Free Reckless Eyeballing by Ishmael Reed Page B

up to the elevator when the downstairs phone rang, but it stopped ringing and Shank continued. “The Jew hates the Gentile. He thinks that the Gentile is a dog, which explains why the Jews who own the media are always shoving this eye dog food up into his face. If you want to know how much the Jew hates the Gentile, watch the fall preview of TV shows, the movies that come out of Hollywood. He thinks the Gentile drinks too much and is uncivilized.” Ball was relieved when a man dressed in a tweed jacket, brown gabardine pants, and casual shoes entered the lobby. The man’s face was distinguished. He had a prominent nose. What in the old days the fellas would have called a “handsome” woman accompanied him. She was wearing a tweed jacket and conservatively styled British skirt, as well as a Robin Hood hat with a feather.
    â€œHow are you, Randy,” she asked. Randy Shank turned to the couple.
    â€œOh, Mr. and Mrs. Epstein,” he said gushingly, almost falling over himself, “shall I fetch you a taxi?” The woman nodded. With one eye shut she examined Ball. “Aren’t you—yes, you are Ian Ball. I recognized your picture from the newspaper. Congratulations on your new play. Tragic about Jim Minsk,” she said, shaking her head. “He was such a brilliant director.” Randy Shank glanced from Mrs. Epstein to Ian Ball. He was angry. He couldn’t stand it. Rage bristled at his insides.
    â€œHe went south to be the guest of some college. We can’t even locate the college to find out what happened. We’re going ahead anyway. You know, the show must go on. They’ve brought in Tremonisha Smarts to take his place,” Ball said.
    â€œTremendous talent. Tremendous talent,” Mr. Epstein said. “There’s that one scene…” He trailed off and returned to sleeping on his feet.
    â€œWell, good luck on your play,” Mrs. Epstein said, smiling as she followed Shank outside. As the elevator shut behind him, Ball could hear Shank’s whistle.
    The door was open, but he knocked anyway. He heard Tremonisha’s voice, “Come in.” He walked into the apartment. Tremonisha was on the phone, pacing up and down, while puffing from the cigarette. She beckoned him to sit in a chair. He sat down. The ambience of the apartment indicated that she was in the upper range of the income distribution. He recognized some paintings and prints by some of the leading black Lower East Side painters. “You could have told me, you still could have told me,” she said to the person on the other end. She was wearing some kind of designer pants with large pockets, a blue blouse. She wore a blue kerchief on her head. She was jangling as usual. Bracelets on her wrists and ankles. “Shit on that, you still could have said something about it before I read it in the papers. And what’s this about my acting surly? You said that about me. You know you did. Gal, I’m not your fucking gal, don’t give me that gal shit.” She hung up. She folded her arms and looked at him. “Men,” she said. He was embarrassed. He glanced toward the table. The New York Pillar, ’MONISHA THROWS TANTRUM . A reporter was quoting Towers Bradhurst, producer of the movie version of Wrong-Headed Man , as saying that when Tremonisha Smarts, the black playwright, was told that a white male screenwriter had been hired to “doctor” her screenplay for the movie, Ms. Smarts began throwing ashtrays and furniture in the producer’s office and when she finished the place looked as though the Oakland Raiders had had a training session in there.
    â€œIs anything wrong?”
    â€œIs anything wrong, the nigger says,” she mumbles. “No, everything is just wonderful,” she said, her voice coated with sarcasm. “I need a drink.” She went to the cabinet and removed a bottle of whiskey. She poured herself a large glass. She