Blackhumouristpress's Blog

December 22, 2016

What Hath God Wrought or A Tweet from Trump

Donald Trump…  You know, the guy nobody believed would become
president of the United States.  The great white hope. Brexit in
America, grab them by the pussy…  That dude.  He happened to watch an
MTV snippet of  resolution suggestions for white guys.  Trump
impetuously grabbed his cell phone, an I-Phone7+ that he received from
Rush Limbaugh as a gift for winning the presidency and decided to
record himself rebutting the millennial advice to white guys.  Very
unpresidential but damn funny.
“I happened to be up late wondering what I would do exactly if one of
our diplomats was whacked while giving a speech or if some exile from
Syria stole a plumbing truck from some poor Polish plumber in Windsor,
Ontario and decided to mow down people figure skating to, “It’s
beginning to look a lot like Christmas” in downtown Detroit.  Find
them and skin them alive?  Put them in Gitmo and play, Born in the USA
night and day in between waterboarding?  Slap Angela Merckle the way
Humphrey Bogart would have slapped a dame back when America was great?
Ah yes…Eisenhower, GM, IBM, unbridled American growth and prosperity…
Before the Beatles grew their hair and everyone smoked pot and hated
their parents for living through the Great Depression, fighting in
World War II and Korea, raised them wholesome and homogenously with
two vacations a year, just so that they could make love to whomever
and hate their parents for not liking Jimi Hendrix… And then I saw a
clip from MTV.   Today you got a whole lot of bust outs living in mom
and dad’s basement, playing beer pong and getting wasted playing
X-Box.  These are the same tools that when they get up to take a piss,
decide to go out and protest the fact that I won…  You know who I’m
talking about.  MTV put them on a recorded message to white guys.  Get
a little more aware, a little more hip and a little less white.  It
starts out with a wholesome looking white chap with a few nose
freckles who waves his hand as a gesture of hello but not a gesture
any person of color would ever do…  Why?  To damn white.  It smacks of
I’m a little pussy, cut in front of me in line, wet your finger and
jam it in my ear, take food you desire off of my plate and sodomize me
if you please.  Then you have the son of Steve Urkel, wearing a cat
shirt.  A nerdy black man who is in the know on what white guys need
to do in 2017…  Holy Smokes!  Then you get the poster boy for Michelle
Obama’s get-the-fuck-out-and-exercize-you-lazy-fat-fuck who looks like
the fat son of that hot Spanish chick, Sonia Veraga.  Next you have
Ugly Betty and Betty’s better looking sister and then the girl who
defected from her violin lessons and really thinks being white sucks…
Maybe she’ll date a black guy she was a pen pal to in prison with a
nice neck tattoo, gold-capped tooth and saggy trousers.  To his dismay
this modern day, Look Who’s Coming to Dinner might find out that white
momma wants to bag her daughter’s bad boy and white poppa’s decided to
switch teams during his mid-life crisis and grow a set of breasts,
crop his junk and learn to garden and cry at things that really don’t
warrant a tear while watching The View. Meanwhile Tyrone, Tramane,
Trayvon or what have you, might slip the hood on his hoodie at his
dinner, surrounded by dysfunctional white suburbia family worthy of
Jerry Springer and text one of his homies his shock and awe at how
white people really are and send the same damn message that Samuel
Morse wrote on his first message on the telegraph- What Hath God
Wrought?  And meanwhile back at the ranch…  We get advice to white
guys.    This just in… Soccer isn’t really a sport and if you played
it as a kid and got a trophy for just showing up, I got bad news for
you…  You probably didn’t win.  You thought I would lose and I didn’t.
Stop blaming Russians and Wiki Leaks for a flawed candidate.  Accept
that some times what you believe is not the ultimate truth despite
what a college professor might have spewed to you…  January 20th is
coming soon.  Make a resolution in the New Year to accept reality
instead of some virtual, alternative thing people have told you is
possible.  Okay…  I think that’s good.  Barron, did you hit the stop
button?”

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March 8, 2016

Donald Does Detroit or Let Them Eat Fluff

                One of the board of education members happened to be at a golf outing that was attended by Donald Trump.  It was at the Trump golf Mecca in Florida and Trump was going to join a friend, a friend of a friend and a Chinese dignitary that couldn’t speak English.  Trump didn’t have time for 18 holes but he said he could do 9 holes.  The friend of a friend put up the challenge that he could beat the quartet and if he did, rather than bet money, Trump would have to give a speech while in Detroit to high school students who showed signs of promise but were struggling to stay in school.  Trump told the friend of a friend to fuck himself, nobody beats Trump on his own course, and I will beat all of you and still speak to your kids.  Trump won but may have cheated.

                After the debate at the Fox Theater in Detroit, Trump took a motorcade tour of the city of Detroit.  He took out his phone and began to tweet.

                “Detroit will be great again.  The United States will be great again.  I just might buy up half of this town and see to it myself.  Travesty what has happened to a once great city.”

                Early the next day, the Fox Theater was filled with thousands of students picked by Deans and principals of various inner city Detroit high schools to receive a verbal pep talk, a bitch slap, a verbal dunking in the water tank of life.  Rumors swirled that JZ, Beyoncé, Kanye West and Cam Newton might be at the event to speak to chosen students.  After twenty extra minutes of waiting, secret service agents walked in ahead of Donald Trump.  There he stood with his thinning helmet of hair, orange face, a squint like Clint Eastwood and famous scowl.

                “I love this damn town so much that I decided to stay an extra night.  I told your school superintendents that I want to speak to the future of Detroit.  I want to try and reach them in some way.  I don’t know that I can, but I’m going to try…  Now who here is rich?  Let me see a show of hands.”

                A few hands went up and some laughter.  This triggered the inner Trump in the Donald.  They were all about being Trumpled.

