An Early Lunch

It had been gray for days outside, and there was an oppressive chill in the air. It was too warm to snow, and in some ways that made the days before the coming solstice even grimmer for snow would have at least reflected some light onto the surroundings. It was as though the sun herself was reluctant to come out, and was taking an entire month off from work.

It was 7:45am, and yet  many cars zipped along the Grand Concourse with their headlights on. Dozens of sleepy people trudged to work, some in uniform, some more casually, a few in suits. The gas station billboard thermometer flashed -1 degrees celsius, and a strong wind from the river blew trash in every direction. 

Paul walked with exhilarated steps, checking the time on his phone as we went. His interview at _________ public high school was at 8am, sharp, and he wanted to make sure that he was on time. In his mind he reviewed the answers that might be asked of him.

Why was he leaving his current gig at  ________ Academy? Because, while he had gained a lot from the school, he thought that there was an element of social justice missing from it's mission.

What expertise did he bring to the position?

Well, in addition to his work at the before mentioned ________ Academy, he had also served as the director of diversity at Camp Olson, a camp for boys in New Hampshire. Under his direction, the camp had developed a fund such that underprivileged kids of color would get the chance to enjoy the fresh air and outdoors away from the city. 

What were some of his weaknesses?

One of his greatest strengths was that he had very high standards for his students. Still though, he recognized that sometimes it meant that he did not set real enough expectations, and that he was more reticent to praise students then he should. Identifying the strengths and weaknesses of students as INDIVIDUALS, would make him a great candidate.

Paul was particularly fond of his preparation for this point. He felt that, like a politician, he would not quite answer what was asked, but rather what he wanted to answer. He arrived at ________ public school at  7:55, and was surprised that there was a line out of door. He had been given to understand that he would be arriving before school started, but could see that he was quite mistaken. He joined the cue, that was very slowly entering the building, all the while nervously glancing at his watch. 

The school's massive structure, formed from an old public housing building that had been remodeled to host 4 schools, looked badly in need of a coating of paint.  The bleak building stood in stark contrast to the architecture of the beautiful, if somewhat carelessly kept,  brownstones that hearkened back to the days when the neighborhood had belonged to upper middle class white families of the late 19th century. Outside of the building was a small tuft of grass that almost mocked the singular urban scape. 

"Mister? Mister!" called a police officer, beckoning toward Paul as his part of the cue edged closer to the bottleneck at the door. Several of the students regailed him with indignant "YO!" and "Damn, man!" as he pushed his way into the building.

"I'm here to see-"

"Principal Tanner," interrupted the policeman, "yes I know. Please remove all metal on your person. That's coins, keys, jewelry, belt, whatever."

In Paul's rush to get into the school, he hadn't at all considered why it was that there had been such traffic. Now, however, he could see that at the entrance of the school were two imposing machines. All bags were screened and each person was patted down. Paul could see that the process was wildly inefficient and he wondered how the school ever started on time.

secretary “The office is down the hall, on the left," the officer said after giving Paul an aggressive look over and pat down.

Paul observed his surroundings. The walls, which had presumably been white at some juncture were a shade of grey that screamed neglect. The building smelled like stale cigarette smoke, moldy deterioration, and raw body odor. All around were posters featuring bromides like “There's no 'I' in 'team' and “If you believe, you will succeed," and an ancient picture of Martin Luther King hung next to the men's bathroom near the office.

 Paul confidently addressed the secretary and was told that the principal was “ dealing with an issue," and that “ she will be right with you." He was directed to sit on a crusty beige couch that Paul was sure his grandmother could have owned and he tapped his foot in nervous anticipation.

 Two hours later, Miranda Tanner strutted into the office, with a look that said “I'm the shit." Her grey suit perfectly accentuated her curvey body, and Paul wondered if she wore a girdle. After sharing a laugh with the secretary (Paul could not understand the joke as they spoke Spanish), she turned to the young man, and beckoned for him.

Paul followed the principal into her office unsure if he should comment on her egregious tardiness. What if he had had to get to another appointment? What had the principal to take care of that had allowed her to completely disregard their meeting. “Thank you for coming Mr. Langdon, we've a lot to discuss," Principal Tanner said obliquely.

 Paul could see that the woman had no intention of apologizing. Her brazen disrespect was disarming and he found himself stuttering through the questions she asked about his experience and background. Midway through talking about his work at_____________ Academy, the principal yawned and held up her hand.

 “Mr. Langdon, that's all well and good. Working here, though, requires a more, how should I say, DYNAMIC, skill set. Tell me, if a student enters your classroom, openly curses you out, and then refuses to leave when you kick him out of the class, what do you do?"

 She eyed him with a look of superiority that almost made Paul lose it. He knew before answering that anything he said would be “wrong,” and realized that this wasn't so much an interview as it was an exercise in emasculation. This dragon was having herself an early lunch.

 As he left the building 20 minutes later, he felt a bit outside of himself. He wondered if all black men were treated this way by the principal, or just those with potential. Either way, he didn't want to work at the jail anyway.

Sambo and Pokey Part II

Sambo settled into the scalar patterns of his practice routine, when he heard pounding at his door.

“What do you want,"Sambo called rudely.

He did not have a good relationship with anybody in the building. This was in large part due to the fact that he often hogged the elevator, a huge makeshift space that stopped right outside his apartment.

“Nigga, open this door before I burn this whole building down," growled a voice in the hallway.

Sambo rolled his eyes as he sauntered from his piano and unlocked the huge lime green door to his apartment. Gregory Chasten, the trio bass player stood with his arms crossed. He was a hulking figure, 6 foot 5, 320 pounds of pure muscle. He had played two years in the NFL before a head injury had sidelined him but he continued to aggressively work out. He was a man of surpassing intelligence who, after only a year of playing the bass, had mastered it.

“You gonna invite me in?" the big man asked.  Sambo shrugged his shoulders, and let his friend pass. Gregory went to the piano, and took a seat on the bench. His position was an unconscious play at power.

“Pokey sent you over here, huh,?" Sambo inquired dully, looking about his own apartment uncomfortably. He desperately wanted to tell the big man to move the fuck off his piano but he knew this would be a very foolish thing to do. Gregory lived in an apartment in one of the old style brownstones on 138th and Cortlandt avenue, about a 5 minute walk from Sambo's place.The two had met when Sambo, after playing a gig at “The Galley," a local bar, had been approached by the ex-athlete and asked to join a jam session that he hosted every Friday at his place. The idea had sounded low key and stress free and Sambo has acquiesced. It was there he had met Pokey and the musical chemistry the three had was magical.

Gregory fingered some of the keys in a blues progression. He was the sort of person who was good at everything and so despite his lack of training, his keyboard skills were more than passable. He began to croon in a husky voice:

“ A white man done wronged me!
Yes he done did
He showed me the bacon
But won't let me dig in
Oh I'm starving, for a chance to be a money makin' man, mm!
A white man done wronged me
Yes, he done did"

He played several variations on this lyric, each verse sung with more absurd emotion than the last.  Finally he turned back to Sambo whose arms were folded in obvious agitation.

“You like my song?" Gregory asked, grinning widely.

Sambo was pissed off. Gregory was always giving him shit about his very fair skin. He was further angered by the implication that he was “wronging" anyone.

“Gregory, I don't appreciate this. If you don't have any thing of merit to say I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

“Of course my dear dear fellow, I dare say, I don't mean to be a burden," Gregory snipped with heavy mockery. Then he became serious.

“You're a tease you know that? Show the goods but you can't touch. You selfish ass."

“I'm selfish?! What about you! It's in YOUR self interest to do this TV shit. " Sambo spat back.

“OK, that's fair, but at what COST would it be to you to do this? You lose exactly nothing man but an extra hour of Becky hunting for this gig, yet you act like you got some big principle your fighting for," Gregory said, clearly at the end of his patience.

Sambo looked at the floor in frustration. He wanted to tell his friend that he didn't owe anybody anything. That his reasoning for not wanting to play didn't have to center around some grand logical explanation. That his own happiness was a good enough justification for anything. Finally, Sambo addressed Gregory.

