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Crossing Roads
BB (I call him double B and he calls me double J) once told me it would be ok
if I used the word "nigger" conversationally. I don't know if that was an
official ruling handed down by higher ups in the hood or if he was just
saying it would be ok with him. I told him even with official permission
there were too many reasons why I probably wouldn't be comfortable with the
term and so "thank you my nigger, but I believe I will be niggardly with my
use of the word 'nigger.'"
Still, there a bunch of niggers hangin' on my porch today, not a one of 'em
can say they never been to jail: drug dealers, murderers, armed robbers among
the bunch, and what with the infusion of white people in the area for
Jazzfest, dealing is up and the whole scene has become too ordinary, boring
even, so I feel the need to challenge myself to new heights of scary which
has me in the car heading off to Veterans Blvd. in Metairie.
If you think crossing Delancey is a challenge just try Veterans someday; its
the area's widest corridor of retail hell. Need something? Shoes, cars,
clothes, computers, tires, oil change, books, a cappuccino or latte', a
smoothie, vitamins, bicycles, lawn or garden equipment, sporting goods, or
any damn household product you could possibly name, can be found somewhere
along the several mile stretch of Veterans Blvd. In triplicate. Hey, are
you hungry? Same story. All the food that's fit to eat and some that ain't
but still sells because its cheap. Which brings me to this:
I am a warrior for new experience. Or more truthfully--I am a coward who
likes to challenge himself. Or, I'm just too easily bored and will
cautiously try anything to beat the affliction.
And it's too late to turn back without making a scene. I am part of a queue,
singular only in number. Like everyone else here at the Pancho's all you can
eat buffet I came to get more than my money's worth, which, if we may all be
clued in to the obvious, is next to impossible. One can only eat so much
cornmeal.
So why all the hype, where's the danger? I can only give you the coordinates
and suggest you look and see for yourself. The Pancho's on Veterans Blvd. in
Metairie, Louisiana is as good an excuse for using drugs as I can find. In
fact, the mundane surreality of this place demands that one be drugged so
that there be an excuse for all the damning imagery of humanity that presents
itself at your every glance. A good writer would give the details, but alas,
I am a hack, and a coward, and cannot deliver those goods. I'll go back
though because its a well run outfit, no question about that, and I like how
the food is the same as it was twenty-five years ago when I frequented the
Pancho's in Dallas. And also, because these middle class white trash
warriors who scare me plenty represent a part of who I am, a bigger part than
I would like to admit, and it is always a mistake to turn away from these
truths when you find them.
Now, getting back to this "nigger" thing.
Besides being a coward, I'm not very bright, and therefore found myself back
at that pitiful little strip of beach in Waveland, Mississippi. Shelton,
Glynn, Fermin, and Lance have been yearning for the water now that the
weather is threatening to be permanently hot and I just refuse to listen to
the nagging inside me which says--"do not continue these trips to the beach
in Waveland, Mississippi where, in three years time, you have never seen
another black person, but have in fact had your charges singled out with the
salutation--"hey you niggers."
Today, crossing the road to the beach, three of the four boys walked in front
of the wrong car (they truly should have been paying better attention to the
traffic) and earned this--"you little niggers better watch where you go." I
was still waiting to cross with Lance and I just stood there until I realized
a truck was stopped and waiting for us to proceed. The first three boys were
walking backwards to the beach, facing me, there expressions were all the
same question mark. When we met I had for them no good news, no consolation.
"We're a good distance from Dumaine fellas, and ya'll need to respect all
the possibilities along this stretch of road."
I sat on the beach and watched them travel through the shallow water until
they were just little black specks a quarter of a mile away,
indistinguishable from each other, and from the two white boys they had met
on the way out.
A family to my right was set up on that line where beach meets water. The
chubby teenage daughter was taunting her step daddy, Art, whom she called
"Fart," by pointing first to one bikini cup, and then the other, saying, "I
don't guess you'll be having anymore cigarettes, and I don't guess you'll be
needin' your beeper neither, and no fair touchin'." Art was sitting in the
water drinking bottled beer and smoking a cigarette. Art's over weight wife
was much younger than he and had two rather large tattoos, one on each
shoulder blade. Of the three remaining children, two were young girls who
were not yet showing any signs that generations of inbreeding was a problem
to overcome. The youngest boy was a poster child for "don't talk baby talk
to your children or they'll grow up talking like adults who talk like babies."
Fermin, no doubt tired of the verbal abuse from his cousins, came closer to
shore and tried to interest me in water sport. But I'm not interested in the
salt water or all that sand truth be told, and am just trying to be a good
sport until its time to go home, which will be soon. Fermin wanders out
fifty yards or so. Art is yucking it up to his kids, "hey, look at that one,
stayed out in the sun a little too long, turned him black."
I am just trying to be a good sport until its time to go home, which will be
soon.