                “You might misunderstand me.  I don’t mean wealthy enough to buy a used Buick and put a sound system that would blow out your hearing faster than if you were blowing off mortars in a battle field without ear protection.  I don’t mean having enough money to buy dope and sell it in an neighborhood the way say an Arab party store owner sells you a forty ounce and some blunts and maybe a box of Pampers…  I don’t know exactly what your immediate needs could be.  I’m talking could any of you here walk out and let’s say, buy a house, buy up a block, buy up the downtown and turn into something you think is positive for this town…  I could.  I could move every piece of property that I own worldwide and fill up the city of Detroit with what I own…  That my pupils is what it means to be truly rich.  Anything else is wannabe…  I could move everything I own right here in Detroit but that would take too much time…  I have a better idea, how bout I just buy up this town and turn it around myself…  This country is a lot like Detroit- a once great nation that built things and sold things to the world.  Detroit used to sell the lion’s share and I do mean Detroit Lion’s share of cars to the entire world.  Was JFK killed in a Toyota?  No, kids…  It was a Lincoln Continental made right here in Detroit.  When I’m president, we are going to make so many GM, Fords and Chryslers here that it will make your head spin.  Cars will be made here in Detroit.  Flint will get Detroit water again…  You’ll see.  Now all of you can do something to change your lives, better your lives so that you don’t die prematurely.  Die dealing drugs, die at the hand of the police who I love and are really treated quite poorly by the press who are not allowed to cover this meeting here today…  Die from eating really bad food and getting really fat because you can’t afford good food because you’re too poor to buy good food that won’t make you suffer.  You should want to be responsible, prosperous people who don’t try to sue each other on Judge Judy or figure out whose baby is whose on Morrie Povich.  Everyone here would like to visit Jamaica one day for a vacation… maybe Hawaii, am I right?  Sure, sure… but if you’re sitting in the state pen in Taylor, you’re not going to see anything but some of the worst people in the world, going nowhere and doing nothing with a wasted life.  Who wants to get pinched one day by the cops who I love dearly and end up in jail?  Who wants to do time and wind up on all fours in front of some big lifer staring at a prison wall and wonder how did I get here and how can I get out.  Don’t get there…  Let me say it plainly…  Are there any evangelicals in the crowd who I love so much?  I love the Evangelicals but don’t want to offend them.  They’re easily offended by profanity but it is a dialect I know all of you understand all too well so let me sum this up fast because I don’t want to lose you…

STAY IN SCHOOL AND PROVE TO THE WORLD THAT YOU CAN GET A DEGREE AND WHETHER YOU DO SOMETHING WITH THAT DEGREE OR WIPE YOUR ASS WITH IT, PROVE TO THOSE ABOVE YOU THAT YOU ARE WORTHY TO BE GIVEN A CHANCE TO RISE IN THIS CRUEL WORLD.  DRUGS ONLY MASK THE FACT THAT YOU HATE YOUR LIFE AND WANT TO GO TO A BETTER PLACE IN YOUR OWN FUCKING HEAD IF ONLY TEMPORARILY…  WHO WANTS TO BE SOMEONE’S BITCH IN PRISON?  WHO WANTS TO GET SHOT UP ON THE STREET?  I DON’T MEAN TO YELL BUT I WANT YOU TO KNOW I MEAN WHAT I SAY.”

                It got quiet.  Nobody clapped, nobody booed or murmured.  It was a strange moment for Donald.  He shrugged his shoulders, took a drink and went on.

                “People are gonna get offended in life.  That’s just how it is.  I can’t help that.  You make a comment about homosexuals, men who used to be women and women who used to be men, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, Eskimos…  I actually might lose Alaska because I called someone an Eskimo.  You wanna know what?  Unless you came on the Mayflower, you came as an immigrant.  It’s just that simple.  Some of your people were brought on slave ships, some crossed the border illegally but you’re here now and you’re American.  For those who don’t follow rules and order, you will be sent back.  We will have a country, we will have borders, and we will be great again…  Detroit will rise again.  I love Detroit.  I love Detroiters.  I might just come back and buy this town and put the best minds on the job of bringing jobs back and bring them back first to right here in Detroit.  People want to sneer at Detroit?  When I leave office, you won’t be able to afford to live in this town.  They’re will be a Starbucks on every corner, gluten-free, lesbian safe grocery stores, boutiques with stuff so damn expensive, you’ll think you’re in Paris.  You stand with me and I’ll stand with you.  You do the right thing and I will do the right thing for this city, for this country and we’ll be great again…”

                Donald raised his right arm up.  It was more like a papal wave than a Nazi salute.  A few students rose to their feet and clapped.  Then before long everyone stood and clapped.  Stunned teachers and administrators clapped and they didn’t even know why exactly.  Where they bullied into clapping?  Where they inspired to clap?  Nobody could quite put a finger on it and really, it didn’t matter.  Trump was off to another town to inspire others to vote for him just like a half dozen other presidential candidates were doing across the land and why exactly?  To have old music played every time you walk into a room?  To be treated like a king and hated like a king on the way to the guillotine, oblivious to the plight of the commoners.  The messages and words vary from candidate to candidate but it all comes out the same- Let them eat fluff.  Nothing of substance.

February 3, 2016

La Vie Noir

I knew when I opened the door and saw Raymond’s eyes, I had to accept things like a man.  Nowhere to hide, nothing to say except maybe to explain that it was all on me.  I keep this diary with me and I’m not really sure who is ever going to read this.  Some copper and then he’ll pass it along to my mother.  Who knows about those things.  When you’re gone, you’re just gone.  I’m getting cold and things are getting distant and fuzzy.  It’s hard to focus.  I’ll try to get this out while I can.

                I came in the joint as I always did.  You know the place- dark with the piano music going.  Some couples whisper to one another, others sit there with that look like they don’t want to be approached but yet are itching for conversation.  That night, Benny was playing Mona Lisa by Nat King Cole.  Benny plays a little piano and sings and then takes out his trumpet with the mute and softly solos over a few chords held by his left hand on the piano.  Benny has a talent for music and a knack for making people feel at ease.  A nice voice, a nice smile and everyone’s best friend.  I dropped a five in Benny’s jar and asked what he thought.

                “She ain’t like most, boss.  Something different bout this one…  You land this one and I think you really got something…  But I could be wrong.”