“I'm not doing it," he said simply.

A look of a intense violence crossed the big man's face. Then, turning back to the piano, he began to play and sing:

“A white man done wronged me!
Yes he done did... "

Sambo and Pokey

The loft was huge. It had a full sized white Steinway piano in perfect working condition, and a fifteen piece drum set in the middle of the living room. These pieces were accompanied by two 1960s carnation colored sofas, and a puke green car seat that had clearly been extracted from an ancient station wagon. The wooden floors has been varnished and stained, and in the right light, one could see one's own reflection. The walls were a blood orange that seemed to have been picked for its singular ugliness.

Sambo sat at the piano and played a few chords. He donned a royal purple robe that obscured his slight figure, and wore his trademark crocs on his feet. He was 31 years old, but when he went out, he was always carded. It was his boyish face and ridiculous wardrobe that always confused people. He still sported a backwards caps, colorful sneakers, and tee-shirts. When it was cold out, he wore sweatshirts, never jackets. He was fluent in teenage trends and speech, addicted to fun, and dependent on the $8000 allowance his parents sent him monthly. The $1200 a month he spent on his apartment in the Bronx allowed him to have a good time, and he spent a considerable amount of his waking hours either high or drunk.

Sambo also spent a tremendous amount of time at his piano. He practiced five hours a day, starting with classical fingering exercises, moving on to sonatas and scale work, and concluding with jazz and be-bop improvisation. His training at New England Conservatory was sure to stay with him, for art was the only place where he exhibited tenacity, perseverance, and self discipline. Sambo was just finishing up with his advanced Hannon's piano exercises when his phone rang. Typically, he turned off all distractions while practicing but he had been waiting for a call from a girl he had hooked up with the night before. She said she'd call him and take him out to a brunch spot her father owned in the city.

“Baby doll?" He answered smoothly. Despite his petite stature he had a deep bass voice.

“ Man, don't you ever look at your phone before you pick it up? It's Pokey!" Pokey was the drummer for the jazz trio Sambo played for.

“ What do you want Pokey?"

“ Well good morning to you too!"

“ I'm PRACTICING."

“ Chill man. Look, remember that YouTube video we put out?"

Pokey had been on a social media binge over the past several months, launching a Facebook page, website, twitter feed, blog, and now a YouTube presence. They had recently played and recorded a gig at a local dive bar that had gotten over 3000 hits in a week mostly as a result of a monster solo Sambo had laid down.

“We got a call from Letterman," shouted Pokey, “They're inviting us to do a guest spot!"

Sambo took a deep breath.

“Pokey, if this is about money you KNOW I could get you some cash, if you need some."

“ Nigga, don't rich boy me on this. I'm talkin' exposure and a chance to make a statement in the world"

“Who watches Letterman anyway?"

“ Its the beginning of something," Pokey went on, “You wanna PRACTICE the rest of your life or do you wanna actually get out there and PLAY?! "

Sambo looked at his piano and his gauche apartment. He wondered what life would be like if he constantly had high profile gigs. He probably wouldn't have as much time for his extravagant extracurriculars, and would constantly be stressed. He might actually visibly age, and the pace of life might become unbearably fast. Most of all, where would he find time to practice?

“Tell them no Pokey."

“ Excuse me? Are you crazy man, I already said YES."

“Well, then do it without me then, I really gotta practice," Sambo said irritably.

“But we need you man! They already asking if you gonna perform a solo like the one on YouTube! Come on think of Greg and me, man!  We NEED this!"

Greg was the bass player of the trio.

“I'm gonna go," Sambo said simply, and hung up.

He could not stand sentimentalism and hated it when people relied on him. He lived for his own immediate pleasure, and that suited him fine. As he resumed practicing, he sincerely hoped the girl would call him for brunch. He could go for several mimosas right about now.

"For those about to Rock, WE SALUTE YOU!"

“Time’s Up!” the proctor called.

The thing was over, and the cafeteria full of students released a collective sigh of relief. The sound of zippers sliding and chair legs scraping against the floor resonated as the large room came back to life. Cell phones snapped on a with a variety of musical pings as students furiously resumed their lives in cyber space, anxious to return to the realm of social media after three hours of technological abstinence.

“What’d you think?” Harry asked, his high-pitched voice strained in feigned anxiety.

“It was alright, I guess,” hummed Patricia, adjusting her hair for the umpteenth time as the two exited into the hallway.  Her dreadlocks were her pride and joy, and she went out of her way to give them proper attention. She had not been given many physical gifts, and so she was over zealously vain about the one luminous feature she possessed.

“I think I bombed it,” Harry squeaked unctuously, hanging his head in a studied look of shame. Patricia had learned long ago not to take Harry seriously when it came to academics. The boy had scored the highest on every exam he had ever taken, and was the top student in their class.

“Shut up Harry,” she said, not unkindly, as she dropped her writing supplies in her locker on the first floor of Goode Dale High School.

“No Pat, I’m tell you, I’m finished! That question about feminism was so HARD!”

Pat believed that Harry’s method of coping with the fact that most saw him as hopelessly dweebish was to pretend that things like simple arithmetic and spelling sight words were tantamount to calculus and literary analysis of arcane medieval texts. The problem, thought Pat, was that rather than coming off as endearing, he seemed like a braggart.

           

“I mean, I guess I just don’t understand feminism.  Like, one time, I saw a dude tell someone she was beautiful in the super market and she flipped out saying he was being inappropriate! ”

Pat slung her lightened backpack over her shoulder and thrust her headphones over her ears.

“You need a ride?” she asked tiredly.

Harry was wrapped up in thought and continued on, following Pat out into the cool Michigan spring air without replying.

“So, what? If a woman is told she’s gorgeous by a man who doesn’t know her, he’s a pervert? I just feel like that’s so fucked up!”

Pat took out the faab to her ’99 Honda Accord. With a “beeup”, the locks popped open. Harry climbed into the car, truly agitated now. Pat dropped her bag in the backseat, cast aside her headphones and prepared for the short trip home. Snapping on the radio, she extracted a fresh piece of Winter Fresh gum from the glove compartment, handing Harry a piece without saying a word.  The minty flavor always soothed her nerves.

“And what does this outlook on how men and women relate to each other say about the interactions between the two when the man KNOWS the woman?” Harry squealed, as he smacked on his gum.

Patricia decided against listening to the radio, and popped in a CD. The band ACDC sounded on the car’s speakers as she adjusted her perfect hair and straightened the rear-view mirror. She thought about the nap she would surely be taking when she got home.

“I feel like feminism is making it such that nice guys are being lumped in with assholes! Where, like, there’s this sense that if a man comments at all about a woman’s style, or eyes, or intelligence, or hair, or whatever, he’s said to be some sort of degenerate!”  Harry shouted, seemingly oblivious to the pulsing music.

           

“FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, WE SALUTE YOU,” sang ACDC, as Pat made a left onto Chalfant Drive, the huge mansions of the town’s elite coming into view.

           

“I mean, I just don’t GET it. What do feminists WANT?!” Harry whined.

           

Pat slowed to a stop in front of a beautiful brick house.  She abruptly turned off the music.

           

“Damn it Harry, just say it.”

           

“What?”

           

“Stop beating around the bush, and ask what you wanna ask?”

Harry stared at Pat, his mouth agape.  His eyes betrayed him though; he knew what she was asking.

           

“Get out Harry, you’re home,” Pat said, rolling her eyes and turning away from him.

           

Shrugging, Harry stepped out of the car and shut the door.

           

“Seeya tomorrow,” he called, but Pat had already begun driving away, ACDC blasting.

           

Pat pulled into the driveway of her family’s modest home. With a flick of her hair, she grabbed her backpack. Weariness began to descend over her as she climbed the stairs to the side door, and let herself in. As she settled into her room, something vibrated against her leg. Pulling out her phone, she stared at the text.

           

“Wanna go out with me?” it read.

           

She smiled.

