Blackhumouristpress's Blog

August 27, 2013

Separate and Equal

“So wait a minute? You telling me that my friend is not allowed in here?”
The manager wore a thin suit with a thin tie. His hair was combed back with a grease based hair trainer and he was nervously chewing his gum, with his arms folded.
“Hey Mack… It may not feel like it to you but this is the south and the powers that are around here look the other way to what we have here so long as we don’t rock boats. You follow me?”
“Tens of thousands of Negroes are teaming around this town to get civil rights, voting rights, jobs and so forth and you won’t a let a Negro have a beer at your bar? This is crazy. You got a bar full of queers hiding the fact that they’re queer and they all hate that they gotta live double lives but there’s no fraternal bond here, eh?”
The upscale bar frequented by well to-do white men, was a nice place that had live Jazz most nights and a cigar room for men to pick out cigars, have a cognac and get to meet other professional men. You know… The musicians, the patrons, the bartender and all the male waiters all stopped dead in their tracks and watched in shock and astonishment the fact that a black man had entered the discrete bar and sat down at the bar as if he were white. Men whispered to one another. Was this another Woolworth lunch counter gimmick? A black man asks to be served just because he’s in a white establishment. Gay or not.
The bartender wouldn’t approach Clarence or Tom. Everyone in the bar was aware of the large gathering of blacks in town and the speech by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. The wealthy, white, gay patrons had their own crosses to burn. Most were indifferent to the plight of blacks but didn’t necessarily feel solidarity with them over discrimination.
“Listen, if it means so much to you to have a drink with your friend, get a room and a six pack and work it out yourself. This is a business and I wanna stay in business… You follow me? So if there are those willing to look the other way on something’s but not others, I gotta respect that and as the owner of this place, you have to live with what I tell you. So hit the bricks. If you two can do this in Milwaukee or Minnesota, god bless you. End of conversation. Now get going.”
Clarence and Tom walked out of the bar and into a black Ford sedan. Tom lit a cigarette as Clarence drove. Clarence hit the pre-set buttons on their government issued automobile to a black radio station that was playing doo-whop. Tom thought to himself and then laughed.
“I dunno if we were believable as a mixed queer couple. Maybe the queers got some kind of hand signal or code words that they use with each other to identify other queers like the Masons or Elk. All I know is that for whatever reason J. Edgar is very concerned that queer joints don’t start allowing blacks in them. I can’t figure out the work detail sometimes. We got a million out of town people that are probably all communist and we’re going into a god damn gay bar to make sure black fags are not drinking with white ones… Pull over to that diner. I love their hamburgers.”
It was a diner in an all white part of town that blacks just knew that they weren’t allowed into. No signs just the unwritten look of disapproval let any blacks know that being served at the white restaurant, frequented by whites for whites, was not worth forcing the issue.
“I’m only gonna be twenty minutes or so. You wanna wait here and I’ll bring you out a burger, Clarence?”
“Naw… No need. There is a place better than this one where I can set my black ass down comfortably and eat like a human… I’ll see you in an hour. We can go in after that and write the report about tonight’s findings.”
“Ok … See you soon.”

March 4, 2011

My Way or Zimbabwe

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The word had come down from a federal agent to Salvatore Scarpelli that the FBI would be rounding up many gangsters wanted for murder, narcotics, prostitution and money laundering. Sal “The Horse” or “The Hammer” Scarpelli quickly gathered up all his liquid assets and took a trip to Zimbabwe. When his wife asked where Zimbabwe was and why he would want to go there, Sal had an answer. “Dey got dem falls there that is like one of dem seven wundahs of the woild. I always wanted to go to Africa… You know to kinda look around.” It sounded crazy to Sal’s wife until about four days later when a dozen or more federal agents came in through the door while Sal’s wife was smoking a cigarette, drinking coffee and watching live footage of federal agents rounding up suspected and confirmed mobsters. Sal’s weeping wife called Sal who at that moment he had an audience with the dictator Robert Mugabe of Zimbabe. They were drinking wine and Robert Mugabe was trying to explain the rules of the sport cricket.

 “Eet t’is a fantastic game… So you ave a bowler much like a pitcher een your baseball. The blowler ees trrrying to spin the ball so as to knock down dee wickets behind the batsman. The whole team at bat must get out firrrst before your team takes the field… Thee world cup ees going on now in India. Eet ees a fantastic time. I don’t meese a match. Thaat an Two and a Half Men. Fantastic show.”

