Blackhumouristpress's Blog

September 5, 2013

Das Capitalists

If you had your car towed in the city of Detroit, you made a tremendous mistake. Chances are your car is not worth the cost to spring it and then you might have to find the one of the most miserable parts of North America to claim your vehicle. Picture miles and miles of weeds growing through cracks in streets and sidewalks that used to be city streets. One of the biggest towing companies in the nation is housed in inner city Detroit. The owner had a morbid sense of humor. He named his towing yard The Happy Valley Sunday Yard for Wayward Vehicles and Singing Frog Sanctuary. It is quite wordy to be sure. A wrought iron fence fashioned to look like the entry way to Auschwitz says in German, “Geld macht frei” or in English, “money makes you free”.
Clement had a handlebar moustache, listened to opera music and was working on his PHD in philosophy. Clement inherited the pound from his dad who received it through death from his dad. Clement was going through a master’s program at Wayne State University when his father passed on. Clement immediately renamed the yard and fashioned the front gate to look like the entry way to Auschwitz. It was very dark but it amused him. A few old Jews recognized the gate. One old Jew just laughed.
It was a warm Wednesday night and Clement was thinking about capitalism and whether America was possibly on the wrong track. He thought about Karl Marx. Clement had the ability to remember verbatim anything he read or said.
“The commodity is the basic “cell-form” of a capitalist society, but capitalism is distinguished from other forms of production based on commodities in that here labor power becomes a commodity like any other. Moreover, because commerce, as a human activity, implied no morality beyond that required to buy and sell goods and services, the growth of the market system made discrete entities of the economic, the moral, and the legal spheres of human activity in society; hence, subjective moral value is separate from objective economic value… This motherfucker yelling on a cell phone.”
“If you want your goddamn vehicle, you will pay $198.00 to have it again. If not, it will be auctioned off to some other poor dope dealer. Is that clear enough English?”
“Fuck you, my friend… I hope god punishes you for what you doing.”
“I’m not a friend, my friend and god punished you for stupidity. Park your car in front of the casino looking like a terrorist who is out to exploit all the vices of America before catching a flight that will not land and god punishes you. That and Detroit’s finest capture your luscious ass on film. No bartering. I don’t need a goat, just greenbacks.”
Tristan und Isolde played loudly while Clemente looked unblinkingly at beat up Fords and Chevys. His busty and buxom secretary closed her eyes and listened to the music hoping that the animalistic tendencies of Clemente would take over and that he would bend her over his desk and be rough with her. The intro to Tristan und Isolde was not like the Flight of the Valkyries. Clemente could smell Veronica’s perfume but he was somewhere else. Veronica heard Tristan speaking but could not comprehend what he was saying.
“The economic crisis such as depression and recession that are rooted in the contradictory character of the economic value of the commodity (cell-unit) of a capitalist society, are the conditions that propitiate which has been collectively identified as a weapon, forged by the capitalists, whom the working class “turned against bourgeoisies itself… God damn it!”
A white kid with a cocked Detroit Tigers hat with a straight brim in red with a flashing gothic D, stood wearing a tank top or Dago T, baggy pants and a white pair of gym shoes. He was covered in cheap tattoos, one being a tear drop next to his right eye.
“Aye man, this is fucking bullshit, man… I had my fucking flashers on and was in the Coney Island picking my shit up for thirty fucking seconds. Y’all was waiting fo my ass to tow my shit away.”
Clement held up a finger, picked up a book with a phony cover that read, literate guide to conversing with illiterates.
“If your fucking ass had two ounces of sense, not to be confused with sensimilla, you would have taken ten extra seconds to park your shit in a legal spot for no money at all. Instead you felt you was so important that you didn’t think yo white ass was held to the same bullshit as every other motherfucker’s motherfucking ass, correct?”
“Fuck you, man… Just give me my motherfucking car.”
Paco pulled forward with the tow truck a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado, powder blue with 18 inch rims. The white male studied his vehicle for signs of abuse. He could find none. This young man lived in a house with his mom, his sister, his sister’s boyfriend, their child, his previous children with two other women and three dogs and a 1973 Cadillac Eldorado.
Veronica was turned on by Clemente’s indifference. She ripped open her blouse and plopped down upon Clemente’s lap, grabbed his face with her hands until his face looked like a sharpei dog. The music became soft again. Veronica spoke.
“You bet me that Miguel Cabrera would get 200 RBIs by the end of the season. We have less than a month to go til the end of the season and he is hurt and stuck at 135.”
Clemente smiled and took a sip of his tea. He shook his head and rubbed Veronica’s curvy hips.
“Yes… Even though I am not a Detroit Tigers fan or a fan of baseball, I bet you that he would get 200 RBIs based on his work for his team thus far.”
Veronica took Clemente’s index finger and put it in her mouth while he spoke.
“And when Miggy comes up short… Just remember that I get to put a mango in your ass and eat it down to the seed. 65 RBIs in a month would be a great accomplishment yet not possible. Just wanted to let you know where things stand.”
The music got loud and another car pulled up angrily. Clemente took a sip of his tea, smiled and winked at his assistant.
“Mango… Oh boy… Maybe I don’t understand baseball after all.”

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