigar which leaned from his fat lips. “Whaddaya tink runs this dump? Cheese? Now sit down or I'll have one of my bruisers kick you out!”

I ignored the owner who stood to the rear of the theater next to a short man who was waving a college pennant. Casting a shadow upon the movie screen with my person I unflinchingly stood my ground, taking on all comers. The theater seemed to heave and rock from the commotion caused by the indignant customers, as I defended our big klang-a-lang-a-ding-dong and antiseptic boplicity. Paper cups, yellow greasy popcorn, and candy wrappers rained upon my head. With the strong burning lungs of martyrdom I repeated my oath. “HARRY SAM does not love us—”

But before I could continue a rough hand gripped me by the shoulder and lifted me until I was kicking thin air. “I'll make a citizen's arrest upon the entire theater!” I shouted but was drowned out by the cheers of the audience who seemed delighted by my unceremonious exit. With guffaws and belly laughs coming from his garlic-smelling mouth, the usher threw me to the pavement outside the theater where I landed flat on my backside. As I was being ejected, tussling up the aisle with the usher, I was to hear the owner comment to his assistant, “Got to hand it to him, Slickhead. He may be a crackpot but he's got a lot of chutzpah.”

I started to report the entire incident to the Screws but seeing as how I was shoulder high in difficulties—what's the use, I thought, heading back to the Harry Sam Projects.

When I arrived at the bar outside the Harry Sam Projects, I was still smarting from the sound thrashing received at the usher's hands. The bar was a broken-down joint with a few scarred topped tables and an ol-fashioned stove with paws whose pipe disappeared into the roof.

Seated at the barstools were the workers from the Harry Sam Ear Muffle Factory. My M/Neighbor and Nosetrouble sat at a table in the back. Nosetrouble was talking in a spirited manner and M/Neighbor was nodding his head. This meant that they were discussing Nosetrouble's plot to get SAM. M/Neighbor had a peculiar-shaped head with a sharp curvature in the back of the skull which prompted many people to deride him with colorful names like “watermelon head” or “football head.”

Nosetrouble's distinguishing features were a sharp jaw and receding hairline. He had the habit of narrowing his eyelids whenever he spoke of his plot to get SAM. He was wearing open-toed sandals, a boat-neck sweater, and corduroy slacks. When I approached the table they greeted me vigorously, pumping my hand. Nosetrouble ordered me a beer.

“Haven't seen you in a long time, Bukka Doopeyduk. Where you been hiding?” Nosetrouble began.

“I've been getting special assignments at the hospital and in my spare time I go over rather obscure passages in the Nazarene manual and make red pencil marks in the margins of the pages. Sometimes I meditate over these issues on long walks.”

“You're still in dat bag, huh Bukka? Don't you know dat HARRY SAM is full of shit?” asked M/Neighbor.

I was shocked by M/Neighbor's newly acquired political acumen. But maintaining my cool I parried his rib. “I didn't know that you dabbled in politics, M/Neighbor, and if I recall correctly, it was YOU who viewed with consternation the remarks your son made about our self-made Pole and dauntless Plymouth-pusher who ‘nobody could undersell.'”

“You got it wrong. Me and my son don't see eye to eye on some issues. I even keeked him out da house 'cause I found some reefers in his room. And he kept on wearin' tablecloths and started talkin' funnier than dat little white boy Joel O. he was palling around wit. But he's right on one thing. Da man do smell no matter which way you look at it. And since I became a leader of my people, me and Nosetrouble gone have it out wit dis man.”

“Indeed, M/Neighbor,” interjected Nosetrouble. “We can have none of the bourgeois decadence that your son and his little teeny boppers were into. It was plain nihilism. They seemed to be having a lot of fun with savage boo-ga-loo dancing and love feasts. It was tactically correct of you to get rid of the boy, M/Neighbor, and further—”

“How is Georgia Nosetrouble?” I said, not wishing to hear Nosetrouble's recital of ‘ol speeches made by the famous dead' for which these remarks were usually an introduction.

“She left me a week ago. Didn't you know? They're at your father-in-law's new town house that the munitions manufacturers and Texas oil money bought him. She's become Fannie Mae's companion. I read in the society page of the
Amsterdam News
that they were leaving for Europe next week. You see, SAM has appointed your father-in-law ambassador to Luxembourg.”