 Sal had to take the phone call of his frantic wife who had a house full of federal agents ransacking their home and holding her for questioning as to where he was exactly. Sal’s wife couldn’t remember the name of the country and so she asked Sal to speak with one of the agents in charge.

“That’s right… Zim-bab-we… No extradition laws here, my friend so you can go fuck yourselves, ya hear me? You motherfuckers got some fucking nerve coming in my fucking house, upsetting my fucking wife foist thing in the morning…”

Now Zimbabwe is a landlocked country just above South Africa that used to be Rhodesia and has been ruled by one man since 1980. Their national motto is, “unity, freedom, work”. Close to 94% of the country is unemployed; and dissent of any kind is dangerous for one’s health. Despite the fact that Mugabe was able to stamp out dissent over the course of thirty one years, the new wave of political unrest in countries such as Bahrain, Egypt and Libya did not go unnoticed by the president of Zimbabwe. President Mugabe understood that Sal Scarpelli was a diamond in the rough, an ace in the hole and an answer to prayer. Salvatore Scarpelli was a ruthless gangster who received the nickname, “The Hammer” because he actually killed many people with a claw hammer when he was young and on the rise. The other nickname, “The Horse” was given to him due to the fact that when his penis was fully erect, was nearly nine inches long and 2.75 inches in circumference. Sal relished both nicknames. Over the course of thirty years, Sal went from a young foot soldier on the streets of New York to a multi-millionaire who owned land, businesses and had friends in law enforcement and government. Sal’s generosity most likely saved him when, if you’ll pardon the pun, when the hammer dropped.

Robert Mugabe laughed and shook his head as one of his assistants put on a cricket match between Zimbabwe and New Zealand. Zimbabwe was up 137-8 and it did not look good. New Zealand could probably match that score with two batsmen. President Mugabe spoke to Sal who was speaking to the feds but Sal wasn’t listening. When the conversation ended for Sal, President Mugabe got to the point of wanting a visit with such a high ranking mob figure from the United States. Sal was all ears as the saying goes.

“Your rrrrecord, your methods, your elusiveness is trrruly fantastic. I use the word fantastic when things are trrruly above board, top shelf… You my friend are thaat such perrrson. Things thaat need to be done without emotion or merrrcy is what I need. As you may ave erred, this Facebook, Twitter sensation has rrrun amok in northern Afrrrrica. I cannot afford to go out like Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette. No guillotines, no Rrrobespierre or new age of enlightenment… Dissent comes about like a brrrush fire and I need a rrrreally good fireman. I cannot allow dissent. I would like to make you ed of omeland security. South Afrrrrica add thees during the old days of aparrrtheid. Eet ees a way of keeping everrrything calm… I think eet aas a fantastic rrring: Salvatore Scarpelli, director of omeland security.”

 Sal got to work of amassing an army of men who secretly kept an eye on cafes and bars or anywhere where people congregated. Anyone accused of dissent went before a tribunal. Sal oversaw the hearings. The hearings went much like this:

“Peter metah… meetah coomboh… Ya know it would be fucking helpful to me if someone here who knows how to pronounce these fucking names might prompt me a bit on how to say this shit. DON’T JUST FUCKING STAND THERE! GO THROUGH THE FUCKING LIST AND WRITE DEM OUT PHONECIANLY SO I’M NOT TRIPPING ON MY FUCKING COCK HERE! Now then Peter… I will call you Peter for now until I get a bit of assistance. It has been brought to my attention that you have been brought here on charges of trying to foment a riot. Are you now or have you ever been a subvoisive?”

 It Worked as planned. Before long people from all walks of life were informing on each other to escape prison and possible torture. People were deathly afraid of the foreign white man who showed no mercy. It was like the Salem witch hunts and Red Scare rolled into one. The Department of Homeland Security worked with the efficiency of the KGB. Nobody trusted anyone and feared death or imprisonment for expressing an opinion. The President felt safe again to watch television and nap during the day. Sal when not presiding over the fates of Zimbabwe nationals, tended to his harem of women. Sal liked women of all colors and had new ones in his small mansion at all times. Sal liked two women at a time usually. Life was good for Sal in a country where white people were scared of black reprisal. Black people were now scared of a strange white man given full authority to keep peace by any and all means necessary.

 “In New York, we would take a fucking guy like you and string him up with a cement block attached to his ankles and drop him in the fucking river. That would keep him from ever getting ideas in his head again about going against the machine. Zimbabwe is the machine and the machine must work if it is to survive and flourish… Four months. We’ll review your case again after you’ve had some time to think about your delusions of fucking grandeur… Take his ass away from me… Next!”

