Read Online The Last Days of Louisiana Red by Ishmael Reed - Free Book Online

Jefferson Davis’ body servant, incidentally), and Quincy Jones. Whenever “Q” came to the Circle Star Theatre, Rev. Rookie would be right there, in the front row, whooping it up, yelling such colorful expletives as “right on,” and “get down,” which he would say twice, “get down, get down.” Another one of his expressions was “can you dig it?” Quite effective when used sparingly, which Rev. Rookie didn’t. Cats were circling the room. Moochers love cats, perhaps because you have to be crafty and dexterous and phony-finicky to be a Moocher, winning your territory inch by inch. Rev. Rookie had a motley congregation and really didn’t care about their life styles. He had twisted old John Wesley’s philosophy so that he had forgotten the theology he started out with. Rev. Rookie was real ecumenical. Gushing with it. I mean, he ecumenicaled all over himself, but he wasn’t one of these obvious old-fashioned preachers. No, when he spoke of God, he didn’t come right out and mention his Hebrew name. God, for him, was always a “force,” or a “principle.”
    The Christians looked the other way from their maverick minister in San Francisco; after all, he was packing them in, wasn’t he? Why, Rev. Rookie would get up in his mojo jumpsuit and just carry on so. He employed $100,000 worth of audio-visual equipment with which to “project” himself, plus a rhumba band (he couldn’t preach); it was the tackiest Jesus you’d ever want to see. Rev. Rookie wasn’t no fool, though. He had won a place for himself in the Moocher high command along with Maxwell Kasavubu, the Lit. teacher from New York; Cinnamon Easterhood, hi-yellow editor of the Moocher Monthly , their official magazine; and Big Sally, the poverty worker. The crisis meeting was being held to see what was to be done with Papa LaBas, the interloper from the east.
    Big Sally arrived first. Big old thing. Though her 300 ESL Mercedes was parked outside, Big Sally insisted upon her “oppression” to all that would listen. She had a top job in the 1960s version of the Freedmen’s Bureau, which was somewhat surprising since the poor had never seen Big Sally. Never heard of her either. Although she was always “addressing myself to the community,” she spent an awful lot of time in Sausalito, a millionaires’ resort. A Ph.D. in Black English, her image of herself was as “just one of the people”; “just me” or “plain prole.” Big Sally took off her maxi coat which made her look like a Russian general and then slid onto one of the barstools and continued her knitting; she was always knitting.
    â€œWELL, HOW YOU, SALLY? WHAT’S THE NEW THANG? WHAT’S WITH THE HAPPENINGS?” Big Sally looked at Rev. Rookie as if to say “poot.”
    â€œI guess I’ll get by.”
    Rev. Rookie knew better than to scream on Big Sally. She had a habit of screaming on you back. She’d rank you no matter where you were; in the middle of the street, usually, telling all the traffic your business.
    The next Moocher to show up was curly-haired grey Maxwell Kasavubu. Trench coat, brown cordovans, icy look of New York angst. He slowly removed his trench coat and put it on the rack; he smiled at Big Sally.
    â€œHi, Rev., Sally.” Rev. Rookie lit all up; Sally blushed and fluttered her eyebrows.
    Rev. Rookie rushed over to one of his church’s biggest contributors, slobbering all over the man.
    â€œHEY, BABY, WHAT’S GOING ON?” he said, placing a hand on Max’s shoulder. Max stared coldly at his hand, and, meekly, Rev. Rookie removed it.
    Sally continued knitting. Rev. Rookie paced up and down behind the bar. Max sat for a moment, contemplatively inhaling from his pipe, occasionally winking at Big Sally. Soon Max rose and went over to read some of Rev. Rookie’s literature which was lying on the bar top: