Jack and if you can believe this, Jill, met via online dating. For Jack, he grew tired of going out to clubs with his friends just to stand and watch others dancing and meeting at night clubs. For Jill, she had heard from a few girlfriends that for all the hoards of frogs that there are out there, a few princes do exist. Two of her girlfriends found compatible mates and married and so for Jill, she felt that there was hope for her.
As far as curves and scales go, both Jack and Jill were moderately attractive. Jack started working out a few years back when his father had quadruple bi-pass surgery. In the recovery room, Jack’s father had tubes sticking out of his chest and a breathing device strapped to his face. The idea that he one day could end up like his father in a hospital, drove Jack to begin to begin physical exercise around the age of thirty. Jack was thirty five on the first date with Jill. Aside from being fit, Jack wore horned rim glasses and wore his hair on weekends to look like rats ran about on top of his head. Hair went every which way and stayed that way with the help of mousse. Jack looked at the models in his Men’s Health Magazine and decided that if he was going to land the woman of his dreams, he had better get more hip with the look. Jack showed up in a collared shirt untucked with a black vest, worn looking jeans that were frayed at the bottom and a pair of black shoes. The Men’s Health Magazine told him to wear cologne with Pheromones so that subliminally his date would be more prone to want him sexually. Something about neurotransmitters something something. Men don’t remember the details as much as they remember that the pheromones can trigger sexual excitement.
Jill had posted a really attractive picture of herself with her ex-boyfriend who was really her fiancé but since there was never really a true date picked, he was more of an uncommitted boyfriend. The picture was from New Year’s Eve 2001. Jill had a great smile in the picture; she was trim and showed maximum cleavage in her silvery sparkling dress. All that remained in the picture that would lead anyone to think that she was with someone was the hand that rested on her shoulder without a body on the other side of it. Yes the picture was of Jill and yes it was from nine years earlier, but she really did not think she had aged that much or gained that much weight and her smile created the best picture of herself that she could ever remember taking. Jill dressed in a summer dress that went a few inches above her knee and showed off her toned legs and arms. Jill had been running along the banks of Lake Michigan and had a healthy look to her. Jill was confident albeit nervous to be meeting yet another man at a restaurant in downtown Chicago in hopes of finding someone that would be compatible enough to lock in with or at least want to see again. On paper and in the brief conversations, Jack seemed like a regular guy and so she agreed to meet Jack for dinner.
Jill sat at the bar of the Spanish Restaurant and ordered Sangria while she pretended to look at a message on her cell phone, fully aware that Jack had exited a cab out in front of the restaurant and was walking towards her.
“Jill?”
“Oh hi! You must be Jack…”
They both wondered what they should do next. Would it be too cold and distant to extend a hand or should we hug? Jack was going to extend his hand when Jill reached out and hugged him. Jack nervously hugged and patted Jill on the back the way Gorbachev hugged Reagan at one of their summit meetings, with slaps on the back.
“I’m so sorry I’m late. I decided to take a cab and the cabbie took the scenic route here and well anyway… That is shall we say, my bad…” said Jack.
“Um… That’s fine, that’s fine. Things happen, you know… Should we tell them we’re here?”
A perky young woman led the way past tables and tables of other couples who were dining out on a warm summer evening. Jack couldn’t help but look at the ass of the hostess. It was very tight looking and symmetrical and it appeared as though she was wearing no underwear. To Jack and many other men, there is the allure of no underwear. The hostess walked away. Out of sight, out of mind.
Jill smiled nervously to show a cute dimple on one cheek. Jack had not noticed that Jill had a clef chin in her photos. It was a little too Kirk Douglas for him. It was a demerit to be certain but not a deal killer yet. Jack did notice her ass too and her plump looking chest that showed just enough cleavage but not too much so that other woman nearby would comment to their dates.
“I love Spanish food. Tapas is totally my favorite right now. I was sort of on a sushi kick for a while and then Dr. Oz killed it by showing everyone the microbes that live on tuna and so I’m like done with sushi right now. I so want to go to Spain someday. I bet the Tapas there is unreal,” said Jill, while holding the sides of her chair, bouncing her left leg and hunching her shoulders.
“Oh yeah… I love good Tapas. I was in Spain a few years back and it was, shall we say, quite awesome,” said Jack, while looking around the room rather than at Jill.