                Benny was never wrong.  A man sitting at a piano captures certain nuances in the way a person looks, how they sit, what they drink and the look on their faces.  Benny is there for their entertainment but really he’s studying human nature nightly and gets paid for it.  I sat a few stools over from her and made like I was really interested in Curling.  She looked engrossed.  At a commercial, she took a sip of her red wine and asked me what I knew about Curling.

                “It’s something that some people do and …  Well, everyone has got to do something.  Some people go to piano bars in the dark so that nobody really sees them or see what they’re thinking.  There is some comfort in darkness.  Everything doesn’t need to have the light cast on it…  You know what I mean?”

                She smiled a sly smile and looked at me with those sad eyes.  She was everything a man could ever want in a woman.  She was a rare beauty, calm and refined.  She had the type of body that sculptors hope to sculpt. 

                “That’s a profound answer regarding a really obscure sport…  I like it though.”

                I bought her a drink and had another.  I learned her name was Gretchen and that she spent a lot of time drawing things that she felt and then wrote things to go with the drawings.  She would sell her creations through an art dealer.  She never let me know how she made her money.  She asked me what I did.  I told her that I was in to research and development.  I used round about ways of getting to the point and she rather enjoyed analogies and philosophies.  I wanted so much to move over one more seat.  I was drawn in and could not stop it.  Dames don’t usually do this to me.  I like them and some times love them a bit but then things develop that complicates things and then things just change.  When they become routine and predictable, you have nothing.  People force themselves to slug along knowing that they’re going against the grain because they are conditioned to find someone, marry that someone, have some kids, form a family and feel like they belong to something and maybe have something but then like ole Raymond, what do you have in the end?  I’m getting ahead of myself.

                Gretchen asked if I would be interested in seeing her artwork.  How could I resist.  What do I know about art?  Nothing, but then again I was taken in.  We left the club and went up an elevator to a penthouse that overlooked the whole city of Detroit.  A bunch of lights along the river and then a lot of darkness and that’s just how it is in Detroit.  She showed me easels of gray, sad but beautiful sketches of a profile of a girl in a field, on a swing, at the beach.  I was tempted to ask if the girl was her.  I didn’t want to be so simple.  I think she liked that I was abstract and you can’t be abstract and obvious. 

                Gretchen put on an Edith Piaf record on her hi-fi and poured us each a drink.  She put the drink up to my lips and then set it down on a table beside us.  She gently took my hand and put it on the small of her back and leaned into me.  In an instant it all felt as though it was meant to be.  The smell of her, the feel of her.  I was drawn in so strong. 

                I left some time during the middle of the night.  I didn’t think it would be right to be there in the light of day. Nobody wants regret or the awkwardness of having to say something, to force something.  There’s a right way the first time.  You hope to plant a seed and see if it grows. Things change when you put light on it.  I left my name and number on a piece of paper.  I sketched a boy sitting near a pond on the paper with a few words.

                “It’s rare you meet someone that fits so well, so much so that you can’t use words.  I enjoyed the evening and believe I would enjoy other evenings just as much.”

                I slept on the couch and woke to the sound of my phone ringing.  It was Raymond.  Raymond had questions for me.  There was hesitation in my voice and I felt I sounded insincere to him.  He offered to pay me for my time and I told him there was no charge.  Maybe that was the red flag.  I didn’t give it much thought and why should I when I had Gretchen on my mind.  Whenever my mind went blank or had time to rest, my thoughts went back to Gretchen.  I thought about the feel of her body against mine, her smile, her voice and her touch.  I wanted badly to see her and then I heard from her.

                “I make the best food a man could ever hope to eat.  I make the food, you bring the wine.”

                Gretchen wanted to see me as much as I wanted to see her.  Beginnings are always good and fresh and unpredictable.  The loving was above average, the companionship was everything a man could hope for and yet in the back of my mind, I knew this all couldn’t last.

                The older I get, the more I realize that things are transitory.  Things come and go and you take them for what they are and go on.  Gretchen wasn’t fading in my heart and I didn’t want it to end.  Men say they know what love is and I can’t say I do.  I could no more explain love than I could air.  I just know the two are things you need and when everything is good, you don’t have to worry about them.

                Gretchen suspected that the cleaners were at the door delivering her clothes.  She was getting ready to go out.  We were taking a boat ride on the Detroit River late night.  I opened the door to find a sweating Raymond with his tie twisted.  His teeth were gritted and he panted as he walked towards me.  He called for Gretchen to come out of the bedroom.  She emerged from the room wide eyed at Raymond who stood in front of her with a gun.

                “Raymond…  Why are you doing this?  There’s no reason for this.”          

                Gretchen was wrong.  There’s always a reason for everything and things like a jealous ex-husband with a gun, can be explained.  Raymond hired me and I couldn’t take the job.  I told him that there was nothing for him to worry about and so Raymond hired a detective to expose a detective.  Raymond’s lifeless body lays a few feet from me and there is Gretchen in my lap while I lean against the wall as I scribble into my notebook.  Should I call for an ambulance?  Will life ever get better than what it has been lately since I met Gretchen?  Probably not.  In fact I know it won’t.  If this is as good as it gets, then why go on?  I reached the top of the mountain and it’s beautiful.  Maybe it’s time to just let go and jump…  Give my best to mother.  That’s all.

