eZine

4th Ward, Atlanta:
First Panel - Sunday Gathering
by Louis Delsarte
5' x 7', acrylic on canvas
© 2003, Fulton County Mural Commission

Fiction

Ken McManus

Blackout

“Niggers will never do it.”

Reverend Raymond J. Cobb, resplendent in three-piece suit with a large gold pendant necklace stapling his tie to his chest, tossed the epithet across the expanse of the church basement. Reverend Cobb, S-curled and pompadour-ed as ever, was not being cagey or smooth or using parables as he often did in public forums requiring more diplomacy. This was the Reverend Cobb, uncut. Cobb had a schedule to keep and this meeting was a waste of his time. However, rather than dismissing the gathering as yet another encroachment on his busy itinerary, he found himself unnerved, rattled by the discussion taking place.

There was an assortment of community leaders in the room with Cobb: pastors, politicians, activists, along with media representatives who had been summoned for the purpose of expediting the message. In terms of name recognition, Cobb was in the front of the pack, joined by one or two others in the room also on the cusp of national recognition and influence. The biggest bopper of them all, however, was John Jacobs, seated at Cobb’s right, chewing on a tobacco pipe stem. John Jacobs, a strange bird—lawyer, businessman, activist, painter, and erstwhile owner of seven radio stations across the country. “Erstwhile,” because Jacobs had recently sold all interest in all of his stations. That fact alone was what got Cobb to change his schedule and make this meeting. Jacobs was astute, deliberate, patient in his business dealings; the fact that he had dumped his stations at break-even prices was shocking to Cobb.

“Rev, all this shucking and jiving is about to end. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

“Jake, this stuff you’re talking about makes no sense. Entertainers, athletes, just shutting down and doing nothing…for a week?! You’ve gotta be kidding.” Cobb was knocked flat when he arrived and was told, off-line, what the planned “boycott” was about. “Not to sound old-timey, but you know these white folks ain’t gonna stand for it.”

“Got nothin’ to do with white folks, Raymond.” John Jacobs—a man always able to negotiate the racial, economic and social divides of North America without, seemingly, losing esteem in any quarters-talking like this? Jacobs had always been one to think of his mind as the equalizer, white folks just like any players in the game, their money as welcome in his coffers as anyone else’s. And here, suddenly, was Jacobs coming on like The Leader. Cobb stared at the impassive Jacobs, who sat carefully chewing that pipe, eyes straight ahead.

“Humph, eh—question: why should brown folks, as far behind the eight-ball, pardon the pun, as they are, take deliberate action to de-de-de-stroy careers they’ve worked so hard to build?” This was Archibald Steamer chiming in. Tall, tan, bow-tied, impeccably dressed—the only brown person Cobb knew to whom he could apply the moniker, “patrician.” “Money is the currency of respect in this culture!, “ Steamer hissed. “The sooner these dumb bunnies learn to stop singing, ‘Kumbaya,’ hands held out waiting to be saved, the sooner brown people will gain the respect they deserve in this land. All this talk is so much hogwash.” Steamer had been a useful pawn in the Coalition’s right-wing campaign to curtail all social programs for the poor. Once the Coalition came to power, however, Steamer was consigned to writing newspaper columns again, his highly telegenic spiel—downing the poor as lazy, irresponsible leeches, coding said poor as people of color—no longer needed. Since his fall from Coalition grace, he had worked to temper his acid tongue, but he couldn’t help himself during a discussion like this. “Boycotts are passé, my friends, as well as counter-productive; it is time for these mothers’ sons to roll up their sleeves and get to work.”

Jacobs raised an eyebrow at Steamer, said nothing. Father Jean-Phillipe Baptiste stared sideways at Steamer, but then added: “Although I don’t agree with Mister Steamer’s choice of words, one must concede that, in this day and age, economic concerns are of paramount importance to our communities. As you all know,” Father Baptiste continued, a sardonic smile working its way across his mouth, “all things Haitian are now ‘in’ in the entertainment industry: music here, films made on the island. After so many years of being marginalized here, our community is just now enjoying some return on all that it has contributed to this country. All this to say-I’m not sure that our community could withstand the possible economic backlash such a strike could foment.” Father Baptiste paused after his speech, licking his lips once. No one replied, but most knew what Baptiste wasn’t saying. He wasn’t mentioning the daily deportations of Haitians to Port Au Prince. Nor did he mention the “containment” camps in the countryside of the island where “undesirables” were kept or the fact that Haiti was a particularly popular locale for filming apocalyptic action movies because of its scarred landscape, dilapidated infrastructure, and plethora of starving, desperate “extras” to serve as backdrop. He didn’t mention the free hand afforded North American filmmakers who filmed on the island—proffered everything from tax shelters to the purest cocaine to sexual access to the boys and girls of the island. Meanwhile, Haitian artists here had indeed usurped native-born browns as the purveyors of hip-hop culture. Haitian rappers parlayed an intoxicating religious mysticism and a raw façade of violence into millions of sales to white consumers. Creole patois behind West African drum beats, video footage-staged and otherwise—of voodoo rituals, and Haitian hip-hoppers’ particular affinity for throwing lighted gasoline-soaked tires over the heads of rivals in videos: white audiences couldn’t get enough of the menacing presence from the Caribbean. Father Baptiste said none of these things, but the pregnant pause after he finished speaking filled the gaps.

