I heard it through the grapevine
Not much longer would you be mine
…
People say, believe half of what you see
Oh, and none of what you hear
—Gladys Knight
Smoke screen in the Moscow hotel room like a great cloud. RG and Panther sitting in that cloud hearing the past and present converge through a wispy grapevine. Everything gets that clarity when sitting in silence. Smoke thickens to a marbleized liquid substance, and the mind wanders into the future.
The dope proposes the inevitable possibility of change. Everything changing. Everything in flux. Moving on. Supposed to change inevitably from this ism to that ism. Are you going to be there for the revolution? Are you going to be there kicking ass with the vanguard?
These are the days when we get the women to love their lumpen. That’s the truth. Panther’s today’s number one lovin’ lumpen. RG could be a fast second. Jail’s a badge of courage. You could be Malcolm in the Charleston State Prison or MLK in the Birmingham Jail. How many women fall in love with those prison letters? Baby, baby. Get her one of those prisoners who dream about her every night. Enough to make her lose her mind. Next thing you know, she’s toting a gun for you. She’s your Mata Hari in a miniskirt with a .22 in her purse. She’s the chorus backup for the revolutionary chanting. How come all of Chinatown’s plastered with Free Huey flyers? She’s tacked up every corner of the Chinese ghetto with his face, but what Chinese can relate to that? Still, you got to appreciate that she loves you more.
She’s working the telephones at the office, waking up early to cook for the breakfast program, distributing the paper, running day care during the morning and a free school in the afternoons, lifting shit and raising money for the programs, doing political study in the evenings and basic training on the weekends. In between, she’s got to be giving you honey, even though you might be getting several honeys. Even though from time to time you lose your mind and put your revolutionary fist in her face. She accepts your weeping apologies because what lumpen can be perfect? Takes time to get your freedom. She’s gonna bear it for you. Gonna prove her mama’s wrong about you. After all, she’s got your babies and another one coming. Producing those power children for the next generation. For the protracted struggle.
But how long’s this gonna last? Dope offers up the future: funk wears off. What else you got to offer? By the time it takes you by surprise, you know she’s found it all out yesterday. Oh, yes.
So while we’re in the purple haze, let’s do some storytelling.
Akagi has himself one righteous woman. It’s those righteous women you gotta hang on to, but it might not be possible after all. Maybe he met her in a more innocent state, but she’s a fast learner. Catches on. Figures out she’s got a place in the scheme of things.
Every night, field marshal takes his ratty briefcase with his personal arsenal out someplace. Leaves her nursing the baby on the home front. She’s taking in the situation, and she knows this can’t be good, in the final analysis. She’s not fooled anymore by all that strutting machismo. She asks, “Where’re you going?” Quips, “Going to kill someone?”
He grumbles like, what’s this woman know about taking care of business? “Tonight we’re packing. That’s all. We’re packing.”
She gives him the eye with the smirk, and he leaves in a huff.
Comes home at night with the same ratty briefcase. She asks like she’s distracted from her knitting, “Killed someone tonight?”
He gives her the look. “We was packing is all. Everyone packing.”
How many nights she’s got to sit home with the baby waiting for the field marshal to return with his ratty briefcase? One night he comes home, finds the door ajar. First time he has to really draw his weapon, kick the door aside, and jump around with his heart in his throat, thinking, what’s the door open for? She’d never leave it open in this neighborhood, not at this time of night, not with what’s been going down. He searches the house, kicking in the doors, checking every room like he’s in enemy territory, snuffing out a sniper. But it’s empty, and she’s gone.
O.K., so much for the future you could predict. What happens next, and over time? Hasn’t happened yet, but you gonna find Akagi renting a room in the I-Hotel with the old Filipino and Chinese bachelors. Nothing strange about that. He’s a bachelor too. He’s like all the other activists down home with the tenants, working for their rights. Even though he’s been purged from the Party, he’s not like others to go wash his hands of everything, reject his beliefs. Where’s he gonna go anyway? Gonna keep working for the people.
Things take their turn, but the mind is always helped by a little dust. Twinkle dust makes you fly. Steps out on the window ledge of his room on the second floor of the I-Hotel. Believes half of what he sees and none of what he hears. Trouble is, which half, and what does he hear? Looks out on the crowd moving slow and incrementally below. Traffic passing easy on Kearny. Across the street, familiar haunts—liquor store, pool hall, café with the gravy on the rice. Honk of cars and honk of old men coughing up yellow phlegm onto the sidewalk. Ukulele tunes waft up from Tino’s Barbershop just below his feet. Muffled sounds from the pool hall—soft clack of the cue balls hitting their mark. Go on, Akagi, take the next step. How much longer would you be mine? Windowsill’s a launching pad. Oooweee! This is it. The yin becoming the yang. Take it to next level.
RG’s got his mind embracing the yin/yang, but he’s gotta admit, “Future looks bleak.”
“You forget one thing.” Panther wags his finger. “Woman warrior.”
All’s said and done, women of the lumpen don’t come away with nothing. Survivors. They catch their licks, but they’re gonna give ’em out too. For the protracted struggle.
Tom: Today’s top story: Twenty-six-year-old Angela Davis, the once political philosopher at UCLA who was fired because of her affiliation with the Communist Party USA, was linked to the Marin County Courthouse shootout earlier this week. . . . We have Lisa Cornwaller in California with Governor Reagan. Lisa. . . . Lisa: Thanks, Tom. Governor Reagan, would you consider Angela Davis dangerous? Reagan: Yes, she is a Communist.
—Channel 45, 6:00 PM News
August 24, 1970