September 9, 2014

Last Day

Filed under: Detroit,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 8:25 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

“Ha! There he is, there’s the kid! You ready to go?”
Walt looked at his grandfather who he had not seen in a few months that had been stored away in a nursing home in suburban Detroit. Eddy was wearing a white summer suit, with white shoes and a white hat. He was sitting on his side of the room that had been his home for close to six months. The television was so loud that one could hear it half way down the hall. Eddy grabbed the remote control off of the nightstand of his cellmate who had the blaring volume going night and day. Eddy turned off the television, opened the window, which was always closed with drawn blinds and dropped the remote control to the ground below. Eddy’s roommate looked at him incredulously as he leaned forward and said the first few words uttered between them for close to a half-year.
“I know you’re not deaf. You’re just an asshole. Nobody visits you or likes you and so you keep that idiot box as loud as you possibly can stand for companionship. Peter Francis Geraci doesn’t know you or give a fuck about you… You following me? Are you Dracula? What’s with the blinds always being drawn and the windows never open? You are a selfish fuck, Seymour. I leave you with no television for the time being and a wide-open window. Enjoy the sun. You won’t get much when they bury your ass in the ground… I’m ready, Wally.”
The plan was for Walt to visit his grandfather who served as his father. Walt was living in Chicago and could not get to Detroit often enough to see the man who served as his dad, his whole life.
Eddy lived through The Great Depression as a child only to be sent to the Pacific during World War II for five years as a young adult. He raised two children and then raised two children belonging to his son who was unwilling and incapable of being a dad and father. Wally felt guilt over letting his grandfather rot in a nursing home and upon hearing that his aspiration Pneumonia was incurable, Wally intended on getting Eddy to his home in Chicago to live out his days with someone who knew him and loved him. Wally wasn’t ready to receive a feisty man capable of walking. He had heard from the person in charge of the nursing home that his grandfather was bedridden and incapable of walking anymore.
“You rented a Corvette?! That’s a good way to go, m’boy. It’s the car that is clearly American that the Krauts and Japs cannot bury… Put the top down on this honey.”
“Where are we going, grandpa? They told me you have trouble breathing and no longer could walk. Where do you wanna go?”
Walt had heard that terminally ill patients sometimes have a day unlike any day that they have had in years. Eddy was having one. Eddy wanted to see a baseball game.
Walt and Eddy sat out in the right field bleachers at Comerica Park where the Detroit Tigers play. Eddy sat smiling with his white Pork Pie hat and horned rimmed sunglasses. It was a sunny day with low humidity.
“When you’re young, you don’t think about a beautiful day like this. You’re gonna have a million more. You’re gonna live forever and old age is for other people but not for you. I got Malaria twice in my twenties during the war and my feet were so rotten from being in wet boots during the war, living on shit food and no sleep and I never thought I would be killed. Politicians send young men to fight their battles because young men think they’re invincible… You still invincible?”
Walt didn’t feel invincible any longer. Being in his forties, he knew that life was getting shorter by the day.
“As a young boy, I saw Ty Cobb play. I didn’t realize for a long time who he was and what he meant to the game and ball in Detroit… I said I would never come to this newfangled place but I gotta say that this is all right… Nice park.”
Eddy hacked and hacked and hocked up a clam and spit it in his empty beer cup. Wally watched his grandfather carefully. Eddy noticed the look of concern on his grandson’s face and lightened the moment with an old tongue twister.
“It’s not the coughing often. It’s the coffin they carry you off in…”
Eddy refused to walk around with an oxygen tank. After the game, they went to eat at a restaurant in Greektown. Eddy ordered some flaming cheese and only had a bite. Solid food was hard for him to swallow. Food sometimes went down to his lungs instead of to his stomach and the chance of choking was always high. Eddy had a red wine and smiled. Walt didn’t know what to do with his grandfather next and so he asked.
“I’d like to go to a strip club… There’s nothing more beautiful than the female body. Your grandmother was a rare beauty back in the day. Nice smile, nice legs… and real firm tits. Tits are an amazing thing. You can’t properly fuck them but they feel nice to touch the way a kid pets a dog or a rabbit… They just feel nice.”
The duo found a strip club around the corner. On the door of the place was a sign that said, “Tits and Tigers- get a free beer and half price lap dance with a Detroit Tigers ticket stub”. Walt drank his beer while a young woman writhed around on top of his grandfather while he groped her breasts and kissed her neck. Within an hour, they were back in the Corvette.
“I used to go to dance halls before the war. I’d meet a new girl every week. I always made that girl feel like a queen for the day. Sometimes you’d get a little action and sometimes you got nothing. It was a lot like fishing. Sometimes you got a trophy and other times your didn’t get a bite… Swell gal today. Fake tits are interesting. They didn’t have such a thing back when I was young. They flopped a bit if they were big and that was fine… Things change.”
Walt didn’t know what to do with his grandfather. He started to drive back towards the nursing home when Eddy asked if they could drive clear across the state to see the sun set over Lake Michigan. It was late in the day and it would be close. Walt drove the Corvette as fast as he could down the interstate towards Holland, Michigan and arrived after the sun had set. Eddy smiled as the dimly lit sky turned to black.
“And that’s how life is… You think you have more time than you do. Each day is like a lifetime and the morning holds so much promise. As the sun begins to set, you realize time is short and everything you want to do is no longer possible… Everyday is like a lifetime and every time you fall asleep is a little like dying. You close your eyes and float away to a place within your own mind.”
Walt found a hotel room with two beds. Walt propped his grandfather upright so that he could breathe easier. The wall A/C unit provided white noise that allowed them both to fall asleep and prevented Walt from noticing the change in the breathing pattern of his grandfather. Walt awoke to find his grandfather gasping for air and unconscious. Walt felt guilty that he allowed his grandfather to talk him into a whirlwind tour in one day while being so sick. Walt called for an ambulance that took a long time to arrive. It seemed like hours. Walt asked Eddy to squeeze his hands but there was no response. Walt kept talking to Eddy in hopes of keeping him alive knowing that life was slipping away. He suddenly said things he wishes he had said before.
“I stopped hugging you and kissing you at the age of twelve because I thought that men didn’t do those things. I never thanked you for taking over where my parents failed. I thought I had more time to show my appreciation… Had I known you were going to check out today, I would have stayed up all night talking to you. You’ve lived 94 years but you could live 200 and I would still miss you and turn to you with questions and guidance. I’ve had you my whole life… and I will miss you more than I can say… I love you, grandpa.”
And with that, Eddy’s eyes opened for a full second and then closed and he stopped breathing. Life had ended. There would be no funeral service or a casket for Eddy. He was cremated and his remains placed in a marble urn with a death certificate. Before returning back to Chicago, Walt sat on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan on a warm summer night. The beach and park on the bluff was filled with people waiting to see the sun set on a beautiful day. Walt sat quietly with the urn next to him as the large ball grew smaller and smaller and then disappeared. A million stars appeared around a half moon. Eddy was somewhere among the stars that go on forever.

