From “The Book of Changes” —Beast gets his first taste of Right Wing dogma
A hundred men and women in evening dress—tuxedoes and gowns and flashy shoes and bands of stone around picture book necks and rings the size of meteors.
I was the only Nehru jacket in the room. I felt weird, sort of tilting to one side, unbalanced the way you feel if you have a pocket full of rocks. I sat at a corner seat beside a women in a red dress carrying a highball glass. Her perfume, expensive, her cigarettes, Virginia tobacco. She kept her weeds in a gold cigarette case with a built in lighter that she toyed with when she wasn’t hitting the highball. In the ashtray in front of her a long silver holder smoldered with a cork-tip cigarette.
The table. A long banquet table loaded with silver and glass and roses. Dozens of red roses.
At the head of the table there were two chairs side by side with high carved wooden backs.
Tim sat at one. A prince sat at the other. A prince with white hair and pale pink skin and a narrow, cruel mouth that clamped cigarettes between thin lips.
Dinner was tournedos of beef, red potatoes roasted in garlic, green beans served by half a dozen waiters in black suits and black shoes. Dessert was chocolate mousse. And the liquor was brandy.
Coffee came in small porcelain cups. The coffee was rich and dark. I sweetened mine with three spoons of sugar. The woman beside me crushed her fifteenth cigarette and looked at me when my spoon clinked. Then she filled her brandy glass and shot it back like it was whiskey. Good brandy. Napoleon Brandy.
The prince stood. Holding his cigarette in one hand and a bell in the other, he rang four times, conversation stopped. He spoke,
“We have five problems in America—godlessness, Negros, Jews, Hippies, and the communist threat to the free-enterprise system. It is growing late, ladies and gentlemen and we’re running out of time. Do we have enough time? How long before all our blood becomes mixed with African blood and the white race disappears in a pool of mud? Do we have enough time? How long before the Jews, who control the tax crazy fools in Washington, control the rest of the world? Do we have enough time? Can we restore moral fiber to our young people? Can we restore faith and confidence in the free enterprise system before our women are corrupted and our children are half-breeds and idiots?”
The woman beside me sniffled. She shoved another cigarette into the silver holder, lit it, snapped the lighter closed. She whispered,
“He’s a lying hypocrite.”
She exhaled in my direction. I looked at her through the smoke. Her diamond choker glittered.
“We are God’s chosen people,” the prince said. “And America is God’s chosen land. God made our country great, and God will put us back on track to greatness. God has revealed himself to us in these latter days. The mystery of God presents itself in the form of these United States of America.”
I leaned closer to the woman in red who filled her glass again. She rubbed her shoulder against mine.
“Why is he a hypocrite?” I said.
“He has his cake and he eats it too,” she said.
“That makes him a hypocrite?”
“When a great nation stumbles,” the prince said, “in its god given course, as we are stumbling now, we can expect the vultures to swoop down. And the vultures are swooping down. The great communist sympathizers in Washington DC are selling us more corruption per day than at any time in history while their lackeys on the Supreme Court continue to defile the Constitution with their negrofied interpretations of the Truth. There is rot in the Capital, gentlemen, rot that can be excised only by the most forceful of surgical procedures—a radical reordering of our national priorities before it is too late. We are here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, to provide the intellectual and moral leadership this country needs. First steps. My friends. First steps.”
The woman in red rested her left hand on my thigh.
“Every woman in this room has gone down on him,” she said.
“Every woman, is that right?” I said.
She squeezed my leg and I got a boner. I reached for my coffee cup. It chattered at me. The woman slid her hand between my legs. I spilled the coffee. She pulled her hand away, wiped her hand on the napkin, and raised her brandy glass. I looked at the speaker.
“He’s screwing his daughters,” she said. “Both of them.”
“How do you know that?” I said.
“See the one beside the Golden Boy?”
“That’s right. She’s one of his daughters.”
“Rebecca is his daughter?” I said.
“The man’s insatiable.”
I looked at her. She smiled at me and nodded. She sniffed her brandy and giggled.
“I’m married to the son of a bitch,” she said.
“You’re not her mother,” I said.
“I’m wife number four.”
“That’s criminal,” I said.
“Why? Doesn’t everybody do it?” She sneered.
The prince paused. And then, voice thick as a Bay Area fog, he said:
“Ladies and gentlemen. Here is the future. Allow me to introduce this year’s Schiffman Fellow.”
Tim stood. It was like a movie—a ring of light shone from a special spot in the ceiling. His black hair sparked silver. His tuxedo looked fresh and sharp. He started to speak. It wasn’t a speech I’d heard before and it couldn’t be Tim talking that way. I had to be someone who looked like him.
“The races are meant to be separate,” he said. “The white man lives on the brink of extinction. We are lemmings being led to the cliff by the liberal media, the pink think in our Capital….”
The look on Tim’s face scared me. In the halo of light, the shadows under his eyes made him look dark and fearsome. His voice rang clear. At each pause, the men in tuxes and the women in diamonds clapped. The deeper he got into his speech, the sicker I became until I felt the tournedos of beef and the chocolate mousse fighting back. I sipped some water. Even the water tasted bad.
At the end they gave Tim a standing ovation. He took the waves and the accolades and he grew tall and then, Rebecca on his arm, he waded through the hand shakers and the polish and the silk. He looked like he belonged there.
I checked my watch. It was 10:30 PM. I wandered back into the foyer, waited for a bit, then went outside and climbed on my K-Model. I felt sick. The cool night air slipping over my skin took away some of the nausea, but at every stop light, I wanted to vomit.