“Ambassador to Luxembourg!” I gasped. (What operators that ol man and his mother were.) “I'm sorry about that, Nosetrouble,” I said, offering my condolences.

“No need. At first I was upset but now I spend most of my time organizing so I don't have enough time for self-pity. You see, we've formed a committee to get at the root of these mysterious child disappearances. We want to prod the Screws into some kind of action. Why, haven't you been listening to the splendid speeches M/Neighbor has been making on the radio? Didn't you see his picture in the
Deformed Demokrat
last week?”

“That's right,” M/Neighbor added. “
Life
be here tomorrow and
Esquire
comin' down next week.”

“You know, Bukka,” Nosetrouble continued after a pause, “I wouldn't be surprised if your man HARRY SAM didn't have a hand in these disappearances.”

Now I could put up with some of these seditious remarks, but this was a bit much. Beside myself with rage I jumped to my feet and banged the table so hard that the beer suds spilled into the laps of both M/Neighbor and Nosetrouble. They abandoned their composure and held each other.

“I REFUSE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO YOU DAMN OUR LEADER LIKE THAT!”

“Aw knock it off,” M/Neighbor responded. “You sound like a tool and lackey of the capitalist class, cha-cha-cha.” Nosetrouble nodded approvingly, winking at me.

I held the sides of my head. My temples were pounding like crazy. I got up and slowly staggered out of the bar. The people sat at the tables with their hands over their ears and eyes bulging like gargoyles. Subversion was rife. Plots, subterfuge were the order of the day. What was to become of our beloved out-of-sight, our razz-a-ma-tazz and o-bop-she-bang? I contemplated these questions, walking aimlessly through NOW-HERE with my eyes downcast. I kicked a tin can from time to time and occasionally sighted Screws lining up teeny hoppers and frisking them. Leaves swirled about the streets, low-bent trees hooted with abandonment. Dogs howled and I ducked the too-close-for-comfort swoop of vampire bats.

I had reached the Emperor Franz Joseph Park. The ol men—having completed a day of kissing jive frames-were filing through an arch which stood at its entrance. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse rode on the top with fierce-looking eagles perched upon their shoulders. Under the steady bombardment of the elements over the years, some of the sculpture had broken away from its base. The ground surrounding the arch was littered with the heads of the famous dead. The ol men shambled into the tenements and ol brownstones of the street which adjoined this park of cannon balls stacked in triangular heaps. Through the windows of the fleabag hotels which stood in this strange community, some of the ol men could be seen lined up for showers. Others sat in the lobbies of hotel after dismal hotel playing chess or watching a television film of Neville Chamberlain's airport speech which followed his conference with the Dictator. Still others leaned against the walls of several missions with bowls of soup in their hands. They watched with hawk eyes their possessions: the cans of film, flags and ladders which rested on the ground beside them.

A procession moved toward me from the other end of the street. It was composed of some elderly gentlemen who pushed carts filled with artifacts and relics. The leader of this parade was a wizened-faced creature dressed in a ragged World War I uniform. His cart contained some parched manuscripts belonging to Wilfred Owen, stacks of broken violin scrolls, some twisted marble toilet bases and a big rock, the only remnant of Hadrian's wall. When his wheelbarrow came along the spot where I stood he suddenly dropped it and pointed to me. Then frantically signaling the other men, he approached me. Now I might be a Nazarene apprentice but enough is enough. I wasn't prepared to take a similar beating to the one dished out at the theater so I picked up a lead pipe which lay on the sidewalk.

“Wait a minute,” the man pleaded. “We mean you no harm. I merely wanted to introduce you to some friends of mine. My name is Aboreal Hairyman. In my heyday I was an itinerant preacher but now SAM has taken me out of retirement—taken me out of the trees in a way-and he's made me chief investigator in the case of the slashed mini-skirts and hip boots.”

The other men applauded one of their own who had made good.

“Now gentlemen,” Aboreal said, “it's not for me to take the limelight but rather this young colored lad standing here deserves your deepest gratitude.”

“Wha hoppened? Come on, boss. Tell us wha hoppened?” asked the toothless many. The ol men loved tall tales, having little else to do with their time save play brinkmanship, mope over the “decadence” of the youth and empty their colostomy bags.