Nuns at the Bar

Robert stood on the bar, placed his two fingers in his mouth and whistled aggressively. The young men and women turned toward him in anticipation and his jovial mood was like a contagion that swept through the bar. 

“Guys," Robert called, swaying slightly in his spot, “I just want to thank Mr. Shepard for his ridiculous generosity!" A few cheers went up but Robert waved them off, and took a swig of whiskey. 

“Chances are, if you're imbibing something right now, it was Mr. Shephard who paid for it, and for that we are all grateful! A big RAH-RAH for Mr. Shepard!" 

The entire bar erupted in cheers, and then a rhythmic chant went up:

 “Rah-Rah-Rah-Rah-Rah Hadley! 

Along the lakes she ever thrives! 

 In the summer when she calls your name, 

you'll be there, yes, by and by

Oohhhh: 

Hadley's for my father's father , Hadley's in my spleen

 Do or die I shall rely on the Hadley way supreme!"

And with that,  the place  crested another level of drunken mirth.

Robert got down from the bar, and high-fived Bryan Nelian, his best friend whom he had attended Camp Hadley with 13 years ago when they were 9.  He saw John, Ryan, and Craig Stephens, who were part of a huge Hadley family that had sent generations to the sleep away camp. He raised his glass, and they howled at him in typical white boy appreciation.  As Robert snaked his way to the back of the bar, he ran across Cindy McAllister. She had been a female staff member he had fucked in his last summer as a counselor, and she looked ripe for the kill tonight. 

She screamed a little when he grabbed her by the waist, and physically pushed him back when he gave her an opened mouth kiss.

"What the fuck is your problem," she demanded angrily as Robert moved to kiss her again.

"Raise your hand if you wanna be a fucking prude tonight! Let's do bible study with the nuns at the bar!"  Robert jeered, pointing at Cindy and drawing laughter from the crowd. He had no tolerance for girls who acted stupid.

He was almost at his destination, the restroom in the back of the bar, when Chip Lyons stopped him with an outstretched hand. 

"Robert,"  Chip said in his usual quiet tone. 

"CHIP! Wow, I can't believe you made it out this year! It's awesome to see you!"

Chip smiled, but his dark eyes were very cold.  He wore a dark cashmere sweater, and had his afro immaculately picked out.

"You say that every year, " Chip said, "How is it that you never notice the darkies?"    

An awkward moment passed between the two men. Then, Chip started laughing, and he clapped Robert on the back. "I'm just playin' man! Damn, you look like you seen a ghost!"

Robert began laughing too and politely moved to the lavatory. He was shaken, though, and as he peed his mind wandered.  Why did Chip insist on coming to the annual Hadley holiday party in New York City? He never seemed like he was having a good time, and always had something racial to say.

Chip had been in the same cabin as he and Bryan Nelian all those years ago when they were 9 years old. Then, Chip had been a popular figure at camp. He was gregarious, a solid singer, and a great basketball player. Furthermore, his  accent and "black sensibilities" had been hilarious to the Westchester and Fairfield county kids, and he was seen as something of a comedian.  

As time went on, however, Chip got a lot quieter. He was reticent to sing, and could never be caught playing basketball on the courts. He seemed to tell fewer jokes, and regarded life with a brooding seriousness.   While he seemed friendly with everybody, there was a noticeable gap between he and the rest of the boys they had grown up with.  

Robert shook his dick in the urinal, zipped up, and washed his hands. He realized that he clearly hadn't had enough to drink, as his thoughts were verging on sentimental. 

As he left the the bathroom and walked toward the bar, Chip approached him again, this time his arm outstretched with a beer. 

"Thanks man!" Robert said. The two men said "cheers," clinked glasses, and took long sips.

"That was a real nice speech," Chip remarked evenly.

Robert screwed up his eyes and looked at Chip searchingly. 

"Speech?"

Chip laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

"Yea, you know, singing Mr. Shephard's praises and all." 

"Oh! " Robert replied, "Yea, man, isn't he fucking awesome? I mean he totally didn't have buy us all drinks"

Chip shook his head and answered very slowly. 

"No, I suppose he didn't. It's his money so he can spend it the way he pleases."

Robert took another swig of his beer and saw that Cindy was beginning to flirt with another of the camp counselors. 

"And he certainly doesn't have to spend it on the whole Hadley community, now does he?" Chip continued, looking hard into Robert's face. 

Robert stared back, blankly.

"What's up Chip? Something wrong?"

At this, Chip laughed genuinely for the first time. Tears ran out of his eyes. 

"Cheers Robert," he said when he could finally speak again.  He clinked glasses with Robert, and walked to the bar. 

As Robert chugged the rest of his beer, he told himself that he wasn't sure what that cryptic exchange had been about. Deep down though, he knew. 

Disproving Agape

Sam looked at the year old YouTube video and felt he barely recognized himself.  There he was, his girl in his arms, laughing at the camera, in the midst of drunken escapade. Everyone in the film had looked to him with respect that bridged on envy, which could clearly be seen in the way they laughed and slapped his back; they wanted him to acknowledge them. Sam himself looked mirthful without appearing too drunk, and seemed as though he had the entire world in hand. The president of a fraternity. A brilliant scholar. A recent admit to graduate school.

That had been his last semester at Denoir University in New Jersey, and he had been in the midst of a six week swan song from the time he finished his upperclassmen independent work and his graduation. He had won an award for his senior thesis for the religion department, where he had written against agape, Christian love, arguing that it was a term that was used to continue the subjugation of African Americans. Sam figured himself an intellectual militant, and he focused much of his independent work researching and speaking out against "the manacles of Christianity" that appear so readily in civil rights literature.  He was the department's avowed atheist member, and he was proud of the stand that he took.

But Sam's persona in the department was an affected one. The image of the popular, beautiful life of the party that shined through the video Sam was watching was closer to who he was really was. He was gregarious and carefree, and fun.

Sam clicked out of the youtube link, shut down his computer, and plopped down on his tiny twin bed. His room, a 10 by 12 box, seemed even smaller now as he stretched out his wide frame and attempted to nap the day away. As usual, however, he was unsuccessful and he sat up and considered what he could do for the day.

Graudate school wasn't supposed to be like this.  He'd expected rigorous discussion in which he would dismantle what he had deemed "theologic tautology" and affirm once and for all the idiocy of Pascal's "wager." He had envisioned himself laying torch to C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity,  and, through extensive research of course, destroying any legitimate premise Christianity had to stand on.

It was this last point that gained him infamy in the department early on. In fact Dr. Gregory Freedman, the famed theologist and head of the program had nearly doubled over with laughter when Sam had told his peers during their first seminar that it was his goal to "disprove Christianity." Some in the class had looked at him pityingly, while others just shook their heads.

"Mr. Porter," Dr. Freedman had addressed Sam,  "This isn't a geometry proof, or some sort of finite equation.  To be successful here is going to take some real THINKING."  Sam had been wholly embarrassed but his usual wit deserted him, and he scowled through the entire three hour ordeal.

Sam found his other courses on Christian ethics, ancient Greek and Hebrew, and the Gnostic Gospels, to be utterly unstimulating, and none of the professors liked him. He began to skip class, which was conspicuous given there were only 15 people in his program. When he did show up he was surly, rude and highly pretentious. He never did the reading, talked a lot, and did very little listening.

Outside of class, he had no friends. He had assumed that attending graduate school in New York City would mean that he would be able to continue the constant party from college, but this had been far from the case. Many of his friends had pursued careers in finance and they were therefore constantly occupied by work.  His girlfriend was 2000 miles away in graduate school a U.C. Berkley and lately their conversations had become staid and strained. He didn't even consider hanging out with people in his program.

Lately, he spent nearly 22 hours a day in his cell in campus housing. He got up, ate  cold cereal, skipped class, looked at porn, ordered awful pizza from the place downstairs,  attempted a few naps, watched YouTube videos, and eventually fell into a fitful sleep.

