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DONL 4
My "preferred electrician," Carl, came to the job at English Turn yesterday. We're still working on the outside of the house which sits across the bay (that's Bonita Bay, man-made pond), from the home of Slim and Baby Williams of (rap label) Cash Money Productions. At the end of last year one of the brothers bought the other a $335,000 Bentley Azure for his birthday, and at the party they proceeded to dance on the hood, and likewise at last month's birthday party for the brother who didn't get the Bentley, `the latest Ferrari was presented as a gift (with a measly $150,000 price tag), and the dancing brother did his signature soft shoe on the hood.
Anyway, Carl, like many of my well-meaning co-workers, wishes I didn't live with the coloreds like I do and yesterday expressed the sentiment thusly: "why don't you move out of that colored neighborhood and come live among the decent people of Harrahan." Carl lives in Harrahan, a New Orleans suburb that is not only white, but has quietly (David Duke never lived there) been able to sustain itself as a Louisiana "Pleasantville" type of community since the beginning of time. Only none of the frames ever go technicolor.
Carl's boss Steve, younger by twenty-five years, and although apparently not all that fond of the darker race either, at least has some higher education which allows me the freedom of bombast, and the dropping of the occasional malapropism.
"Did you here that, Steve? What was that he just did? Wasn't that one of those oxymoronical paradoxes, 'the decent people of Harrahan,' my ass. You people are going to burn in your self-created hell for your hateful ways."
Carl said, "Good, 'long as there ain't no niggers."
"So Carl, will you come wire my house for me?"
"I'm not going to have the time."
"Next."
And that's how I go about the hiring process to get the highest quality sub-contractors to help me with the renovation of my new blighted ghetto property.
DONL 3
When I pulled up in front of Dumaine after ripping out the old galvanized plumbing pipes under and inside the Rocheblave house, I saw Van across the street washing Royalston's (Mama D's former companion) truck. I was negotiating my truck around the sink hole by the curb and Van was motioning me to park across the street behind Royalston's truck so he could wash mine afterwards. He does me for five bucks which is half the going rate. I'm not really looking for a wash so I just wave at him and exit the vehicle.
He pauses from his work to cross over and talk to me--touch bases as it were--about the Rocheblave job, what did I do today, and will I be needing his help tomorrow. I tell him I'm just piddling around over there, and that I'm hoping to run into Carl--my preferred electrician--on the job in the next few days so I can convince him to wire the house, but before that get me hooked up with temporary electricity so I can get some power tools running, rip out and replace a couple of floors, replace a rafter and a joist or two, do a little bracing here and there, replace the roof, and get whatever I need to get done before begging my preferred plumber to find the time to do my plumbing rough in for one bath, a kitchen, a washer/dryer hookup, and a gas water heater. Van's cool with that but he's really bored over here on Dumaine and needs something constructive to do so please let him know when I need some more help. I told him I would, and gave him an ice cold Budweiser from my cooler, and then I see--and he sees me--(from) across the street, coming from The Magnolia, HP.
"Oh Lord, and he saw me give you that beer."
Van looked over, chuckled, and said, "Don't let him fool you today, Slim, he got that money."
"Okay Van." Van crossed back to finish washing Royalston's truck as HP stumbled up to the curb and greeted me,
"Hey buddy."
"Hello HP."
"Have a beer for me, buddy?"
"No, not for you."
"Why you do me like that, Jim?"
"I need twenty-five dollars, I know you have it, I want it, I want it now."
HP reached into his pocket and brought out a quarter and showed it to me on the platter of his cracked black palm. White whiskers sprouted haphazardly on his chin and cheeks. He was wearing wrap around sun glasses, and a mis-matching blue work uniform from a career gone by, or the thrift store."This is all I have. Let me get that beer."
He was not offering me the quarter.
I took from my cooler another ice cold Budweiser, and gave it to HP.
"I seen you working on that house over by the Schwegmann's" (Schwegmann's was a local grocery chain that went bankrupt. The new store owners operate under the name of Robert's Market Fare, or something, but no one in the neighborhood will ever call it that).
"So you saw me working over there, HP, and you just kept on moving, huh?"
"You over there in that colored neighborhood, buddy."
"Coloreds, where coloreds?"
"Let me get a dollar big spender, so's I can get a cigar 'cross the street."
"I'm your sugar daddy now?"
"All right, you crazy white boy."
Ah, the race card, we have always left that one out of the deck for these games.
"Oh so now it's about skin color, yeah HP?"
"Don't make me get the rope, little buddy."
"Why are you always talking about getting that rope, HP? You gonna hang me?"
"Hog tie you, hog tie you to that fence."
"Then what?"
"You don't wanna know. Crazy white boy." And then it's as if he had never realized how liberating it felt to call a crazy white boy a "crazy white boy" because he says it a couple of more times, but loud enough for most of the block to hear. Van is washing and laughing now, and I'm acting hurt, and getting ready to pretend hurtful.
"So that's what its all about then, huh HP? Always about the color, you old crusty colored coot, you. You, you negro."
"Okay that's it, I'm getting the rope."
"Good."
"Let me get another beer, Jim. This one's almost empty."
I look down into the top of his beer and there is barely a sip gone.
"That one's still full. Why is it you're not happy until you tap the white boy. You're not my friend, you just see me as someone to take advantage of. And I gotta tell you, that really hurts me."
"That's not true, buddy. Let me get a dollar."
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.