Edward Arthur Calahan Jr. 4-20-1920 to 8-30-14-
The greatest man you never met.

July 7, 2014

Saying Goodbye to Father

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor,Mixed Race,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:00 am
Tags: , , , , ,

Delice, named after the Freshman school teacher that helped her mother accept the fact that she was going to become a mother at the age of 15, arrived at the hospital to see her father who was dying. She arrived wearing dowdy Amish clothing with her eldest daughter who was cross eyed and full of acne. Denise, the daughter of Delice, strummed an autoharp while her mother alternated between receiting bible verses and singing hymnals in German and English.

Delice was raised in a broken home as they were called in the seventies. She smoked pot, had sex, wore Van Shoes, Ocean Pacific clothing and had a thing for surfer boys in Los Angeles where she was raised by her mother.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

Delice moved from Los Angeles to the no-mans land in Michigan south of Detroit and north of the Ohio border. It was while working at an interstate 75 road stop that she met a young Amish man who was on his way from Michigan to Pennsylvania with family. The thought came to Delice that maybe a simple life without drugs and random sex, might be a good life. She told the young man who stopped to urinate at the rest stop and marveled at the gawdiness of the Sunoco gas station, that she had a dream about marrying an Amish man who looked exactly like him. The young man was visually taken in by the shapely and pretty young woman and so he took her with him. As time went on, Delice became more and more Amish. Maybe too Amish for most Amish.

Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art.
Then sings my soul, My Saviour God, to Thee,
How great Thou art, How great Thou art!

Now Delice had a brother who was raised in southern California, became a Punk Rock kid who moved out of his mother’s home at age fifteen and joined his sister in nowhere Michigan with their dad. Mathew Luke or Luke Mathew as he was sometimes called, lived with his father, a former Vietnam Veteran for a lot of his life. Delice’s short time with her father prior to becoming Amish, left her with different memories of life with father.

Luke Mathew’s wife, a buxom black woman who owned several hair braiding salons in and around Detroit, sat next to her husband and texted a suitor who loved her pretty smile, large ass and breasts. Dominica loved the attention but had yet to act on her urges to be with other men who were less cavemanesque than her husband. Mathew Luke’s and Dominca’s twin sons played Mindcraft on hand held computers. They really didn’t know their grandfather nor did they like him. He was old and angry looking and really white. They were kind of white but not really.

Picture this: It is a hospital room with a patient and six other people. Two are Amish, one is a white man with no hair, tattoos, scars and a sleeveless shirt to show off his arms, his buxom wife who happens to be black and their twin boys who care most for their hand held electronics. And then the patient.

Mathew Luke waited for his sister to finish praying, singing and crying over a man she never really knew. After a thirty minute prayer that was more like a eulogy, Luke Matthew was given the chance to say a few words to his dad who was left unable to speak due to a stroke.

“Pop…you were a mean motherfucker. As a kid, my friends and all thought you looked like Charles Manson. You were a drunk, a mean drunk that shot at people who owed you money, made racist comments my whole life including calling my two boys, “the little brown ones”. Your fixation with young Asian girls is warped, your hygiene is poor as is your attitude. You should have died in that house fire ten years ago when you were burned over 65% of your body. I was told then that you would die and I knew you wouldn’t. I told them that any man who could drink and smoke for a week straight without eating and sleeping, could suddenly stop the self abuse, eat a yogurt and then jog ten miles, could not die so easily by a mere burn. Most people would have died from the pain but you lived off of the pain of life. It keeps you going. Sure you can hear me and you love the idea that your daughter who has joined a Germanic cult has come to sing songs and recite bible verses that need to go through a translator. It ain’t a bad thing. I look here today at my two boys who cannot hear me right now because they are engrossed in some mindless bullshit that I don’t understand on computers. They will stand over me one day hopefully and say something kind. So I will say something kind too. You are a strong man with a will to go on despite the fact that you have abused your liver for over forty years. On the other hand you are a racist and an angry loner. You were given the gift of a high metabolism and great stamina to have a physique of a thirty year old man while in your sixties. You helped me at times of self doubt to not be a pussy. You made me fight other boys that I was afraid to fight or face you. I was always willing to fight others than have to face you. When I thought I was impotent because I couldn’t maintain an errection due to nerves as a teen, you told me to relax and have the girl, “pop it in her mouth the way your mom once did for me”. So in closing, I don’t think you are on the way out. I think you’ll bounce back as you have so many other times before…”

Wade, their father motioned with a slightly operational right hand for a pad of paper and a pen. Wade scribbled something barely legible. It was short and to the point. It astounded Delice but not Mathew Luke. This is what it said:

FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING PUNK ASS BITCH.