Jill took notice of the lack of eye contact and the furrowed brow. Jack had a permanent look of worry on his face due to his furrowed brow. It made him look rather unapproachable to most women. So far Jill thought Jack was acting like a pompous asshole but she wasn’t ready to trade him in yet. Just then Jack was getting a phone call. He held his index finger up and answered his client. Jack was an attorney and his client was the father of an eighteen year old who had been busted for open alcohol and marijuana in his car.
“Yes Mr. Anderson, I got your message and had every intention of calling you back. I’m currently at dinner with a friend and am not at liberty to discuss the case with you. You have, shall we say, my word that I will call you first thing in the morning. We’ll pow wow before court and I’m sure I can get him supervision. At some point though, throwing money at problems is not going to save him, shall we say… Okay, okay then… I’ll call you tomorrow morning… Right, right… Okay then… Yes, yes… Will do… Buh bye…” said Jack.
Jill dialled her sister Jenny and hung up. Jenny was instructed to take Jill’s call in the event of an encounter with a total freak. Jenny called back immediately. Jill did it to show Jack just how inconsiderate in was to take a call. Jack didn’t get the message. Instead he took the chance to check messages on his Blackberry. Jill saw this and hung up right away, telling her sister that she had pocket dialled her by mistake.
“Once again, I’m so sorry about the interruption. It’s a good friend of a friend whose son got himself into trouble with the law and is facing jail time for not complying with the judges orders,” said Jack.
“Right, right… You said you were an attorney,” said Jill.
“And you work for a realtor?” Asked Jack.
“Yes… I’m the personal assistant of this woman who is like one of the top sellers in Chicago. She gets most of her leads through the women’s club of the North Shore,” said Jill, still bouncing her leg and hunching her shoulders.
“Well that’s cool…” said Jack, even though he really did not think it was cool.
Jack told Jill about running a 5K in New England and about his Alaskan vacation and co-ed volleyball on Tuesday nights. Jack mentioned that he really loves to listen to Jazz and was a fan of Frank Lloyd Wright homes. Jill mentioned that she did spin classes and swam three days a week and that she really liked Maroon Five and Sugar Ray and that she had tickets to see Sugar Ray later that summer. Jack had never heard of Maroon Five or Sugar Ray. He said he had heard of Sugar Ray Robinson and Sugar Ray Leonard. It was an attempt at a joke. Jill wasn’t familiar with the boxers and so the joke died.
Jill had been to Las Vegas and really wanted to go to Arizona but had never really been too many places. Jill was a Cubs fan and Jack said he really did not like baseball. Jack said he kind of liked football but really didn’t. Jack just did not want to come off like an irregular guy.
Jack and Jill finished a pitcher of sangria which was about three glasses each. Jill was quite buzzed and Jack felt mellow. The bill came and Jack had figured out that he had dropped is wallet. Suddenly the buzz and glow was gone. The realization that all his credit cards were gone just about ruined his night. Jill paid for the dinner even though she knew she was overdrawn on her debit card and would be getting a call from the bank Monday morning. Luckily it went through. Jill was scared that she may have reached the $1,000.00 overdraft limit. She had $22.00 before she reached $1000.00.
Jack and Jill went back to Jack’s apartment in a cab. The whole way to Jack’s house, Jack was too distracted to talk at all. Jack kept thinking about his accounts being cleaned out. Jill sat in the cab looking out the window on the right side with her arms folded. Jack ordered the cab to wait as he galloped up the steps to his townhouse. He emerged with a look of relief on his face as he held up his chunky looking wallet with over a dozen cards and wads of cash.
“God! What a relief! I though I left it in the cab I came over in and then I thought it may have fallen out of my back pocket… Here, I’ll take care of the cab…” said Jack.
Jill refused to take the $120.00 for the meal and drinks but Jack would not have it. They went back and forth for a while until Jill finally accepted. Jack then asked Jill if she would like a glass of red wine and to sit up on his roof deck. Jill said yes.
Up on the roof was a beautiful view of downtown Chicago and the near south side. Jill saw the hot tub and asked how often Jack used it. Jack offered the tub and Jill accepted. A gentle breeze blew across them as they sat in the hot tub, holding up their red wine in their glasses, listening to jazz on Jack’s Bose audio system and looking at the skyline. The more Jill drank, the more she liked Jack. Jack loosened up and became wittier and less pompous. Between them, they finished off a bottle of red wine and wound up kissing and embracing in the hot tub. Before long they were in Jack’s bed in the throes of passion. Jill closed her eyes while Jack orally stimulated her. Jack was spelling out the alphabet in cursive on her clitoris while Jill moaned a bit and pulled on his hair. Jack got as far as the letter L before Jill pulled him and guided him towards their consummate moment. Jack learned about the alphabet spelling on the clitoris from the Men’s Health Magazine too. They claimed he would not have to get to the letter Z and they were right.
