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Isaiah Jones vs the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey)

The Last Rites of Penelope Stockard Bedowitz: Taps

September 10th, 2029, Santa Monica Pier, California

When The Man Comes Around’

“And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, and I looked, and behold: a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death. And Hell followed with him.”

—Johnny Cash

The old marine snapped to attention as they lowered the flag, and retired Master Gunnery Sergeant Hector Leonardo Jones—Isaiah’s grandfather—stood on the pier next to the ship while he played “Taps.” Onboard the ship, other retired servicemen—Army, Navy, Air Force men and women of every race—stood in their dress uniforms, folding the flag that had flown over her coffin. They presented the flag with a solemn salute to Isaiah Jones, who returned the salute, then handed the neatly folded red, white, and blue triangle of fabric to the grieving parents of his best friend.

The uniformed old-timers were Hector’s neighbors who lived on their boats at the marina in Long Beach. The retirees remembered Penny fondly as the tall blonde girl with the smiling blue eyes on the motorcycle, who lived on the boat with his grandson’s girlfriend and gave Aeon rides to campus each morning, bringing her home each night after she finished studying. They liked her for her cheerful greetings and her habit of bringing a bottle of tequila when she joined them as they sat on their boat’s decks, talking trash, playing cards, and dominoes while they drank late into the evening.

The aged boomers were proud to call the brash, towering blonde punk rock biker friend. They admired how she defended the warlord Isaiah Jones’s actions during the civil war in the New African Continental Alliance five years ago. As veterans themselves, they took particular offense to those who refused to serve and then had the audacity to cast judgment on those who had the courage to fight for their freedom. Every one of them had taken a liking to the lanky, tattooed, pink-and-purple-pigtail-wearing party-animal of a lawyer who treated the old warriors with kindness and respect.

The Jones family’s old catamaran, the SS Wagadu, had just been refitted and overhauled. Kennedy and Helena were about to sell her before Penny died; Hector called a meeting with his neighbors and got the old vets to form her honor guard, even though she was a civilian. They all knew she was one of their own in spirit, a warrior. The old men and women donned their dress whites and dress blues and assembled on the Santa Monica pier. They dressed her body in her nautical whites, as was the Jones family’s custom on the first and last day of the sailing season.

They placed her casket mid-deck aboard the ship, soaked it in diesel fuel and liquid detergent, turned homemade napalm, then raised her sails and sent her sailing off to the west into the sea. Once the ship reached deep water, Hector and her makeshift honor guard gave her a 21-gun salute. Sybil fired the flaming arrow that arched across the darkening sky, igniting the catamaran. Isaiah took a knee and bowed his head in silent vigil. Aeon, Sybil, and all the rest followed his example and knelt as well as people watching on their TV and computer screens at home across the globe, all knelt with them.

Hundreds of thousands attended the seaside service in solidarity with Isaiah Jones. They had come to admire the woman who could hold her own when being interviewed by hostile reporters or in dockside brawls in Kingston. They watched the videos she posted documenting her life as crew aboard her friend Isaiah’s sloop, the Exodus. At first, they were curious; many were already enamored by the young engineer who revolutionized the world when he delivered the first general AI Mother to the leaders of the African continent to manage the new African Union’s economy and nationalized resources.

They followed the adventures of the young mathematician turned warlord during the civil wars that erupted a year later and the rare videos that appeared over the next 7 years of the now-bearded young Captain Jones, taken by random persons who happened to see him docked in anonymous ports across the South Pacific, China coast the Sea of Japan or the Caribbean. Then, 2 months ago, Penelope Bedowitz’s blog became a gateway for his millions of followers into the private life of her reclusive solo sailing friend. Millions watched and laughed with her as she learned to tie various knots; she was up to her 5th, her lack of competence at sea making her relatable to viewers who, like her, knew little about life aboard a sailing vessel.