November 12, 2013

Happy Veterans Day

Filed under: Detroit,Ethnicity,humor — blackhumouristpress @ 8:17 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Wade watched his son walk out alone through the tunnel. He saw a skinny kid with a lot of feathered hair. He thought his young son looked like Shawn Cassidy, an androgynous looking teen star. Luke held out his hand to the man who looked like Charles Manson in an olive green army coat. The man with intense eyes left his son’s hand to hang in the air until he dropped it.
“You came from Frisco?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are there still a lot of queers in Frisco?”
“I don’t know. I live in Oakland. My mom works at Berkeley. She said it was cheaper to fly out of San Francisco than Oakland.”
“Berkeley huh? Lot of fucking hippies at that school. You’re not a Shawn Cassidy fan are you?”
“No sir. My sister is though.”
Wade was a Vietnam veteran who had come back from an eighteen month, two tours of duty to Detroit. He was an infantry sergeant whose job it was to walk from village to village through the jungle after Agent Orange, a defoliant, was used to cause the foliage to die instantly, making it possible to see the forest through the trees as the saying goes.
Luke looked at the beat up looking house in a beat up looking area of a town he was born in but had not visited since being an infant. In the front yard with knee high grass; behind a six-foot cinderblock wall with razor wire at the top and a sign that read, “Trespass if you want to go to heaven today”. In the yard were three Doberman Pinchers. The three dogs growled at Luke. Luke was frozen with fear.
“If you act like a scared little pussy, you’ll always get your ass kicked. Don’t think them dogs don’t know you’re frightened like a girl. Just be cool and they won’t fuck with you… Hey, you got my money, motherfucke!r?”
A chubby man with aviator sunglasses and a thick black moustache was loading his belongings into a car in the driveway at that same moment. He had been renting a bedroom from Wade and decided to vacate upon not having rent money two months in a row.
“Well, I have just recently become gainfully employed and will be able to send you money from Cleveland just as soon as I get my first check.”
Wade held up his index finger motioning his renter to wait a moment.
“Wait here. I got a little something to give you before you go. Don’t take off yet.”
Wade went into his bedroom, brought out a double barrel 12 gauge shot-gun and pointed it at his renter. The truck lid was open. Wade shot a hole in the trunk as his former renter raced off in his car.
“Rule fucking one- be a man of your word and don’t bullshit people especially if they are not stupid enough to swallow bullcrap. He thinks I would kill and I would. He won’t ever send me a nickel. He deserved the scare for being a lying ass deadbeat. You hungry?”
Wade took Luke to a Coney Island and let him order a hot dog with fries and a soda. He thumbed through a book called Dianetics by a man named L. Ron Hubbard while smoking a cigarette. Luke, an eleven year old boy wondered why it was that the man who was his father, never asked him any questions. What’s your school like? How’s your mom? Does your sister ever ask about me? After about five minutes of silence, Wade started to speak.
“I had a friend named Lester. A bad ass Jew boy who lived in Southfield. He had a Dodge Charger and wouldn’t take no shit from nobody. He went to reform school and when he got out, his family wouldn’t let him back in the house. I had a job with your mom’s father working at a Plymouth plant and Lester was living with your mom and I. Well old Lester had no fucking job and he was at home all day with your mom while I was working. You were a baby and about a year later, your sister was born. When your sister came out, she was born with a hook fucking nose. I’m wondering where she got the hook. Maybe a Jew with a hook nose himself? I know your sister is Lester’s kid. She looks like Lester in all them pictures your mom sent me.”
Luke went on to hear the same story several more times before he returned home. Upon returning home, Luke confronted his mother with the question about Lester being the father of his sister. Luke’s mother slapped him and replied that Lester was a pig and the very idea of being accused of being with him, made her violent.
Two men came in to the restaurant and began quietly robbing everyone at the Coney Island. Wade took notice and put down the book on Dianetics. Eventually the men walked up towards Wade and Luke. One man plopped down across from Wade, next to Luke as he picked his teeth with a toothpick.
“Hey man, we collecting money foh little brothas of the poor. We poor brothas and we collecting. Take out all you got in your pockets and just be cool, dig?”
Wade took a drink of his coffee with his left hand and rammed the barrel of his gun into the crotch of the man sitting across from him calmly.
“I was in a village you ain’t never heard of or cared about some 10,000 miles from here. Some motherfucker strapped a bomb to a kid who came up and begged for candy and then died and took two friends of mine with him. I then rounded up ever man in the village, put a gun in their mouths like the one against your balls right now and sent them to see Buddha. I would have no fucking problem pulling the trigger right now and splattering your nutsack all over the wall behind you. I went to fight so that motherfuckers like you could coast, right? Great country. Now you two motherfuckers clean your pockets of the shit you just took and set it right here on the table. I might then let you walk the fuck out of here.”
Luke couldn’t eat anymore. His teeth chattered uncontrollably. His father asked if he was cold. It was eighty-five degrees out. Before Luke returned to Oakland, his father threatened people who looked at him, bumped into him, cut him off in traffic and even pulled out a sawed off shotgun to shoot at what he thought was pheasant in a field in inner city Detroit. Luke never came to visit his father again. Years later, a nurse from a hospital in a burn unit in Las Vegas was able to find Luke via Facebook to let him know that his father had been burned over 65% of his body in a house fire. Most people die from the intense pain, Wade was a strong man who could endure great pain. All his life he endured the pain of living a life that went wrong. Was it society and war or just an inability to adjust to speed of life in America? There’s no answer.
Luke read through magazines and sent text messages to his wife back in Northern California. Wade opened his eyes and saw a baby girl on the screen saver of his son’s laptop. Luke was unaware that his father was conscious.
“What’s your baby’s name?”
“We named her Joyeaux… It’s French. We call her Joy for short.”
“Everyone has fucked up names today, don’t they? Who does your baby look like, you or your wife?”
Luke smiled and looked at his dad before responding. He wondered how it was that the man looking at him was more of a stranger than a random person on the street. Luke asked himself often how it was that this man never contacted him and apologized for never being a part of my life. He reasoned that you cannot miss something that means nothing to you.
“Well dad… I have to be honest with you. Joyeaux looks like Lester… How bout that?”
Dedicated to my dad, a Vietnam Veteran. A man I’ve known since birth that I still really do not know.

October 31, 2013

Disney for Adults or Debauchery in Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 7:36 am
Tags: , , , ,