“You folks don’t seem to understand—this is not a question of policy or an approach. It is going to happen, whether we plan to cooperate or not.” Jacobs spoke calmly, evidenced no need to persuade or cajole with his words. “My source is right here.”

“Brother Jacobs, could you please have your source, then, outline what this is all about?” This was Fulgencio Orejas speaking, a representative of the last Spanish-speaking enclave in the city with any semblance of influence—the Puerto Ricans.

The Coalition had moved fast as soon as Puerto Rico’s citizens confirmed a vote for statehood status, establishing “English only” laws for schools and businesses, retroactively garnishing federal taxes from all inhabitants of the island, implementing strict controls on island-mainland movement, and unleashing all the attendant horrors of “assimilation” against Puerto Rican cultural institutions. Puerto Rico had been asked whether it wanted to be included under the full umbrella of statehood and, upon saying, “yes” had been made to pay dearly. Orejas’ appearance was deceptive: funky Afro, t-shirt, and beads, in contrast to the buttoned-down look of the others in the room. But a cat from that community still swimming couldn’t be played cheap; Orejas was smart, tough and always on-the-move.

“Imani…”

Out of a far corner of the room stepped a young, brown-skinned man . He was short, but his slimness, shaved head, and gold wire-rimmed spectacles made him appear taller than he was. He wore a simple black pullover sweater outside his well-washed blue jeans. He wore headphones around his neck and carried a wallet-sized music disc player in his right hand. He smiled as he moved toward the big table.

“Jake, what is this?” asked Cobb. The men in the room were sitting up, readjusting clothes, looking at one another.

“Well, gentlemen..” Imani began. “Two weeks from now, all outlets for black sources of entertainment will automatically shut down. This means all black-owned radio, Internet sites and satellite television stations. In addition, all media which are driven primarily by black entertainers and athletes will shut down—all of the white-owned satellite networks, internet and radio networks that disseminate sports and entertainment, with the possible exception of the Country Network and Great White North BC. Satellites, fiber-optic lines, and LAN systems for these stations will shut down. No sports, no music, no comedy, no entertainment of any kind from minority-owned or driven markets . The shut-down will last for one week.”

“Is this some type of act of sabotage? One of these militant group of coloreds trying to make a statement?,” asked Steamer, thinking about the horror of unpatriotic Negroes setting the race back with their shenanigans.

“No. This isn’t an action controlled by any group. Broadcast equipment will just stop working. As will all the audio-visual equipment in concert halls, sports stadiums…”

“Stadi-a,” Steamer interjected, spitting the correction out with as much venom as he could muster.

“Who’s gonna pull this off? Son, you’re talking about shutting down a multi-billion dollar industry in this country. There’d be bedlam if this lasted a day, much less a week,” said Cobb.

“Young man, who is engineering this boycott?,” asked Reverend Baptiste. An Amen Corner of voices seconded Baptiste’s request.

“Is this Lost Tribe? Or international—some suicidal jihad being engineered against the West by Muhaldeen Arabeq?,” queried Steamer.

“Who’s doing this? Who’s behind it?” Voices from the shadows, muffled, tumbling over one another.

Imani looked at his boss. Jacobs looked back at him, finally said, “Tell ‘em.”

The young man proffered the disk player. His voice, already soft, was even quieter, almost apologetic. “I heard it here.” He held out the disk player.

“Aw, hellll no….!” An uproar from the attendees, chairs skidding back roughly, one person coughing and almost gagging.

“What is that?,” exclaimed someone, as though the disk player were an explosive device.