Jill woke up feeling dehydrated and had a strong headache at the base of her skull by her neck. Jack was outside on the deck talking to another client in his underwear. The digital clock said nearly two in the morning. Jill suddenly felt silly lying in the bed of a man she did not really know or know if she would ever see again. What would they say to one another once Jack got done talking on his cell phone? Would he feel boxed in and really want Jill out of his house? Jill didn’t want that to be the case. Jill decided to make a pre-emptive move. Jill slipped on all her clothes and walked out of the front door. Jill caught a cab on South State Street and went home. As Jill lay in her bed next to her Calico Cat, she thought about the entire evening. She began to drift off when she received a text message from Jack.
“Wow! I must really have missed the mark tonight. I’m sorry you felt you had to leave.”
Jill wasn’t sure how to respond. She really wished she had not left after all after receiving his response. While she was thinking about what to say, another text from Jack came through.
“Okay… I’ll go out on a limb. I find you really attractive, smart and pretty. I did not lure you back to my cave in hopes of sinking you. I really did think I lost my wallet and since we were at my place, I thought we could just stay. I thought you had a good time and maybe you did. Maybe this is just what you do. A million first dates. Well hope you had a good time. Jack.”
Jill laid in bed smiling. In the battle of the sexes, she had won. Jill went from feeling like she had conceded too early to feeling like the winner in the driver’s seat. Jill began to type while gently biting her bottom lip.
“You passed the test. It all hinged on your response. You’re a prince and not a frog… How do you feel about a jog by the lake tomorrow and then some brunch?”
Jack responded quickly.
“I would like that more than I could tell you. Sleep tight. Until the morning. Jack.”
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday, November 22, 2009
I Vill Charm Your Fu#*king Snake
Blackhumouristpress's Blog
November 23, 2009
I Vill Charm Your fu#*king Snake
Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:47 am Edit ThisTags: birds, Chicago, Cricket, Fire, humor, India, Jewish, Menage a trois, Mexican
“Who the fuck is going to pay for my fucking television? Huh? You mother fuckers killed my television.” Yelled a glassy eyed Mexican man with a strong accent.Hector had come home from a small factory on Chicago’s west side. His job was to make grinding wheels for machine shops. The owner hired illegal aliens to make the wheels for him in a basement of the factory. It was an ingenious scheme. It would have been like putting Anne Frank to work behind the refrigerator. OSHA people would have closed the factory down in a second if they knew what was going on in thebasement. The air swirled with silica that went into making the wheels. The foreman wore a device that looked like a World War I gas mask that had two little air vents around the mouth. All the workers used paper masks and they were issued two a week. Hector worked ten hours a day and made eight dollars an hour. Hector had come from an area of Mexico called Jalisco. Hector paid a man close to $8,000.00 to take him across at Tijuana. The men, who took his money, provided him with fake papers. From there, Hector took a bus to Chicago to live in a studio apartment with his cousin and four othermen. A studio apartment is nothing more than a room that serves as everything but abathroom.Hector started a side project of doing handy man repairs on the side. Sylvia, a seventy year old Jewish woman, hired Hector to fix some small items in her apartment and before long, Hector was living with Sylvia. Hector was a short dumpy Aztec looking man with dark, ruddy complexion and black eyes. Hector hated the United States.Hector saw an invisible wall that kept his people invisible. Nobody seemed to notice that at all the restaurants, car washes and front lawns in upper middle class areas around the country, functioned because of undocumented Hispanics, primarily Mexicans. Hector knew that as an undocumented, illegal alien, he had to settle for whatever job and money he could find.The silica made him wheeze and his eyes tear. Hector often coughed but thought nothing of it. Hector had been watching El Salvador playing against Mexico. It was a tied game in the 78th minute when six firemen axed the door open and began smashing all the windows out. Hector grabbed the arm of one of the firemen and as the fireman struggled; his axe went right through the 70 inch, high definition television that Hector had just purchased. It cost Hector the equivalent of ten days of work. The fireman apologized and walked out. Hector found out later at work that El Salvador won the match.Sylvia stood on the sidewalk, trying to calm Hector while holding her parakeets in
a small cage. Hector had just downed several shots of tequila and wolfed down a six
pack of Tecate. All he wanted to do was watch the match on television and fall asleep on
the couch.