A good idea is really a good idea and leaves others to ponder why it was they didn’t think about it first. A place that serves coffee like heroin to addicts who need a fix just to function. A great idea worth a billion.
Now Thomas Washington, no relation to George Washington or Thomas Jefferson, bought land in Detroit for pennies on the dollar. After winning the Powerball at a party store on Livernois and some other street you don’t know or care about in Detroit, Thomas, who was living in his mother’s beat up two bedroom house south of 8 mile, bought a bottle of Thorn Rose sweet red wine and a Powerball ticket. Thomas’ chances of being hit by a satellite on a motorcycle travelling 62.5 miles an hour or 100 kilometers, which ever you prefer, was greater than landing the single ticket worth a half billion. Call it destiny with divinity.
Now Thomas reasoned that his town wasn’t such a bad town. It used to be a good town and upon visiting Las Vegas for a weekend and a week in Dubai, Thomas decided that buying vacant land in Detroit and turning into a Disney for adults or debauchery in Detroit, was a way of turning millions into billions.
After a few hotels and casinos popped up in northwest Detroit where a man-made lake was lined with love cabins and getaway destinations for lovers and others, big time investment followed. Soon came MMA matches, live sex shows and donkey shows. There were video game arcades for adults where they could redeem tickets to have relations with women from around the world or for hunks from next door. Hookah dens with hash and Marijuana, MTV reality shows, 5 star restaurants packed with stars and those wanting to be stars. Fake beaches and fake people flocked to Detroit to make the scene. Las Vegas became a subdued ghost town.
Forbes had a picture of a beautiful hotel overlooking a shimmering lake with a young woman in a thong wading in knee deep water. The caption read, “Detroit- The key to America’s renaissance”. The author of the article commented on how it took a genius to tap into the hidden desires of man to create a vacationland of hidden fantasies for people from around the world. Thomas Washington was pictured in a bowler hat and a cane lined with diamonds, dressed in a suit which was handmade by a man in Italy who charged $20,000.00. Thomas took a puff of a Cohiba, took a sip from a $1,000.00 a bottle cognac in a gold rimmed glass. Thomas picked tobacco or lint off of his tongue before contouring his razor thin moustache and speaking in a quietly smooth voice. He paused ten seconds before answering the journalist which only made Thomas seem deeper than he was.
“People are gonna do what they gonna do. I just make it fashionable to be a pig. When you have money, you a deep motherfucker. When you ain’t got a pot to piss in, you jus a dirty motherfucker… And that’s jus how shit is.

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.”

August 20, 2013

When Pigs Flew Over Detroit

Filed under: Detroit,humor,Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 6:17 am
Tags: , , , , , , ,

At 4:42 am on a July morning, angry clouds swirled and twisted as the sun behind a curtain of storm cover, began to light the sky. A loud boom and a flash of lightning hit the Fisher Body 21 building and illuminated it like a Christmas tree for a solid ten seconds. It was so beautiful to see the mother of all Detroit structural eyesores, shine as though rapture was going to take place at the site where chassis for Cadillac’s prestigious cars were once made. It has since become a haven for urban dwellers that tag walls and break windows, those who harvest metal to earn money and those without a place to live.
A semi carrying canisters of nitrous oxide slammed into the back of a livestock transporter full of pigs being taken to slaughter to make things like bacon, bacon dates, bacon bits, canned hams, ham sandwiches and so forth. The livestock transporter swayed hard to the left and then back to the right until the back end swung around and knocked the cab on its side. Sparks flew as the two large vehicles slid for the length of two football fields. A motorcyclist hit a large sow that had been released from the carriage and was running toward the motorcycle. It took several seconds for the brain of the motorcyclist to accept that a herd of pigs were running full boat towards him at daybreak, with a really angry sky and cars dodging animals and other cars on interstate 75. The motorcyclist hit a pig and flew over cars, over the barrier wall for the freeway and experienced the sensation of flying down a rollercoaster until he landed on the back of a scavenger’s truck that just happened to be driving under the freeway, filled with metal and a bedbug infested mattress to break his fall and save his life.
A car full of potential terrorists that had flown from the middle east to Canada, had hit some strip clubs and Caesar’s Windsor casino before crossing the bridge to America to punish Americans for infidelity to god, over indulgence and a lack of discipline and morals, for their weaknesses in giving in to cravings and twisted sexual desires and the idiocy of what they have seen on satellite television on Maury Povich’s paternity and infidelity shows. Infidels to be sure.
The church bus on the way to a retreat in the Upper Peninsula hit a two hundred pound plus hog and propelled it through the air and through the windshield belonging to the men on a mission to punish Americans for being Americans. They took it as a sign from Allah that maybe they were doing the wrong thing. They rationalized that if during a severe storm, Allah sends a pig through your windshield, forcing you to touch a forbidden and dirty, bloody animal during Ramadan, and then maybe it would be best to return home or at least back to Windsor.
A notoriously morally corrupt state trooper who had a knack for stopping attractive young women who were sure to be given a DUI for leaving the casinos drunk in the early morning hours, was touched by the storm and ensuing calamity of flying and running pigs, car crashes and leaking nitrous oxide. The truck with nitrous oxide that hit the livestock truck that caused the motorcyclist to fly onto a bed on the back of a beat up old truck, which distracted the church bus driver, who hit a pig that sent the pig through the windshield of wannabee terrorists (you’re not actually a terrorist unless you’re successful) who then hit the state trooper’s vehicle that was parked on the shoulder while he received oral sex from a young woman who could never have afforded the $10,000.00 in fees for a DUI, all exited their cars and watched the former Marine turned state trooper, walk through the pile up of cars with his zipper down and his bloody detached cock in his hand. The youth pastor of the church bus that was on it’s way to bring troubled inner city youth to a place they could have only dreamed of, exited the bus through a window and began to scream at the clouds. The minister truly believed that Christ had returned and took what he needed and had left the rest for Satan to sort out. The minister tried to quickly reason why it was that he had come up short. Was it the underage girl he had a relationship with when he was young and impressionable at the tender age of thirty-four? Was it the years of anti-war protests, LSD and free love back during the Vietnam days?
“You cannot leave me! I have walked the path I was shown and have shared your message for you. I have acknowledged my sins and have asked you to become my personal savior. How could you forsake me?”
The wannabee terrorists, the church campers, the truck drivers all stood around as the skies poured rain, became windy and brought about hail. Within minutes, the skies cleared and the nitrous oxide leaked and was inhaled by all that converged around the trucks. At first a few people near the leaking tanks of laughing gas, began to giggle and then others whose days and lives were temporarily ruined came over to see if the group of people were laughing or crying.
By the time the paramedics arrived, they found a rather diverse group of stunned people laughing and hugging one another. No apocalypse, no rapture, just a really bad start to a day in July. A day when pigs flew over Detroit.

