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

courtesy to hear out my views, cause if you going to dispute my views you have to hear me out first—”
    â€œBut I was only being practical,” Easterhood protested.
    â€œPractical? You was only being practical? If you was only being practical, then look like the first practical thing you would want to do would be to hush your practical mouth so I can talk.”
    Easterhood’s wife was just beaming at all that good old downhome rusticness coming her way. She just leaned back and said, “Sally, lawd. Sister, you sho can come on.”
    â€œTakes Sally to just cut through all the bullshit and get right down to the nitty gritty,” Maxwell said.
    â€œTELL IT LIKE IT T/I/S/MAMA,” Rev. Rookie said.
    â€œThat’s mo like it. Now, as I was saying, we don’t have to worry about this LaBas man, and was going on to say that what we need is somebody to replace that hi-yellow heffer,” Big Sally said, her eyes rolling about her head.
    Easterhood smiled a good-natured Moocher smile but secretly wanted to crawl on his belly out of the room. He didn’t mind all this downhomeness, but, shit, he had an M.A.
    â€œHi-Yellow Heffer?” Max asked. “What’s with this hi-yellow?”
    â€œTHE SISTER IS CALLING SOMEBODY A COW,” Rev. Rookie explained to Maxwell Kasavubu.
    â€œO, you mean heifer,” Maxwell Kasavubu said.
    â€œWhatever you call that old ugly thang. Think she cute. Drive up here in that sport car and when she come start talking that old simpleass mutherfuking bullshit make me sick in my asshole.”
    â€œRUN IT DOWN, SISTER, RUN IT DOWN TO THE GROUND,” Rev. Rookie said, jumping up and down.
    â€œBut which sister are you referring to, Big Sally?” Max asked for clarification. He always asked for clarification, not one to be swept away by emotions as the “minorities” were. They got “enthused” real quick, but when you needed someone to pass out leaflets or man a booth, they were busy or tired or it was so and so’s turn to do that.
    â€œMinnie,” Big Sally blurted out.
    â€œMinnie?” Cinnamon said, jumping from the couch where his wife Rusty sat guzzling beer, eating Ritz crackers as if they were the whole meal and grinning squint-eyed over what Sally was saying.
    â€œMinnie? Did I hear you right?” Cinnamon Easterhood said, grinning.
    â€œYou hearrrrrrrrd, me!” she said, cutting a rough glance his way.
    â€œWell, you have to admit Minnie is a bore. Only a handful turned out for the last rally,” said Maxwell.
    â€œThat’s crazy, we need her. The sister has a fine mind,” Cinnamon protested. “She’s writing an article in the Moocher Monthly magazine on the morphological, ontological and phenomenological ramifications in which she will refute certain long-held contradictory conclusions commonly held by peripatetics entering menopause. Why the dialectics of the—”
    â€œBig Sally, did you want to say something?” Max said, noticing Sally’s impatience—impatience being a mild word. Frowns were proliferating her forehead.
    â€œAs I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, we don’t need no ontology, we needs some grits, and Minnie ain’t bringing no grits. Ain’t no ontology gone pay our light bill. P.G. and E. fixin to cut off our Oakland office. Disconnect. We need somebody who knows how to get down.”
    â€œWho would you suggest, Big Sally?”
    â€œStreet Yellings is the only one the people in the street wont. He the only man that can put this Moocher business back in business.”
    â€œStreet!” Rusty said. “Street Yellings! Why, if you brought him back, everything would be so outtasite.” She remembered his Wanted poster in the post office. The girls would go down there and get all excited. Somebody had painted horns on his head. Street made them want to say fuck. Say words like fuck. Made you feel