Oh, that was a good tape, the February 19 tape, a fine tape. They could seal that one in a capsule and blast it into space with a Snoopy doll and copies of Jonathan Livingston Seagull and Sergeant Pepper’s Lonelyhearts Club Band. (How had he learned of these things?) Wherever it turned up, whatever bat-eared, green-blooded creature hauled it out of the icy void to discover something about the human race in the twentieth century, that tape would impart with complete accuracy an allusive record of all the ingratitude, the venality, the envy, the hypocritical greed, the ineducable recalcitrance, the superficiality, and above all the cavalier disregard for fact that, as far as he was concerned, distinguished the new generation from the preceding one. What ate him up was that he listened to the — you should pardon the expression — substance of what Cinque said and found himself trying hard to give a damn. Many of the things he’d always been secure from had been brought to his attention, and he wanted to sympathize. But that this repellent shit, Cinque, had appointed himself Official Spokesman just turned him off so completely that he had trouble doing so.
On the February 19 tape, Cinque berated him, provided a comically inaccurate list of “his” assets, demanded an additional four million bucks, demanded that the food program be handed over to the prickly Western Addition Project Area Committee, and then built to one of the trademark crescendos Hank had become accustomed to:
You do, indeed, know me. You have always known me. I’m that nigger you have hunted and feared night and day. I’m that nigger you have killed hundreds of my people in a vain hope of finding. I’m that nigger that is no longer just hunted, robbed and murdered. I’m the nigger that hunts you now!
Yes, you know me. You know me, I’m the wetback. You know me, I’m the gook, the broad, the servant, the spik.
Yes, indeed, you know us all and we know you — the oppressor, murderer and robber. And you have hunted and robbed and exploited us all. Now we are the hunters that will give you no rest. And we will not compromise the freedom of our children.
DEATH TO THE FASCIST INSECT THAT PREYS UPON THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE!
That first distribution. A bucket of blood, as his father might have said. Angry crowds overran the distribution sites; men climbed aboard the trucks to stand in their beds, on their roofs, heaving frozen chickens into the throng. Imagine checking into the hospital with that as your chief complaint. Frozen broiler to the head. Roving gangs robbed recipients of their grocery bags. A Black Muslim bakery overseeing the distribution in Oakland billed the program for $154,000, claiming that it had provided that much of its own food to replace stolen and looted stock. “Volunteers” showed up at the warehouses, offered to drive laden trucks to the distribution centers, and then vanished, trucks, food, and all. Leaving Hank wondering: What do you do with two tons of canned Virginia hams? Security guards hired to protect the warehouses started looting from them as well. Reporters on the evening news took a gleeful interest in unpacking the groceries from random sacks provided by disgruntled recipients (no shortage of these deadbeats), displaying for their viewers weirdly juxtaposed food items: a can of tomato juice, a box of pancake mix, a head of lettuce. A jar of peanut butter, a sack of flour, a box of rice. Crackers, celery, and powdered milk.
“Hard to imagine serving a dinner made from these items to your family.”
He’d spoken long distance to his brother Walt.
“You know what they say, Hank,” Walt said in his light lazy drawl.
“Hmm?”
“Build a man a fire, and he’s warm for one night.” Walt paused, and Hank anticipated a punch line, picturing Walt’s smile.
“Yeah?”
“Set a man on fire, and he’s warm for the rest of his life.”
Lydia had liked that one. It put her in mind of Reagan’s comment, delivered at a Washington luncheon. “It’s just too bad,” the governor had said, “we can’t have an epidemic of botulism.”
He wanted the Aquafilters, to be sure, but it was a joy and a satisfaction to enter the Smoke Shop (Lydia’s bark of a laugh), Isidore at the ancient register in his ridiculous toupee. Long, narrow store, much of the floor space occupied by unsold newspapers, tied and bundled for return. Buzzy fluorescents. Behind the counter hundreds of brands of cigarettes were ranked along the wall, and in display cases there were pipe tobacco blends, cigars, cigar cases, cigar cutters, humidors, tobacco pouches, lighters, cigarette cases, pipes of briar and meerschaum, cigarette holders of ebony, of bone, of tortoiseshell, crystal and alabaster ashtrays, and a small hand-lettered sign:
OWING TO THE POTENTIAL FOR
MISUSE WE NO LONGER CARRY
ROLLING MACHINES OR CIGARETTE
PAPERS. THE MANAGEMENT REGRETS
ANY INCONVENIENCE.
“Get a load of this bullshit,” said Isidore. Hank turned to face him.
“Seriously,” said Isidore, who appeared to be reading a trade magazine of some sort. “Have a look.” He passed the magazine over the register. Of course he’d have a look. He was taking his own advice and filling his days. The Aquafilters, the spiced ham, the stamps, the whatever else was written on that validating piece of paper in his pocket: They could wait another minute.
What Isidore wanted him to look at was a display ad, for “SPIRIT OF ’76” cigarettes. The pack depicted Archibald Willard’s three familiar figures, silhouetted against a red, white, and blue background. Twenty Class “A” Cigarettes. Limited-time availability; participating retailers would receive special countertop displays. He passed the magazine back. This was not something for which he had a witty aperçu at the ready. For some reason this had struck Isidore as being a cut above, even shabbier than, the usual level of gross vulgarity. Or perhaps he thought Hank was class, would respond. Or maybe he was just an old man who ran a smoke shop and thought the Bicentennial, still two years away, was bullshit. Hank was leaning in that direction himself. Bicentennial this and Bicentennial that. Flags and banners all over. All it took was an anniversary to make everybody forget a decade’s worth of troubles. Would that an ailing marriage could be cured that easily.
He felt suddenly woozy and sat inelegantly on one of the stacks of newspapers.
“You OK?”
“I just need some Aquafilters.”
Isidore reached behind him and picked a package off a hook.
“Gotta watch that sun,” he said. “I like to stay inside the store. Nice and cool.”
“Can’t stay inside forever.”
“You could try.”
“Believe me,” said Hank, rising and digging in his pocket for money.
“Buy a Coke,” said Isidore.
“Oh, I don’t need a Coke,” said Hank, “but I do need a magazine.” He moved over to the rack and selected the one Helene wanted.
“Seventeen,” said Isidore, beginning to depress the keys on the old register. “For your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” said Isidore.
Sunwashed walls. Dead time of midday, cars here and there poked askew into the diagonal spots, waves of heat rising from their hoods and ruffling the still air. Hank stood under the shelter of an awning and in the mirror-bright window he saw an old man holding a paper bag. He knew if he lifted his left arm, the old man would lift his right, like something out of the Marx Brothers. Freedonia, Symbionia, one was a comic reflection of the other. If only his daughter had been abducted by Harpo and Chico, to be brought to Groucho’s lecherous burrow. He began to laugh when, casting about for the proper counterpart for the superfluous Zeppo, he settled instinctively upon Stump.