Sometimes, he'd peer out of the little window over his tiny dorm room refrigerator and watch the people pass by. In the morning he watched folks with briefcases and jackets and tailored skirts, clearly going somewhere. At night he observed the groups of grads and undergrads headed out for a night on the town. He wondered what it would be like to be them.

He knew that if he kept this up, he would be kicked out of school, but he didn't care. Something in him was broken, and he didn't know if he could be fixed. He was alive but he wasn't living.

Pinot Noir Feminism

"Wait, he did WHAT, Becky?"
"He came up to me and said 'you look beautiful this morning.'"
"No!"
"Yes!"
"That's so chauvanistic"
"Its beyond offensive"
"Like, male privilege is a really real thing."
"Amen sister, amen. "
Sarah and Becky took a moment to sip their pinot noir, adjusted their blond hair and sighed.
"Did you see Kate's new Facebook picture? "
"Hummel?"
"No, Michaels."
"Kate Michaels...from like high school right? I haven't heard that name in like forever."
"I know, I know.  She totally friended me last week out of nowhere"
"Wow, see that's why I got off Facebook. There's no reason why people who I haven't seen in like a million years need to be linking up with me."
"Yea, Becky, you're right, you're right."
The young women coughed academically.
"Anyway," Sarah began slowly, after her intellectual phlegm had been cleared,"Kate's Facebook picture is so...domestic."
"Oh my God. "
"Yea, she actually  married Ryan Taggart."
"Wasn't he dealing like meth back in the day?"
"It looks like he's sorta cleaned up. He works at Walmart or something "
"Oh," Becky said, objectively pointing up her nose.
"But yea, the picture ...is...she's pregnant! "
"Ugh. I hate Facebook," Becky said vaguely, taking another swig of wine.
"Yea, totally showing and everything "
"Well wow ...its too bad, she totally could have been a writer."
"I dunno....I felt like she was always moaning about being black in her poems. "
"Yea, well...that's what they do, right?"
Sarah nodded and sighed. She had been president of the high school semanteme club, and had overseen the publication of Kate's poetry.
"Its always sad when they get so pinned down by a man," she said nonchalantly.
"They're more prone to it."
"They are."
They felt good about their analysis.  They swished their hair and embraced their branded feminism.

Appleton Manor

Jason was impressed by the bluster of the little man standing in front of him. The combination of swears hurled at him had been almost poetic in originality and was so foul that even he felt a slight twinge of disgust.

“Sir," Jason repeated in a voice that imperceptibly showed his amusement, “I'm very sorry for the trouble however you will have to move your car immediately. Only construction vehicles are allowed. The signs have been posted for days now."

Still cursing , the man pulled away, saying that he would be sure to speak with his supervisor. “Go ahead,” thought Jason, “he's probably already drunk."

The parking lot at Appleton Manor yacht club had been packed for hours and he could only guess how much longer the annual ball following the July regatta would last. He vaguely wondered how these people would get home given the massive quantities of liquor they had already consumed but he realized that such a question really wasn't his concern. He figured that a car accident or two as a result of drunk driving was a right of passage of most white people, anyway.

He had worked as a parking attendant at the place for almost three weeks, and was sure it was the best summer gig you could have. He parked cars, directed traffic and enforced the rules of the lot. The renovation of the northern wing of the club house had made parking particularly difficult and the outrage of so many of the club patrons had been almost venomous, particularly when dealing with Jason and the other attendants.

Jason took it all in stride. He had amassed a small fortune in tips and had dealt with it all with the equanimity of a saint. He went to school with many of the sons and daughters of the club membership and frequently ran into kids he knew. While another teenager might have been embarrassed to have been serving his own peers , Jason was hardly effected. Most of the kids recognized him of course, as he was one of three black students at the town's renowned public high school, but he mostly kept to himself at school so few people knew him all that well. In fact José Reyes, the one close friend he did have from school, had recommended him for the job when the club began hiring for the summer season.

“Reyes says that you're the right man for the job," Tim Danielson, the club House manager and supervisor had said from his over stuffed chair in the Chard Room. The tiny space was in the basement of club, directly beneath the squash courts where one could hear the dull scuffle of a match in progress above.

“Yes sir, I hope so," Jason had answered agreeably. The manager squinted at Jason through wary eyes that were watery from constant drink. The membership knew that Danielson was overly fond of his liquor, but like all rich white folk, they never confronted or even discussed it. After all, he seemed to manage his affairs well enough didn't he?

“ How old are you?" inquired Danielson.

“17 "

“License? ”

“ Yes sir."

“Clean record?“

" I've had a parking ticket, but no accidents."

“Jail?"

“No SIR!"

“Ah. Well, I see."

The older man leaned back in his chair, cocked his head to the side and gazed inquisitively at the boy in front of him.

“Say, where are you from?” Danielson finally said.

“Born and raised here in New High Town sir.”

“Yea? What do your parents do?"

“I live with my grandma. She's an accountant, sir.”

“I see. She the one who told you to talk polite and shit?”

“Sir?”

“Or was that Reyes, that son of a bitch. He say you had to kiss ass to get hired? ”

“No sir, I-” But the white man waved him off.

“Tell me son, you got a girlfriend?”

“Yes sir"

“She nice?"

“She always treats me good, yea." Danielson chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Is.she. good.in.the. sack?" asked the white man, enunciating each word as though Jason were hard of hearing. The conversation had gained a dangerous edge that Jason could feel acutely. He resolved to smile and stay silent.

“Well? Is she?!"

“Yes, sir, I mean, I guess," mumbled Jason, feeling his heart flutter in embarrassment.

A moment of silence passed between the two, and then Danielson began to laugh, so forcefully that it sounded as though he was choking.

“You GUESS so?!!! Ha! You're a comedian!"

“If you say so, sir," Jason said, grinning sheepishly. Just as soon as Danielson had begun laughing, he stopped and became gravely serious.

“Listen, Jason is it? I'm just busting your balls. Now let me tell you something. You don't have to call ME sir OR mister or master or whatever manners granny told you to use, but with them out there, you must always be on your shit. Smiling, pleasant. Can you do that?”

“ Yes sir!" Jason said with zeal.

"Don't be an asshole, son. If you're not completely stupid, you'll do fine here."

And with those words of encouragement, Jason had been hired.

A Christmas (th)ar is Born

Dear Parent,

Thank you so much for sharing your cherubic son with the Schenectady Amtrak station! He was an energetic addition to this tiny hole in the wall. I feel so happy to have learned about the Disney Channel, and was particularly wowed by his encyclopedic recounting of the previous season of a show called “Finneus and Ferb," (It's a shame he did not spell the title for us, and I hope you'll forgive me if I've gotten it wrong!). Anyway, I just wanted to express my gratitude. Without him, I would never have been so well versed in children's television!

I was particularly memorized by your son's creative grammar use and pronounced lisp that evaporated the letter “s". Through his spirited two hour discourse, I was moved by how much he “love (th)ummer lots" and listened with intrigue as he told you, and us by extension, why “(th)o much people liked Di(th)ney channel." It was great stuff.

Maybe one of his most laudable qualities was his intimate knowledge of the words “ damn" and “crap" which accompanied so much of his monologue. Few 8 year olds display such a command of vocabulary; I dare say, you have a wordsmith on your hands!

I will close this epistle with an anecdote that truly illustrates the uniqueness of your delightful son. It occurred in the first moments after you and he arrived, arms laden with burgers and fries from the burger king across the street. After finishing two whoppers, fries, and a vanilla milk (th)ake with a rapidity that would make some professional eaters blush in embarrassment of their obvious inadequacy, he took it upon himself to regale us with the most sonorous and satisfied farts I've ever heard! The accompanying smell was robust and healthy, and I was really impressed by his supreme gastrointestinal health. Well done, really!!!!

Thank you again for allowing us to share this day before Christmas Eve with your son. I simply wanted to make sure you knew that he's a (th)ar. A merry merry Christmas to you!

Signed,

Hungover Young 1879 Rockefeller Niggelsbottom IV

Movin' On Up!