Hector and Sylvia found a motel on Lincoln Avenue called the Rio Motel.Hector was checking into the motel that doubled as a convenience store too. Behind the bullet proof glass were cigarettes, pop, condoms, pain relievers and so forth. The Indian proprietor looked at Hector, a Hispanic man in his mid thirties and the seventy year old Jewish woman holding two birds in a cage, while dressed in pyjamas, wasimpressed with that. Ajesh the proprietor was used to seeing all kinds of outrageous things but felt that the odd couple were the most unique of the night. Just as they were settling up with Ajesh, a young black, homeless man came in.“Yo man, I’m just coming back for my cigarettes… I was in here back before y’all started foh the night and left my cigarettes here on the counter… You kin look at the tapes, I was here bout foh clock…”“I don’t know nothing about no cigarettes, bro… You better leave now,” said Ajesh.Hector slipped Fifty dollars cash under the bullet proof glass and handed it toAjesh. An Indian musical played in the back ground on a small television. There was one woman dressed in a Sari with twenty men, dancing in unison with her in front of a palace. Everyone of the dancers, were good looking people and light skinned to the point of looking Anglo with a hint of Indian. They were dressed in yellow and orange. They were all smiling, fit and happy. Ajesh was heavy and very dark and looked unhappy. He had a great disdain for the patrons who frequented the motel he purchased from a Korean couple several years back. The patrons used it to use and sell drugs, they used it to have secret rendezvous and some used it for prostitution. Illegal aliens used the motel as theironly means of living since they were fearful that a background/credit check would reveal the fact that they were not living and working in the country legally. Hector lived with Sylvia and so he had an apartment to go where there would not be four men to a room. Sylvia had companionship. She had someone other than birds and a television for interaction. Even though Hector was surly, he did appreciate the old woman letting him live with her. The relationship was non sexual for the most part. There had been a fewoccasions where the chemicals within Hector, built up and drove him to do something that he would not have done otherwise. This poor decision making was aided by Tequila. Sylvia actually liked it quite a bit. It had been years since she had sex with a man. That night, there would be no sex and very little talking. They were both disturbed by the fact that they were instantly displaced from their apartment due to the fire.“Hey man, I just want my motha fucking cigarettes… Look on the motha fucking tapes if you don’t believe me,” said the black man, with even glossier eyes than Hector.“If you don’t leave now, I vill call the police,” said Ajesh, sternly.“Fuck you, you fucking A-rab mothah fucking, carpet riding, snaking charming motha fucker.”Ajesh emerged from behind the bullet proof room with a good ole Louisville Slugger. It was a thirty two ounce bat, which is to say that it had some weight to it. It was supposedly signed by Bo Jackson, who once played baseball for the Chicago White Sox and football for the Oakland Raiders. Ajesh held the bat up as if he were playing Cricket, which he was once very good at back in India. Ajesh was not a small man and was not afraid of black men who tried to intimidate him. In fact Ajesh was secretly hoping that one of them would cross the line so that he could brain them with his bat and then tell the police that he was being threatened with death by some transient.“Who’s the mother fucker now? Mother fucker… Try some stupid shit, bro. I vill charm your fucking snake…”
With that, the transient man walked off and Hector and Sylvia went up to theirroom. The room was musty as if mold was growing somewhere and the toilet smelled of urine like an outhouse. The bed had nothing but sheets on it and every spring on the bedcould be felt. Hector turned on the television to find two Indian men having sex with an Indian woman in a garden while sitar music played softly behind her feigned moans. Sylvia fell asleep talking to her birds, Hector fell asleep watching the Indian manage a trois. They too were good looking Indian people, this time with their clothes off.