 Sal was big tabloid news in the United States. Television networks wanted to interview Sal Scarpelli but only one interview was granted and that was to Eliot Spitzer. CNN sent Eliot Spitzer to Harare, Zimbabwe to conduct the interview that was doctored up to keep the public from hearing profanity. Rolling Stone Magazine got a hold of the real interview and the entire interview became an instant sensation on the internet. Sal answered all the questions asked of him and then had questions of his own.

 “I got a question you proly don’t want to answer but maybe one the public back in the United States might wanna ask themselves. How is it that a former district attorney and governor of New York who prided himself on going after so called, “organized crime”, gets fucking whacked for paying tens of fucking thousands on high priced call girls while he at the same time is fighting it? And then CNN give him a fucking show where he has the fucking balls to cross the fucking woild to ask me if I have any remorse for what I’ve done. Well I can tell you I won’t cry like a fucking bitch while my old lady stands next to me stone faced at a press conference. You can fucking bet your last fucking peso on that. Private failings is what you called it, am I right, Eliot? You fucking got caught and that’s the difference between you and me. I’m director of Homeland Security in Zimbabwe. That should be a big enough thorn in your fucking ass. As they say in every one of these countries that drive on the wrong side of the road and the wrong side of the car: good day, sir.”

 The winds of change blew over parts of Africa but Zimbabwe remained as tight as a drum. Sal was heavily rewarded for keeping order. Sal lived like a French king and loved living in a land that had so much disparity. Sal rode around in his bullet proof Lincoln Continental and looked at emaciated, barefoot blacks hanging around aimlessly. Privately he thought to himself that it was no different than driving through Harlem in New York.

 While driving through Harare one day, Sal spotted the most beautiful white woman he had ever seen wearing a tight Red Cross shirt, talking to a group of children. Her hair was reddish and her face was angelic. Her athletic frame attracted Sal. He liked women who could sprint over those that could pull a wagon. Sal ordered the car to stop. He popped a mint in his mouth and smoothed back his salt and pepper hair before exiting his vehicle. A dozen men with machine guns surrounded the perimeter. Sal approached the woman with an English accent.

 “I noticed your Red Cross shirt and was wondering if I might be of some assistance to you ma’am… I work for the government.”

 The beautiful woman smiled and fluttered her eyes nervously before speaking. Sal was mesmerized by every facet of the woman’s being.

 “So kind of you to stop… Yes, well as you can see, these children are orphans who are forced to beg in the streets and though it is Africa and they very well might not die of the elements as say… Brooklyn in January, they nonetheless are hungry and without shelter.”

 Sal, unable to blink resolved to do everything in his power to help the situation. The woman who went by the name of Rachel was invited to dine with Sal at his home. Sal learned that Rachel played guitar and wrote poetry and decided it was her duty to help those less fortunate than herself for a few years before going on with her life. She wore a summer dress that showed ample cleavage and contoured her flat stomach and shapely bum. Love was in the air for Sal and the idea that Rachel would eat his food, drink his wine and converse with him and then leave, was an impossibility. Sal nearly demanded that Rachel stay the night with him but Rachel prevailed. Upon leaving, Rachel sent Sal a text message some twenty minutes after her departure. The message went as follows:

 I realize now I should have stayed. I want you too so very badly. Please come to see me at my room in Harare. I will be waiting for you, counting the minutes : )

 Sal showered and perfumed all areas that might sweat due to being anxious and desirous. Sal dismissed his guards and told them to wait in the lobby of the hotel where Rachel lived. He approached Rachel’s room alone. Waiting at the door in an ivory colored negligee that draped every so daintily over her firm breasts was Rachel. She had one toned arm up, holding the door as she greeted Sal with a smile.

 “I promise you won’t be disappointed…”

 Sal came to some time later on an airplane while wearing a straight jacket. Sitting on either side of him on a small jet were two white men. One was reading a fitness magazine and the other was napping with folded arms. Sal in a groggy state asked the man who was reading the magazine what was happening. He explained that he had been captured by the FBI and was being taken to a federal court in New York on a slew of charges. Sal became instantly despondent and remorseful that he allowed his libido to trap him like a preying mantis. Before being sentenced, the judge in federal court asked if he wanted to make a statement. Sal thought about it for a second and then asked to speak. The judge nodded his approval to Sal.

 “Um Robbie… Thanks for shot. I’m my own worst enemy. My advice to you: get the good looking dames outta the country. It’ll be your Waterloo.”

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