He stared at the infomercial with a sense of mirth and wonder. For $20.99, a consumer could buy a whirring machine that would, with the flick of a button, remove disgusting calluses that lodged themselves on one’s feet. The thing that really amused Jovanne was the fact that the commercial had come on immediately after a cooking show that taught viewers how some types of wine were made by stomping on grapes.

He changed the channel and saw an episode of “Family Guy,” where little Stewie vomits all over the room through a 10-minute bit. The segment ended with Peter issuing a grotesque fart and laughing. Comedy.

Jovanne had been trying to avoid watching anything that was serious, but he saw he had no alternative.  He turned to channel 7, Eyewitness News and mentally prepared himself for hard hitting journalism. 

They led with a story about a Wall Street financier who had severely beaten a elderly woman, and taken her wallet. Isn’t that Crazy Jim? Oh, No Doubt Cindy, no doubt.  

The anchors tone changed as they discussed the impending “healthcare avalanche.” Jovanne could see that the network’s reporters were as unclear as the rest the country as to what the term meant, but assured viewers that the president and the congress were facing off in a showdown “of the ages” that would have an “indelible” effect on the legacy of everybody involved in the negotiation process. 

After a commercial break, he saw that there had been a shooting somewhere. The police had gunned down a 14-year-old black youth who apparently had been “suspicious,” and there was outrage.  The Reverend turned newsman Al Sharpton had led a vigil where he had blasted police brutality.

Jovanne shut off the TV, yawned, and sat up in bed. He considered browsing RedTube and finding some decent porn, but he found that the site had become strangely repetitive. He preferred porn that told a believable story, from start to finish, and hated the fact that so much of what he viewed had obvious plot flaws.

As he began to take out his computer, he was accosted by the scent of marijuana. It was pungent and fresh, and very close.

“Hey Ryan, are you smoking?” Jovanne called out to his roommate.  He noted that the smell had gotten even stronger, but he heard no answer.

Jovanne hated missing out on a good smoke. He rolled out of his bed, put on his shoes, and stepped into the small living room.

“Ryan!” he called, but Ryan wasn’t there.  It took Jovanne a moment to remember that his roommate had signed on to work the night shift at Capra’s, the gay bar at 86th. Of course he wasn’t home.

Still the weed was heavy and very present.

Jovanne opened the apartment door, and sniffed the air in the hallway. Turning his head, he saw a group of black boys on the stairwell about 20 feet from him, smoking a blunt.

Jovanne was new to the neighborhood at 188^th and Amsterdam. He had signed the lease with Ryan Shepherd, someone he had met on Craigslist, and was happy about the fact he could walk to class at Columbia Medical School, where he had just started his first year as a PH.D student.  Tonight represented the first break he had had in a long while, and damn it, he was going to have an adventure.

The boys took no notice of him as he approached. They were already blasted.

“Hey man, let me get a pass,” Jovanne said to the dark skinned boy who had just taken a puff.  All four of the boys looked up, startled, and stared silently at him. Jovanne could see that though two of them were very tall, they were younger than he had imagined, about 15 or 16. 

“You…you wanna pass us?” a light skinned boy with green eyes asked, moving to clear a space on the stairs.

Jovanne laughed.

“Naw man, gimme some of your weed. Could smell that shit from a mile away.”

Jovanne was affecting his voice to sound like the blackest blacky ever. He purposely pitched his voice down, and had adopted a swagger that he did not possess.

The boys looked at each other uncomfortably. 

“Yo, is you just gonna let that shit burn OUT. Come ON man!”

The dark skinned boy took another puff, and handed him the joint. He took 2 deep inhales, and felt good.  He passed the drug on.

“Stay in school kids,” Jovanne said, and sauntered back to his apartment. He knew what he had done was very stupid, and that exhilarated him. He was surprised, though, at the timidity of the boys on the stairs. He assumed teenagers who grew up in Washington Heights would be thug, like the black folks portrayed in New Jack City or something.

Maybe they thought he was a crazy, who might hurt them. Or perhaps, they had seen through this nigga hood act, and had pegged him a cop. Maybe it was the nerve he had had in essentially demanding something from them that wasn’t his. He was the Wall Street man stealing a wallet, the “explorer” raping an pillaging a continent. He was well on his way to becoming the white man he had always wanted to be.  

I'll Be Home for Xmas

Aaron wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly, and stood for a moment with his mouth gaping open. Regaining himself, he stood taller and aimed to appear as nonchalant as possible.

 He had expected to be reprimanded for what he had done, for sure, but this...this was unmistakably bad.   As the headmaster grimly persisted, he found his mind wandering down to Harlem. What would Turkey say? He’d probably just shake his head and say nothing, like usual. Junior was probably skippin school right about now. He’d probably give him a high five and tell him he was the dumbest smart nigga ever. His youngest brothers, Peachfuzz and Feet were were too young to think anything. Hell, they’d probably be happy that he was coming back home. But at this point, having been away for 3 years, could he even call it home?

“Son, I think it’s time that you said something,” Dr. Peterson said, his cold gray eyes bearing into Aaron with such cool fire that Aaron could feel his heart flutter in mild terror. Still though, he could never stand to look like a coward, and he stared back in silence. When he had been a candidate for the school, Aaron’s enterprising spirit had been seen as an asset. Now, it would be the very instrument that would remove him.

Xavier Academy school was an academy started fifty years ago by Sir Frances L. Xavier in beautiful Chester New York. It was said that his mama named him “Sir” because she always knew he would be royality one day, and he hadn’t let her down. He had been a track star at P.S. 181 in East Harlem, and had earned a scholarship to Howard University, in Washington DC where he set school records in the 100 and 200 meter sprints. He studied at the school’s famed College of Medicine, and upon completing his medical degree and residency, opened his own hospital in New York at 117th and Lennox Ave where he was affectionately known as “Dr. Sir” (as this, of course, WAS his name). At 52, he got married to a woman 27 years his junior, and had three sets of twins by her, two fraternal, one identical, all boys. As is true with so many people  who acquire means, Dr. Sir decided that the very secondary education he had received as a child would not be good enough for his children, and he relocated his practice to Westchester where, to  the chagrin of white people everywhere, he made several offers on properties.  There had been demonstrations, neighborhood association meetings,  and threats wherever Xavier went, but in the end, the astronomical bid that he made on the property excited just the right combination of municipal officials, and he was the proud owner of a 45 acre tract.

 A day after the deed for the land had been handed to him, a group of townspeople gathered outside the small house that existed on the property, and attempted to set it on fire while the entire family was in their home.  Sending his wife and children into the surround woods to hide, Dr. Sir is said to have stood in front of the men and uttered what would become the motto for the school. He said in his mild voice, “Shall the decency of your forefathers be soiled by the  ignominy of your INdecency? Gentlemen, Be Dignified!”

 It is unclear how these words came to be known. Perhaps one of the men who fatally  beat Dr. Sir on what would become the school’s center of campus had  taken a moment to note his eloquence. Nevertheless, the school that would for 25 years be run by Dr. Sir’s young wife, lived by his creed: “BE DIGNIFIED.”

It was these words that Dr. Peterson laid on Aaron now, as they faced off in the Headmaster's office.

“A dignified Xavier man would take responsibility for his actions,” Dr. Peterson gravely assured Aaron.

Aaron thought that what he had done was quite harmless. The idea, in fact, had been recommended by a friend of his from prep-for-prep, who was currently at Philip's Academy at Andover. He had taken a Brita Water filter and filled it with cheap vodka. Though he rarely drank himself, he knew that the alcohol that had dripped through produced a far more palatable liquor than what he had started with.

He had marketed his product as JayBird, a brand of liquor he had researched online  that was high class and expensive. He had sold 12 ounce “water bottles” for $60 each to friend’s of his he knew could afford it . To his pleasant surprise, his “water” became known among a circle of covert “partiers,” and demand had been quite high. Soon he had to hire a “team” of individuals so as to make enough of the purified cheap liquor, and he thought about expanding his operation to whiskey and rum. By the third semester of his business, he had 3 “employees,” 2 to deliver the “water” and one who specialized in “operations,” which included delivery and supply chain. 