“This is a mini-disc of Marvin Gaye’s ‘What’s Going On?’ album. I dabble in electronics play around with stuff like this. Anyway, I was goofing around with this disc player and I got it to run backwards. When I played the Gaye disc, I heard a voice—a speaking voice—and a message. It—he—told me everything about the shutdown: the dates, how long, everything.”

Everyone was silent. Orejas finally piped up. “What track?,” he asked.

“Hunh??,” went half the room.

“Which track contained the message?”

Imani fairly beamed. “’Inner City Blues’.”

Orejas smiled, nodded. “Appropriate.”

A vein was standing out in Steamer’s forehead. “Young fellow, you would have us believe that a message was disseminated to you via mini-disc telling us all ‘Beware! Repent! The end is near’?” Steamer was in a lather. “Young fellow, why, may I ask, were you ‘The Chosen One’, descended from the mount to bring us the message from the burning bush? I would be intrigued to know.”

“I think other people know,” was Imani’s simple reply. He continued with his explanation. “When the record came out in 1971, it was issued on vinyl, 33 RPM.

Then, of course, it was reissued on compact disc. However, the mini-disc technology captures a much more sophisticated range and quality of sound.” Imani was smiling now, warming to the subject. “So even if you had played the record backwards on vinyl in the 70’s or on compact disc in the ‘90’s, you wouldn’t have heard the message. But on mini-disc, you get a range of sound that the vinyl and compact disc couldn’t provide.

The message is there for us to hear now.”

“So, kinda like a time-release message by Brotha Marvin, hunh?,” said Orejas.

“That’s right. But it could only be heard once the technology was available to decipher it. Kind of like military cryptology, you see.”

“Oh, I see!” said Steamer, smirking.

“Let me get this straight,” said Reverend Cobb. “ Top-shelf, sophisticated electronic equipment will stop working just because some mystical force wants to get brown folks’ attention? ”

“No sir. Well, I mean, yes sir. Nothing will work. It’s going to happen. For one week”

“This doesn’t make sense. Forget about the big corporations; what about our businesses? Our community would absorb the type of economic hit…” Cobb paused, frustrated, then asked, “How is this helping us? What are we supposed to do?”

“Well, Reverend Cobb, the message talks about that, too.”

Quiet in the room, waiting. Cobb had his handkerchief out. He sighed deeply and said, “Imani, do tell.”

“Well, the message says ‘It is imperative that our people use this time to reflect, readjust our vision, and dedicate ourselves to self-improvement’..”

“…And this means…?” Cobb asked.

“We’re supposed to meditate. Turn towards the East…and meditate for a week. Those who are willing and able should fast. For one week.”

“Looorrd, haaaave mer-cy,” someone said.

Orejas let out a low whistle.

“I’ll be damned,” said the Reverend.

A representative from the governor’s office, sitting deep in a corner, essentially broke up the meeting by saying, “Gentlemen, that’s all I need,” and walking out.

Folks began to stand up, brush off pants, all the while eyeing young Imani. He didn’t seem out-and-out delusional —this is what bothered them all. Just a young, pleasant, healthy-looking brown man telling them that cutting-edge electronic technology was about to be rendered useless, all at the behest of a long-dead R&B singer.

“Why the hell you call us here?” one of the older heads shouted at John Jacobs. However, Imani fielded the question.

“Well, we wanted you gentlemen, our leaders, to start getting the message out. Prepare people and let them know what’s going to happen. And perhaps, get some of our prominent entertainers and athletes to support this initiative—since they aren’t going to be working anyway.” Imani’s aside was said seemingly without guile or sarcasm.

Cobb walked in close to Jacobs and Imani, talked in a low, husky whisper. “Jake, have you lost your natural mind? Calling us in here and preachin’ this stuff to us. We got police problems, unemployment problems, hunger problems, real problems…and you talkin’ to us about this shit?” Cobb mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He looked around. “You know Marshall’s boy is running back home right now, gonna paint this as a bunch of Nat Turner wanna-bes getting ready to tear up the city. And you’re telling us to sit here and listen to ‘Lil’ Gandhi’ talk about ‘reflection’ and ‘meditation’? Jake, you’re going to get people killed.”

“Rev, I’m telling you I got nothing to do with this. Neither do treacherous punks like Marshall who barter their people for fool’s gold. I sold my stations because the one week doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. If this is happening, in my lifetime, it can happen for longer than a week. We don’t have to ‘cut capers’ any more. I’m cutting bait from the whole stinking business.”

Cobb looked at Jacobs, backed away, and gathered up his things. “Jake, I’ll talk to you later. I gotta run.” He muscled into his raincoat and walked up the stairs.

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