They sailed along with her, Aeon, Sybil, Isaiah, and their first mate, the midnight colored Cane Corso Penny named Mau Mau, from Galveston to Cancun to Havana, sharing her misadventures in Kingstown, where she became notorious as “One Punch Girl” after a brawl at the docks in Jamaica. They watched as the Western media twisted the story of her fight in self-defense to make her a villain due to her friendship with Isaiah Jones. They learned of her time in juvenile prison and a mental institution as a teenager. Her fans loved her even more, knowing that the girl who grew up in Beverly Hills had been imprisoned unfairly—a reality familiar to many in the crowd, who were mostly poor and working-class people of color, many of whom had either run afoul of the law themselves or had relatives or friends incarcerated or on probation or parole.

The nation’s backdoor slavery operation—the loophole of the prison industrial complex—continued to grow as the for-profit prison system expanded. They were all in shock when the police attempted to arrest her after one of the men in the fight died. Rather than spend another day in a cage, she leapt from the roof of the Wilshire Grand Hotel, plummeting 73 stories to her death as the police closed in. Her final words were,

“I will not be put in a cage again.”

The entire scene was televised live by the accompanying news reporters in their helicopters.

Today, they like Isaiah wore their hair in cornrows and dressed in white. Whether he knew it or not, Isaiah already had legions, and they were born ready for this fight.

The war wouldn’t start for three more years, but they were already counting their dead.

“I know Penny would not want us to sing sad songs in her memory, so I will sing a song of joy, not sorrow.” As his clear baritone rang out over the darkening sky, the flames swirled up and around the mainsail of the funeral ship, a scarlet-hued tornado of fire. The others joined in as they sang goodbye to their friend. Isaiah Jones stood at the end of the Santa Monica Pier, singing to the funeral pyre. He did not know that across the city of Los Angeles, they numbered in the hundreds of thousands, mourning with him that night.

Across the nation, millions, across the globe, tens of millions mourned alongside them. Her death would become a rallying cry. They were black, brown, red, yellow, and white—all wore their hair like his in cornrows and dressed in all-white muslin linen. The news reports showed the same sight around the globe as millions dressed for the voyage said goodbye.

They had seen the brash young lawyer for the Emperor Jones in her recent interviews on MSNBC, CNN, and NPR, where her blog post interviewing the reclusive Isaiah Jones went viral after she shared an informal interview with her old friend, who had all but disappeared after the two civil wars ended in the first two years of the formation of the new AUA, the African United Alliance.

Eulogy:

The first thing she said when she walked up to me, sitting on the bench looking at the campus map, was, “You look lost, kid. What can I do to help?” Penelope was the first person to befriend me on my first day of college when I was 13. She was a junior majoring in law. She ditched the rest of her classes that day after we had lunch, leading me around campus on our skateboards. The 6-foot-tall blonde Californian stood out on the SMU campus; she recognized me because I looked just like my dad, and she had already failed his calculus class last semester.

A nervous laughter came from those gathered at the pier as he stood next to Aeon, Sybil, with her dog Mau Mau now at his side. I was only 13, and I was already 6 feet tall, too. She acted as my campus sherpa, guiding me for the rest of the day. That is how she moved through the world—she always asked, “What can I do to help?” I believe it was her philosophy of life.

We became best friends right away. My family and friends jokingly referred to her as our au pair when she joined us on our family vacations for the next two years as we sailed this catamaran around the Caribbean, living on anchor for months until the season ended and it was time to return to the States.

We always vacationed with my fiancée’s family, the Zavalas; Alexander and his wife, Barbera, were like my aunt and uncle. They lived next door and joined us with my fiancée, Aeon, each year, sailing the Caribbean islands. It was the custom for our families to begin each summer dressed in nautical whites on the first day, singing the same song as we did at the end of the season when we returned home again. All dressed in white, we sang the same song, but it somehow felt different now—we had come to the end of our journey for the season.