It was the team’s supplier, the operation man’s older sister who attended Pace University, who busted the them.  During her visit earlier that afternoon,  some stroke of morality had hit her after a money dispute with the “company,” and she had confessed to the school that she had a sneaking suspicion that liquor was rampant among a section of the school that happened to include all 4 members of Aaron’s team. His employes all had pointed to him as the leader, and he had been left alone with the Headmaster.

Dr. Petereson shook his head, and whistled softly.

“Have it your way, son. We will arrange for your train home this evening. You are hereby expelled.”

Aaron barely felt his legs as he left the office. He wondered if this is how Dr. Sir had felt when they had beaten him senselessly all those years ago. Was it so bad that he had sold the stuff to make extra cash? Hadn’t he exemplified the ingenuity and a CEO’s bold spirit? As he approached his room, he began to feel that the school should be rewarding him for his audacious action. How many 16 years olds could brag that they had overseen a full-scale, if small, operation?

Shame, however, thick and deeply painful began to course its way through his brain. He realized that he had become everything  his mother had sought to keep away from: a drug dealer, a criminal, a dropout.

“Well,” Aaron thought wryly to himself, “at least I don’t got no kids.”

The Executive's Assistant

Veronica Lewis Jones was working on securing the proper equipment for the video shoot. She had spent several hours checking that the cameras requested were of the proper High Definition quality, along with monitoring the travel schedule of her boss. In the 11^th hour, the treatment for Rixi’s new single was being tweaked which added to the feeling of chaos in the expansive midtown office. The initial idea had been to shoot an old school music video with minimal personnel, but the budget had opened up considerably and a sequence requiring numerous dancers and crew members had been inserted. With calm precision, Veronica’s mind alternated between her responsibilities. HD cams? Check. Crew assembled? Check. She knew that paperwork still needed to be submitted so that everybody on the crew would get paid on time. She’d have to call Bobby down in operations.  In fact, she’d go ahead and make that call right no-

“VERROONNICCAAA!!!!”

A piercing earth shattering call split the floor.

           

Veronica’s mind immediately lost focus and she raced to the large office situated behind her. The space was conservatively decorated, a large mahogany desk its only ornate feature. A small television screen rested on a bookshelf across from the desk and large windows looking out to Midtown East gave the space appropriate gravitas.

Alex Sirri was an Amazon. At 6 foot 3, with flowing raven black hair, she was a titan of the music industry. Her specialty was music videos, and she had managed and overseen some of the world’s biggest pop stars, past and present. Madonna. Michael Jackson. Britney Spears. Bieber. And now, Rixi.

“HAVE YOU SEEEEEEN THIS SHIT?”  cackled Alex, pointing at the tiny television screen. Her luminous hair bobbed side to side as she shook her head. She was watching the new video release of the band “Standard,” which had been shot by one of the directors who had formerly worked with Sirri’s team. Sirri had fired him when it was clear he could not himself take direction and the video premiering on the screen was his first project since.

“UGH, what a CRAPPY Idea! Why in the HELLL would he have these guys ACT?!! And the wardrobe is so CHEAAAPP,” bellowed the music executive.

Veronica knew at these times she was to agree with her boss, or at least be neutral The goal, Veronica found, was to get out of the office as fast as possible so that she could get back to work and avoid a misstep that might  result in getting singed by the jet stream of Sirri’s wrath.

“David Chaffin sucks,” Veronica said agreeably, referring to the fired video director by name.

“He’s an IDIOTT!” blasted Sirri, emphasizing her point with a stamp of her foot. Suddenly she became very serious.

“Veronica, have you sorted through the new treatment?  Tommy called me and asked that everything be perfect, ABSOLUTELY perfect.”  Veronica nodded and told her boss that she would have everything in place shortly.

“Good, good,” the executive said dismissively, already absorbed in the laptop she had set on her desk.

Scuttling out of the office, Veronica raced for the telephone. She knew that Tommy Insino, the director of Rixi’s new video was an absolute stickler when it came to his cast and crew getting paid on time. On the last shoot with him, she had processed the paperwork appropriately, but an internal clerical error had distributed the check a day late, and she had nearly lost her job for it.

“Shit rolls downhill,” she though wryly to herself. As the lowest ranking employee, an assistant, Veronica was accustomed to being blamed for things that weren’t her fault. She had once been yelled at by Sirri because a sandwich was not fresh enough, despite the fact that Sirri herself had selected and purchased it.

“Bobby, its Veronica. Any movement on those invoices for Rixi’s shoot?”

Yo V!,” came the relaxed timbre of the operations coordinator, “Yea, I’ve got that in front of me but there are some things I wanted to go over with you, got a minute?”

Veronica had anticipated this as a result of the extra crew and dancers, and she  opened up the new treatment on her computer.  Suddenly, she heard an ear-splitting explosion.

“VERRRRONNNICCCAAAAA!!!!” thundered Sirri from the interior office.

“Bobby, could you hold on just a minute,” Veronica apologized, quickly clicking the hold button and jetting toward the interior office.

“VERRRRR-,” Sirri began shouting, just as the assistant appeared in the doorway.

“HAVE YOU SEEEN THE MEMO FROM BARRY ABOUT THE HARD DRIVES?!”  The executive’s face was pained, and incredulity lined here nasal voice.

Barry Leon was an executive on Sirri’s level; he only emailed Veronica to schedule appointments. She had not received the memo.

“Well, you should tell him to CC you on these things,” Sirri said accusingly. “They’re trying to limit us to 200 gigabyte drives which makes noooo sense!”

Veronica thought about the best way of removing herself from the office. Bobby was still on hold and the invoices, she realized with a start, needed to be submitted by 12pm to make deadline. It was already 11:10, and there was still a lot to be processed.

“That’s crazy,” nodded Veronica, trying to inch her way toward the door.

Sirri hardly noticed:

“I JUST THINK THIS IS TOTALLY RIDICULOUS. HOW THE FUCK ARE WE TO STORE OUR MATERIAL ON SUCH EQUIPMENT. WHAT YEAR IS THIS, 2000? ARE THEY GOING TO GIVE US FLOPPY DISKS NEXT?!  THIS COMPNAY IS GOING TO SHIT. WHEN I WAS WITH SONY, WE WOULD HAVE NEEVVVERR HAD A-“

Veronica knew she was in for a long complaining session and she desperately needed to resolve the invoice problem. It was ten minutes before she decided on a tried and true method of escape.

“AaaaaaaAAAchoooo,” sneezed Veronica, immediately covering her nose with her hands.

“Sorry Alex, “ she said, “let me get a tissue.”

The giant woman stopped her rant for a moment, and blinked in disgust.

“Veronica,” she said quietly, “I told you how I feel about illness. If you’re sick, don’t come in to work. I can’t be getting your colds.”

Veronica nodded her head and flew back to her desk. 11:22. Desperately she tapped the hold button and was unsurprised to find that the line was dead. She dialed the phone.

“Bobby, sorry about that, can we go through the invoice paperwork?”

“Shit, V, I just gotta call from Sara Mann’s team. They’re doing a shoot too, that I just stated processing for deadline, can it wait?” Bobby ‘s California swagger was pitched down in contrition.

Veronica closed her eyes and for the first time that day began to feel that things were spinning out of control.

“Bobby, I need this shit out by deadline or Sirri will KILL ME, you have to help me,” whispered Veronica, aware that the executive in the office behind her had exquisite hearing.

“V, I can only do what I can do….Look, gimme your info now, and I might be able to get it done, but its not a guarantee.”

Opening up the new-treatment in her email, Veronica began reading out the details for each of the new add-ons to the payroll. Halfway through the list, she heard the bright singing voice of her boss.

“Verrrrronica” warbled Sirri, her past as a collegiate a cappella singer on full display.

Frantically, the assistant read down the list, but Sirri’s voice punctured her concentration.

“VERONICA,” barked Sirri impatiently, rage building.

“Bobby….I gotta go”

“V, is that all the names?”

