“WHEN I WANT YOU TO AGREES OR DISAGREES WIT ME, I’M DA ONE GIVES DA ORDERS, UNNERSTAND?”
“We gotcha boss,” the four replied, mopping their brows with their hands and wringing the sweat to the tile floor.
“You gotta watch these eggheads,” he said, again turning to me. “The only thing they’re good for is handin’ out honorary degrees to my generals and Screws, on commencement day at all the Harry Sam Universities. You should see these shirkers. Why, one of dem guys is pushing a ball of shit all over the world by the tip of his nose.”
“The paper is called ‘The Egyptian Dung Beetle in Kafka’s “Metamorphosis,”’” added the little man whose head was now buried in the daily racing form.
“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” answered SAM. “See, they push them little mega-morphosis all over the world for me and I give um peanuts and then they start signing petitions and debatin’ them white papers what me and the boys hustle up once in a while to keep peace and harmony down there and cut out all the yakkity-yak. That’s why I had to send them gray ladies down there that time.”
“One time we developed a thing what would put down all them smart-aleck spicks acting up called … ‘The Counter Insurgency Foundation,’” said the little man, biting into an apple.
“Yeah, and this foundation came up wit some weapon what would crush them spicks and had them yellow dwarfs with pocketknives running around giggling and hopping around, har, har, har, har. You shoulda seen them running with their clothes all on fire, har, har, har, har,” said HARRY SAM, slapping his knees. “What was that weapon called, Rapunzel?” asked SAM of the little man.
“I think we called it a beneficent incapacitor.”
“Well, them guys was applying for that foundation in droves, then they got the noive to get up there in their hats and gowns singing ‘Blow-he ain’t much eager to’ at the top of their lungs.”
“Gaudeamus igitur,” corrected the little man.
“There’s one of them guys what a famous ’tomic scientist. Little fellow with ice-cold blue eyes over at Princeton Institute of Advanced Studies. You shoulda seen him at Yukka Flats that morning with his clammy hands all over my detonator. Why, he wouldn’t even let my generals get their cookies he was carrying on so, quotin’ perms and stuff. See, they laugh at me because on the newsreels, my shorts don’t fit too good.”
“We think they fit fine, boss. You look like Rock Hudson,” the chorus said.
“No, you’re wrong, boys,” SAM said. “Gravity has gotten the best of me and I’m a little flabby and sick and not pleasant to be near, but them guys go around posing all day, talking about ethical … ethical …”
“Ethical neutrality,” my little escort said. But before he could continue the Chief Nazarene Bishop started for the little man’s throat and soon they were rolling about the tile floor, fighting. The other little men and the remaining chiefs encircled them, rooting for their favorite.
Finally SAM said, “STOP IT! STOP IT! WHAT’S COME OVER YOU GUYS? GET UP OFF DAT FLOOR!” The men rushed back to their places in line, except for the little man who was slowly brushing off his smock and staring at the Chief Bishop evilly.
“Next time you do that, I’m going to drown you in the Black Bay-preacher or no preacher,” the annoyed little man threatened.
“Shaddup both of youse. One more crack and I’ll plug you,” SAM said. “Now, what’s the matter wit youse, preacher?”
“Well, sniff, sniff,” answered the Bishop Nancy Spellman, “you said I could be the one allatime comment on ethics but each time I try to say somethin’, he’s always puttin’ his two cents in.”
“Look, preacher, do you want to go back to Marble Collegiate and sell mustard seeds to a bunch of sexless Sunoco Oil widows?”
“No, SAM. I’m very happy up here giving up strange and exotic recipes,” the Bishop replied.
“That’s more like it,” said Sam. “Now where was I?” he said, turning once again to me.
“You were talking about ethical neutrality,” I answered.
“My philosophy,” SAM said, smashing his fist into his open palm, “is when they act up or give you some lip, bomb the fuken daylights out of um. When my ol man’s roosters give him some cackle, that would fix um every time. That’s the only thing they understand. And that goes for spicks and gooks and all the rest what ain’t like us. Why, it would be no skin off my nose if all the Chinamen in the world got stuck in a dumbwaiter. Saving face and fulfilling your commitments, making alliances with da Arabs and all dem other baggy pants you can trust is okay. But if you don’t stop the others where they are, before ya know it, they’ll be surrounding NOTHIN’ which is ME like a bunch of Free-Lance Pallbearers.
“Step up here and feel that muscle, Bukka.” He rolled up his sleeve and revealed a lump nudging the crease at his elbow. I was a bit nervous but SAM assured me. I put my hand on the lump. It was as hard as a rock. “Gee SAM, that’s sure powerful,” I said.
“Every night when we go to bed, we is thankful for that lump, boss,” the chorus said.
“That is what you call ‘intestinal fortitude’ as we use to say down in the Republican Club in the perfumed stockade. But it won’t last. You see, I’m getting old, Bukka. Maybe forty years from now you can have the job. The top-secret specialty what keeps me alive is bound to run out but as long as I’m dictator of ME …” his voice rising and pounding his thumb into his chest so hard that the gas mask shuddered, “elected in free and democratic elections, I’ll do my best to improve NOTHING.
“Now I been looking out these glasses at Soulsville and I’m not happy with what I see. The people seem to have a lot of FRUSTRATION, ANXIETY and DESPAIR down there. I know all about that; I read the ny whine every day. But this stuff is taken a nasty turn. Last week some hoodlums attacked my friend Eclair Porkchop and I had to bring him up here until the heat was off. They nearly kilt the preacher. He’s been on the phone upstairs trying to get Miles Davis to translate the Bible. But I don’t think that’s going to save his neck. Back in the old days he use to go out in the snow rounding up votes for old SAM. He use to spellbound them colored people saying ‘Glory’ and stuff-even taught me to say it-GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, GLORY, JEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSUUUUUUSSSSSSSSUSSSSS. I SEE DAT OLE WHEEL TURNING IN THE SKY,” SAM said, waving his arms.
“LET THE CHURCH SAY AMEN AND HELP ME LAWDY,” said the chorus.
“But now I think he’s lost his drive, that certain spark. Seems a little gumless and stick-to-itiveness without. I want you to take that job. Go down there in Soulsville and tell them IT’S GOIN’ BE ALL RIGHT, BY AND BY IN THE SKY.”
“Say it again, SAM,” I said, not wanting to jumble my first assignment as Nazarene Bishop. I was overjoyed!
“Now we want you to have breakfast with us tomorrow and we can discuss the details. After which Lenore the maid will show you the grounds. Show him to a room,” SAM said to one of the Screws standing next to me.
I rose and said, “Thank you, HARRY SAM, former Polish used-car salesman and barn burner.”
“Don’t mention it, Bukka. I like your spunk. You remind me of myself. Why, I sit here all day readin’ Ernest Hemingway and practicing strange out-of-the-way dishes.”
“Thanks again, SAM,” I said, following the Screws into the mobile library.
“Don’t take no wooden nickels and if you do, name him after me, har, har, har, har, har, har, har …” was the last thing HARRY SAM said as the bookshelf moved from the side of the wall.
“Honest to Pete, boss. You’re a regular summer festival,” said the chorus.
The ascent, unlike the trip down, took about five minutes. The Screws led me out of the library into the hall near the ballroom. The thunder streaked into the trees which, gnarled and macabre, stood outside the garden doors. The shutters slammed violently throughout the house. The hoopla hoops bounced against the wall. Eerie organ music came somewhere from the very roof of the house. There was no sign of the gay crowd. Having stomped up a storm the party guests had flit.