Penny was more than just a friend; she was a true ally in every sense of the word. Today, we say goodbye to a fighter for justice, a protector of the weak, a defender of the innocent. She always asked, “What can I do to help?” A woman who chose to do something with her life that mattered, something that gave it meaning, to serve a purpose greater than herself in seeking justice for others as her vocation—she found her true calling.

Every day when you wake up, do as our sister here did, and ask yourself, “What can I do to help?” Applause ran through the crowd; some, in the throng of people gathered, shouted, “PREACH!” in response to the “yes, Lords” and “Amens.”

He paused before he continued, ignoring the tears. “So, we dress our fallen sister in her dress whites for this, the end and the beginning of the final season on the waves. May the breath of God fill your sails, guiding you on your journey to the next world and beyond.”

We sing tonight for you, sister, to the end of your journey until we see you in the next world.” Although the young engineer, the Emperor Jones, did not yet realize it, he already had millions standing by him across the globe. In the centuries to come, when scholars teach the children of this day, they will say that this is the moment the world came to see the boy king bury a friend, but in doing so, he raised an army. The news would show the funeral footage, the chorus of the song sung all over the world. With Aeon and Sybil by his side as they sang, the crowd gathered, and all joined in. His voice shook with grief but did not break as his baritone rang out across the pier.

“When the night has come

And the land is dark,

And the moon is the only light we’ll see,

No, I won’t be afraid, oh, I won’t be afraid

Just as long as you stand, stand by me.”

-Fini

Chorus:

So darlin’, darlin’,

Stand by me, oh, stand by me.

Oh, stand, stand by me, stand by me.

Verse 2:

If the sky that we look upon

Should tumble and fall

Or the mountains should crumble to the sea,

I won’t cry, I won’t cry, no I won’t shed a tear

Just as long as you stand, stand by me.

Chorus:

And darlin’, darlin’, stand by me, oh stand by me.

Oh, stand now, stand by me, stand by me.

[Instrumental section]

Extended Chorus:

And, darlin’, darlin’, stand by me, oh stand by me.

Oh, stand now, stand by me, stand by me.

Whenever you’re in trouble won’t you stand by me, oh

now stand by me, stand by me, stand by me,

stand by me.

Stand by Me

-Ben E. King

Epilogue: The Griot of Ghana: The Betzalel Speaks

January 1st, 2122, Port Garvey, Ghana

Capital of the AUA’s African United Alliance

The stateroom of the SS Hemisphere. Accra Bay/ Ghana

The old man is 116 years old, the aged griot’s signature cornrows now silver with years over the ever-emerald eyes as he looks into the green eyes of the 5-year-old girl with her afro puffs and white linen dress as he finishes the story. Ocie asked through her tears.

“Is that why Momma’s name is Penny?”

“Yes, Isaiah said with a wistful smile, your grandmother named your mother after her best friend Penelope Stockard Bedowitz -Esquire.”

“So, Nana Stockard was named after a girl?”

“Come on, you two, Penny -the middle-aged woman in white muslin linen sundress, her hair in cornrows like her father said, with a grin as she entered the century-old catamaran’s stateroom. You can continue to train our little griot tomorrow, for now, you both need to come to dinner; it’s the 100th anniversary of your voyage from Galveston to Ghana, Nana, everyone else is already on deck waiting.

And yes, my twin brother has her middle name as his first name. Penelope Agyemang stood in front of the hatch, grinning at the two griots.

“Do you miss her, Nana? Ocie asked the century-old sailor.”

Isaiah looked at his great-great-great-granddaughter and smiled. ‘Yes, very much, like a severed limb, he said glancing down at his prosthetic leg, but we honor her by remembering who she was, that is the essence of Sankofa to remember is to look back with the mind and in telling the story of how she lived her life, we keep what is important across time, she always quoted her favorite poet Charles Bukowski. Whenever times got tough, and the world went crazy, she would look at us and smile and say,”

“What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”

-Fini

[-about the author JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, TX.]