“I don.’t…I think so, I gotta go!”

Slamming the phone down, Veronica went back into Sirri’s office.

“Didn’t you hear me call you? Honestly, sometimes I don’t understand what’s going through your head,” Sirri offered, her last words presented in sing song.

“I’m really sorry Alex,” Veronica pandered, “I was just on the phone with Bobby, trying to finish the-“

“Come here and look at this wardrobe email for a minute,” Sirri interrupted.  Veronica wondered if her boss even knew she had been speaking.

“What do you think? Will Rixi like this? Honestly, I think these designers make clothes for themselves rather than the artist. These might be ok though, what do you think?”

The numbers of Veronica’s digital watch flashed 11:51 as sweat trickled down her spine. She felt vaguely nauseous as she tried desperately to remember if all the names on the new treatment had been included in her rush.

“Well?” demanded Sirri.

“It looks terrible,” Veronica blurted out, desperately breaking her rule of neutrality in the hopes that such candor would get her out of the office quickly.  It was a risky move; such daring could result in nuclear fallout. Sirri stared silently at the email, as Veronica held her breath.

“Yea…It IS pretty shitty, isn’t it,” Sirri mused to herself.  She shook her head, and yawned. Looking up at Veronica she grimaced. “You look awful, AWFUL. God, I HATE it when you’re sick. Shooo, shoo, don’t infect me!”

Veronica scampered out of the office and made a B-Line for the Phone. 11:57.

“Bobby, “ she said breathlessly, “What’s the status?”

“Chill V, I got you. Submitted a minute ago.”

Veronica took a deep breath and felt her blood pressure lessen.

“Thanks Bobby, I love you”

“No problem darlin, drinks after work?”

“Yea, I’ll need it.”

She hung up and closed her eyes.

After a few moments, she took a breath and opened her computer. Her heart plummeted when she saw an email had come in at 11:55am with the subject line “URGENT. CREW PAYROLL.” Five new names had been added. She knew before she glanced at her watch that she had missed the deadline, but the motion was impulsive. 12:02. These 5 would not be paid on time and she would get the blame.

“VERONICA,” shouted Sirri, the urgency in her voice suggesting World War III, an impending tsunami, and the eternal Rapture were coming to concurrently bury the world. With a leaden heart, the assistant trudged into the interior office.  

Dark Apologist

"We have, all of us, told you time and time again that you may take, please take, anything you like! All of this is yours!"

The man slapped her again. This time, she had more trouble getting up.

"It is yours, this land and these homes and the valleys and peaks and seas. All of it owned by you. It is as you requested. Here, if you will just allow me to kiss your feet-"

Just as she made to crawl over and offer her supplication, he kicked her solidly in the stomach. Clutching her belly she grimaced at him.

"You have already proven yourself," she said when she finally recovered.

"Why do you not believe me? Why did you not believe them?"

He kicked again, this time in her side, hard.  She was in too much pain to speak.

The house music that accompanied their sport was awesome.  It was hypnotic, and ethnically analog. Occasionally the phrase "Devil Just Take all of Me" could be heard (Click to Listen), and the words were at once distant and immediate. The tropical air was densely humid, and it was hot, very hot.


"You are a great man," gasped the skinny girl who Knew All,"yet you are over proud. Here you layed a village to waste that only meant to serve you."

He looked around at the smouldering huts, and the dead people. Men and women, children all of them, he had obliterated with his immense, insatiable material desire. This last girl, the only person on earth whom he had yet to conquer, stood between he and Majesty Herself.

"What is your attachment to being alone? Didn't you know that the whole world looked forward to looking to you?"

  Looking at the timer behind the skinny helpless girl, he realized that the girl's talking had greatly distracted him. If he was to beat the game, he would need to do it in 25 seconds. He had never made it so far in the final level, and he was mesmerized by this, the final test.  The music seemed to pick up speed and the girl's eyes glowed. He became afraid.

"It's not real. It's all just Mario and Princess Peach," he thought and made to kick her for the ultimate victory.
 
But the white man saw that time had expired. His muscles loosened,  and all his teeth fell out. His hair was frayed to the ground, and his bones disintegrated.  His screams of terror were lost in the din of the terrible conflagration that engulfed him.

"Stand Down for Love" cried the Dark Apologist, in a voice that made the earth quiver.  And the world was good.

Friday Mourning

"Excuse me," the man with the weathered yellow and black checkered shirt said. Each word from his mouth sounded strained, like speaking was very painful to him, and he walked with a pronounced limp. He could not have been over 25, but his unkempt appearance, made him appear quite a bit older. His brown curls had a sheen to them that suggested having not been washed in weeks, and his high yellow complexion looked sickly. He reeked of body odor and piss.

"Excuse me," he said again, his breathing labored. "Ladies and gentleman, I don't mean to bother you on this fine morning,  but...but...and..so, but..., alas, I am homeless."

The 4 express train opened up to 86th street, and the car, already somewhat full, became packed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I DO NOT WANT YOUR MONEY " the young man wheezed emphatically. "I have no need for it, after all. I...I...I won't go as far as to say that money is evil. HaHA. No. Yes. Well.  Ayn Rand, that classic heartless fool-bitch, is RIGHT to say that money is the tangible product of man's greatest asset, his mind. But I...I don't want your money. Your dollars and cents.  Your sense, you know like common? common sense? HaHA. Your...Your...Your ideas. YOUR idea, haha!  But who cares  WHO CARES?!"  The man's seemed to have trouble modulating his voice.

The train traffic on the East Side is horrific,  and the 4 train crawled to 59th street. The strange and halting speech of the gasping young man had captured the attention of a number of people on the train, but in typical fashion, they pretended nothing was being said. His visage and repugnant smell, however, had repelled them to one side of the car, and the man had a stage of sorts.

 "NOW..." he continued, after several histrionic breaths, "Now, before you judge me for my disposition and indeed, my position, haha, listen! I used to be like you. BETTER than some of you!  I went to college, got an education!  Actually, I studied literature, and wrote my senior paper contrasting the ironic nuance of James Baldwin's Go Tell it on the Mountain with the brutish nuisance  of Native Son. It was an excellent piece of scholarship, I tell you, excellent and I nearly got it published, but...but...and... it would have made a great dissertation, it really would. could. will. yes."

A teenager who was clearly taking the day off from school turned up the music already blasting in his headphones so that Drake's jack-of-all-trades-master-of-none musical talent seemed to accompany the the homeless man's monologue.

"Ladies and gentleman," the homeless man cried between overzealous coughs,  "I offend you. Don't I? ha! Well, let me remind you that this city is run by a billionaire for whom me.... my situation is...is...is a cognitive exercise. But...that's not what I want to say, so...yes, thats not what I want to say!"

A young woman approached him and extended a quarter. The man limped grotesquely backward, appalled.

"I DON'T want your money, ladies and gentlemen, and gentleman and ladies and.... I DO. Not. WANT it." The man stumbled as the train stopped abruptly at 59th street.  The car rapidly cleared out, as people, recognizing the craziness of the eloquent homeless man, anxiously sought another car.

"My situation..." mused the man, "my situation..."

A police officer entered the train car and crossed his arms, staring the homeless man down. The homeless man defiantly stared back. Finally, he sputtered on.

"For your own sake, and for everybody's sake, and for the world's sake, and for sake's sake,  I beg you to hear me. I am a great thinker. A scholar,  a reader, a Muse of our age. I have so much to share WITH the world and so...no..I...no...no...that's not what I...What I mean is that... Well... You cannot sell yourself to wage slavery and you mustn't yield to... the banality of propriety.  You've got to give yourself over, haha, and reject this age of things and stuff and-"

He was overcome by a fit of dramatic coughing. The police officer looked at him dully. Then,  when the train stopped at Grand Central, he exited the train.

The officer's exodus from the car had the effect of some sort of strange legerdemain. The homeless man's labored speaking vanished, and his limp was gone. He moved about the train vivaciously, and spoke with blinding rapidity.

