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.
“You see,” Aboreal Hairyman explained, “I was in attendance at the public cinema viewing some film of the uprising from which our leader emerged victorious and this young man debated some rabble who were speaking ill of the faith. I’ve not seen such a display of valor in all my years.”