August 13, 2013

When Maeve Met Medgar

“So if you cannot see, what can you describe to me to help me understand what you know about the color black? As in black people. I’m so interested to hear what you have to say.”
A beautiful young blond and blind woman happened to plop down at the first table she could find at the food court in a mall she had never been to before. She was pouring water into a bowl for her seeing-eye dog. A tall man was eating an ice cream for 49 cents from Mc Donald’s. Medgar loved eating soft serve ice cream going back to the days when he would visit his grandmother in Mississippi in summer months and take pocket change with him and his cousin to the Tastee-Freeze.
Maeve was dropped off by her aunt’s caretaker who was livid that the woman she had cared for, for close to thirty years while she declined with Alzheimer’s, willed her small fortune to her blind niece from Detroit. Aside from assuming that she would inherit the home and money for being a friend and constant companion, Sarah had a thing against German Sheppard dogs whether they were seeing-eye dogs or not. Sarah was Jewish and lost relatives in death camps at the hands of Nazi in Germany. As a girl, Sarah heard stories of German Sheppards snarling and biting hiding Jews in cities in Germany. Oddly enough, Sarah’s great-grandfather was a man who was responsible for creating chemical warfare during World War I and a pesticide called Zyclon A that was eventually modified to kill humans in Nazi death camps and renamed Zyclon B. Sarah was related to that unique man attributed to a lot of death during two world wars. A definite player in human history, German history, modern warfare and a German Jew.
In any event, Maeve would inherit a large Frank Lloyd Wright home in Oak Park, Illinois, Sarah the Caretaker and a few million dollars after the death of her wealthy aunt. The end was drawing near and so Maeve moved from her small apartment in suburban Detroit to suburban Chicago. One warm summer day, Sarah dropped Maeve off at a indoor mall in a lower economic area that had very few Caucasians milling about to buy gaudy t-shirts, cheap jewelry, gym shoes and hip-hop wear. Maeve was told by Sarah that the mall was a nice mall, with nice people just like at home in safe, homogenous Troy, Michigan which is a good fifteen miles from the muck and mire of inner city Detroit.
Maeve, unbeknownst to her, plopped down at the same table as the ice cream eating Medgar. Medgar startled Maeve by speaking to her.
“What a beautiful dog you have, Miss…”
“Oh! I’m sorry; I didn’t know this table was taken. I’ll take another.”
“No need, no need. I’m just sitting here enjoying an ice cream and some air conditioning. Can I buy you an ice cream?”
“Thank you kindly. I am on a strict diet. I’m trying to eat as healthy as possible. I have done research on partially hydrogenated products that are the causes of heart disease. I’m trying to stay away from anything with too many additives. This is my first week in Chicago and I’m truly lost here. I told Sarah that I visited the Summerset Mall in Troy, Michigan nearly everyday. So she decided to bring me here. Is this a nice mall?”
“Well, malls are malls, Right?”
In Troy, the mall had a glass atrium with faux palm trees and resembled a place in Dubai. The mall had granite floors polished so that one could see their reflection and was as clean as if it had just opened. It housed five star restaurants and top shelf department stores. The mall near Berwyn, Illinois catered to lower economic people. There was an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and all the fast-food kiosks that one would find out on the boulevard. People were obese and poor and people of color by in large. Maeve didn’t learn this during her first visit. Medgar, a sensitivity trainer for union workers who were disciplined for racial slurs, was between classes. Most of Medgar’s clientele were white, blue collar, under educated and under cultured, suckled from the tit racists with a fear and disdain of others unlike them. In order to keep their union jobs, they would need to take fifty-hour courses that illustrated the fact that all Americans were immigrants and that all immigrants had taken their turns as the lowest rung on the ladder. There were also testimonials from Asians, Hispanics and African-Americans who had been discriminated against. Most whites left more resolved in their racism but they learned to keep their racism private at work.
“Black… Hmm… Dismal, dank, despair, no light.”
“Light? What is light? “
“Something warm like the sun. I can feel the sun. The sun feels light and airy. The smell of trees and flowers. At night, it is cold and I hear the night is black and black is cold and it doesn’t have sun and warmth… You know?”
“Forgive me for asking but I just think it is so interesting to speak to some who is visually challenged…”
“Visually challenged? Please… That is insulting. I’m blind not stupid.”
“Okay, as you wish… Blind. It is interesting to hear what the blind perceive.”
“I see… Sorry, I hear that all the time. Just thought I would use that phrase even though I can’t actually see.”
“Ha… I got it… So Detroit. Motown. What was that like? Lots of black in Detroit.”
“I was born in the city of Detroit and never went back. All I heard was how screwed up Detroit was going back to the riots after Martin Luther King Jr. From what I hear and know, Detroit was like Rhodesia and has become Zimbabwe and there were too many Robert Mugabe like mayors that ran the city into the ground instead of a Nelson Mandela.”
“That is an interesting analogy. Detroit went from being a prosperous white city to a bankrupt black city. What do you think will save Detroit?”
“White people, white money. It’s okay to have a black city but you cannot exist without whites. I have studied the differences between Chicago and Detroit and the whites have not abandoned Chicago.”
“Did you know that Chicago had a few black mayors?”
“Yes. Did those mayors work with whites?”
“You got me there, Maeve… I am so glad that our paths crossed today. It has been so interesting to me to get your point of view. You being blind and discussing your views is like me being at a dinner party and being invisible. Just listening and taking it in. Good luck here in Chicago.”
Sarah was standing off to the side listening and watching the interchange between a good-looking black man and a good-looking white woman, Maeve. When Medgar departed, Sarah approached Maeve.
“I didn’t hear everything that transpired between you and the gentleman at your table but I do want to make you aware that he was a black man. Did you know that? Did he tell you he was black?”
Maeve furrowed her brow. She felt duped and used. Every black man she had come across in the past had a pseudo, bastardized Deep South accent. Medgar didn’t sound like Amos or Andy. He sounded white as if a color could have a sound. Maeve was embarrassed by the assumption that she was speaking to a white man and ashamed to admit it to Sarah who had been less than nice to here during the short amount of time she had been living with her and her aunt. Sarah asked Maeve what he sounded like to her. Maeve gave a snide answer.
“Well Sarah… He sounded much taller than he looked to me. Can we go home now?”

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