"Here it is, my friends, Here is what, I must say. to you. must say to you, my friends. It's all pap, pap, PAP!  Your brothers, your sisters, your sons and daughters, and mothers and fathers, and mayors, and senators, and presidents, and congressmen, and rabbis and priests, and...ALL of them! They are tricking you, haHA! They say you can be good, but you will never be good. They say that you possess kindness, but that is DECIDEDLY not so. They say you can be strong, but you are by nature WEAK, that you are powerful, but you are infinitesimally insignificant, beautiful when you are hideously ugly, clean, when you are undoubtably soiled.  You believe ME to be disgusting but it is YOU who are, and will always BE repugnant."

The train moved more rapidly than before, and was already at 14th street. A few intrepid souls entered the car, warily glancing at the homeless man and, despite his scent, sat down. As the train began moving again,   the homeless man began shaking his head, very slowly. After a moment of silence, his sermon continued, his voice alternating absurdly between a whisper and a hysterical shout.

 "You see....you see... EVIL, not the devil or God, or Jesus, or Satan, but EVIL, plain old evil,  is upon us and it's here and its real and its in all of you. There is nothing you can do about it, but KNOW it. That's all. I just want you to KNOW it."

He pointed at empty seats in the car, and, with a enigmatic smile, he shouted "DO YOU KNOW IT? DO YOU KNOW IT? DO YOU KNOW IT? IT? IT? HAHA!

Finally, he was quiet. He moodily stared at the remaining passengers. They napped, and listened to music, checked their watches anxiously, and played with their iPhones.

"But of course. you refuse to know," he began dangerously,  "to KNOW to KNOW. you REFUSEEEEE! Because...because...because...because, because BECAUSE you are so comfortable.   YOU there! What are you a lawyer? No, you're much too nice looking to be a lawyer, you're in finance then! Hm, yes, you are part of the scourge lying and stealing and cheating, and YOU! Why do you look at me with such condemnation!  Won't  you allow this professor of truth and reason to ENLIGHTEN YOU.  You there, with the ear phones making you Deaf! You foolish wicked boy. You, ALLL of you are Foolish. and bad, yes WICKED. WICKED WICKED WICKED! YOU SHALL BE CLEANSED YOU FUCKING FUCKERS!"  And, with that, he moved about the car at a frantic speed, circling around, and around, and around, shouting unintelligibly. Then, standing in the center of the car, he pulled down his pants, and began to pee in every direction, spraying everything in his path.

The people shouted out of fear and outrage, and huddled away, as best they could. At Fulton street, they rushed off, and notified the conductor of the vagabond on the train.

The young man himself stayed in the car, and slumped into a damp seat. His heart beat furiously, and he felt himself begin to tremble. Dully, he remembered the words of his Ancient Cousin "No man is a prophet in his own village."

Nigger and the WASP

Something was creeping in his room. He could hear its tiniest motions, inching closer and closer to the twin bed that he slept on. The thing didn't seem to be trying to be inconspicuous about the noise it made, as though its movements would not possibly be heard over the din of the fan that the young man always kept on while he slept.

The thing's breath was close and rank; the smell of garlic and cigar smoke. The young man made to scream just as it's warm clammy hands wrapped around his throat.  Its pale blue eyes stared into his almost affectionately and pulled him down, down, down.

Ty sat up in bed. He felt more exhausted in waking then he had in going to sleep, but he knew he would not be able to rest anymore.  Yawning, he reached for the phone.

"Lana, you up?" He asked, cradling the receiver between his neck and his head.

"Ty?" She inquired in a groggy voice, “Are you OK? What time is it?"

Ty bulldozed on, ignoring her questions.

"Listen...you wanna meet up for brunch? Today? This afternoon?" 

His voice cracked awkwardly, and his hand shook over the pot of coffee he began to brew. He closed his eyes as Lana took a deep breath that seemed to last an hour.

“Alright Ty," she said at last.

"1pm. Beekon's on 95th," he blurted out, and quickly hung up the phone before he lost his nerve.

The coffee was inky, just the way he liked it and he took a long drink, directly from the pot. The caffeine had an immediate effect on him and for a moment, he felt better than he had in a long time.

He looked over at his roommate's room and enviously noted that there was no motion in there. Mark was probably fast asleep, the fat chick from the bar at his side.

Ty wasn't a misogynist; "fat chick from the bar" was just what Mark called her. Ty marveled that the girl did not to mind being called this, and even seemed to swell with pride when he said it. But that was how Mark was. Charming and Irreverent.

Ty snapped on the news. At 6:30am, the typical gloom and doom stories of television journalism seemed stale, as though, on this Sunday morning, not enough evil had yet happened in the world to make headlines.

Ty's anxiety began to well up again, and he took another swig of the coffee.

What was it that Mark had said to him? Ah. That he was so caught up in black victimhood that he could not see when he was the one doling out the pain.  That on some level, deep down, black people actually relished being treated badly because they had so adopted the role of the oppressed.  They were masochistic, Mark said, for they purposely sought situations in which they felt abused as a consequence of their skin color. And now this intentional self-sabotage was at work in Ty's strange aloofness in regard to Lana's obvious advances. At the bar, Mark had smugly chugged his whiskey and issued his final prognosis:

"You're a nigger and she's a WASP, and you've decided that its 1920 or some shit and that it won't work. So, just to make things impossible for yourself, you've cut her off and denied yourself a perfectly fuckable situation.  Brilliant dude, brilliant."

“Fat chick from the bar" had just looked down at her margarita, while Ty had, not for the first time, called his friend a racist. She was always embarrassed when the roommates argued, and the liberal in her cringed,  not at the "n" word, but at the "r," word "racist."

In their first semester in law school, Lana, Ty, and Mark, along with two others, had formed a study group in order to conquer the famous Larry Stephen's section of property law. Now, in their second year, the group continued to work together, and it’s members were regarded as the best and brightest of the class.

Lana and Ty had, from the start, had chemistry.  They were both from the Midwest, he from Cleveland, she from Dearborn, and they bonded over the fact that they both said "pop" while their study mates said “soda". They both shared a passion for jazz, and discovered that each had seen Bradford Marsalis perform several times. They each enjoyed cheap beer, and were alcoholic lightweights who believed their tolerance to be greater than it actually was. 

But she was blond, and that weighed on Ty.

He rebuffed her efforts to go to the Blue Note Jazz Club, always gentle but firm. He always brought along Mark or others of their study group when she asked him to dinner.  And in the summer between 1L and 2L, when they were left alone at a bar by several of their law school friends bent on making what they felt was inevitable happen, Ty had gotten up to go the restroom, and left the restaurant altogether. Later, when he began to feel bad at having left the bill on Lana, he justified his actions by saying that her summer associate position at Ernst and Young yielded her more than enough to pay for it.

Since that incident, Ty had not seen Lana.  He had been busy at his own summer associate position (at a boutique firm in midtown) and then had briefly gone home to Cleveland before school started up again. On his arrival back in New York City, he had largely kept to himself, as he still had days to kill before classes.  It was quite by accident, on the Saturday before the first day, that he literally ran into her while racing for a 1 train at Penn station.

"Hey," she had said with a radiant smile.
"Hey," he had replied, at once excited and anxious in seeing her. "I gotta go catch the -"

"Of course you do," she said cutting him off and rolling her eyes. She laughed out loud at his awkward expression, and in a moment, disappeared into the crowd.

Ty blinked and took another swig of the coffee. Maybe Mark was right; it was he handing out the pain.  But something about this girl scared him. Looking at her made his legs turn to jello, and his heart flutter onto nausea.  Her petite stature, and delicate features, and her whiteness, oh her overwhelming whiteness.

Six beers deep, Ty had tried to explain to Mark that people would stare. They'd bless their daring or curse their intermingling.  No one would ever just let them "be" and from the outset, their relationship would be damned. This was common sense. Mark had just chuckled.

Ty took a long sip of coffee.  He wasn't sure what had possessed him to ask her to brunch.  He knew it was folly, but the heart knows no reason. He was in love and he hoped, against the odds, that that would be enough.