November 23, 2009
I Vill Charm Your fu#*king Snake
Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 5:47 am Edit ThisTags: birds, Chicago, Cricket, Fire, humor, India, Jewish, Menage a trois, Mexican
“Who the fuck is going to pay for my fucking television? Huh? You mother fuckers killed my television.” Yelled a glassy eyed Mexican man with a strong accent.Hector had come home from a small factory on Chicago’s west side. His job was to make grinding wheels for machine shops. The owner hired illegal aliens to make the wheels for him in a basement of the factory. It was an ingenious scheme. It would have been like putting Anne Frank to work behind the refrigerator. OSHA people would have closed the factory down in a second if they knew what was going on in thebasement. The air swirled with silica that went into making the wheels. The foreman wore a device that looked like a World War I gas mask that had two little air vents around the mouth. All the workers used paper masks and they were issued two a week. Hector worked ten hours a day and made eight dollars an hour. Hector had come from an area of Mexico called Jalisco. Hector paid a man close to $8,000.00 to take him across at Tijuana. The men, who took his money, provided him with fake papers. From there, Hector took a bus to Chicago to live in a studio apartment with his cousin and four othermen. A studio apartment is nothing more than a room that serves as everything but abathroom.Hector started a side project of doing handy man repairs on the side. Sylvia, a seventy year old Jewish woman, hired Hector to fix some small items in her apartment and before long, Hector was living with Sylvia. Hector was a short dumpy Aztec looking man with dark, ruddy complexion and black eyes. Hector hated the United States.Hector saw an invisible wall that kept his people invisible. Nobody seemed to notice that at all the restaurants, car washes and front lawns in upper middle class areas around the country, functioned because of undocumented Hispanics, primarily Mexicans. Hector knew that as an undocumented, illegal alien, he had to settle for whatever job and money he could find.The silica made him wheeze and his eyes tear. Hector often coughed but thought nothing of it. Hector had been watching El Salvador playing against Mexico. It was a tied game in the 78th minute when six firemen axed the door open and began smashing all the windows out. Hector grabbed the arm of one of the firemen and as the fireman struggled; his axe went right through the 70 inch, high definition television that Hector had just purchased. It cost Hector the equivalent of ten days of work. The fireman apologized and walked out. Hector found out later at work that El Salvador won the match.Sylvia stood on the sidewalk, trying to calm Hector while holding her parakeets in
a small cage. Hector had just downed several shots of tequila and wolfed down a six
pack of Tecate. All he wanted to do was watch the match on television and fall asleep on
the couch.
Hector and Sylvia found a motel on Lincoln Avenue called the Rio Motel.Hector was checking into the motel that doubled as a convenience store too. Behind the bullet proof glass were cigarettes, pop, condoms, pain relievers and so forth. The Indian proprietor looked at Hector, a Hispanic man in his mid thirties and the seventy year old Jewish woman holding two birds in a cage, while dressed in pyjamas, wasimpressed with that. Ajesh the proprietor was used to seeing all kinds of outrageous things but felt that the odd couple were the most unique of the night. Just as they were settling up with Ajesh, a young black, homeless man came in.“Yo man, I’m just coming back for my cigarettes… I was in here back before y’all started foh the night and left my cigarettes here on the counter… You kin look at the tapes, I was here bout foh clock…”“I don’t know nothing about no cigarettes, bro… You better leave now,” said Ajesh.Hector slipped Fifty dollars cash under the bullet proof glass and handed it toAjesh. An Indian musical played in the back ground on a small television. There was one woman dressed in a Sari with twenty men, dancing in unison with her in front of a palace. Everyone of the dancers, were good looking people and light skinned to the point of looking Anglo with a hint of Indian. They were dressed in yellow and orange. They were all smiling, fit and happy. Ajesh was heavy and very dark and looked unhappy. He had a great disdain for the patrons who frequented the motel he purchased from a Korean couple several years back. The patrons used it to use and sell drugs, they used it to have secret rendezvous and some used it for prostitution. Illegal aliens used the motel as theironly means of living since they were fearful that a background/credit check would reveal the fact that they were not living and working in the country legally. Hector lived with Sylvia and so he had an apartment to go where there would not be four men to a room. Sylvia had companionship. She had someone other than birds and a television for interaction. Even though Hector was surly, he did appreciate the old woman letting him live with her. The relationship was non sexual for the most part. There had been a fewoccasions where the chemicals within Hector, built up and drove him to do something that he would not have done otherwise. This poor decision making was aided by Tequila. Sylvia actually liked it quite a bit. It had been years since she had sex with a man. That night, there would be no sex and very little talking. They were both disturbed by the fact that they were instantly displaced from their apartment due to the fire.“Hey man, I just want my motha fucking cigarettes… Look on the motha fucking tapes if you don’t believe me,” said the black man, with even glossier eyes than Hector.“If you don’t leave now, I vill call the police,” said Ajesh, sternly.“Fuck you, you fucking A-rab mothah fucking, carpet riding, snaking charming motha fucker.”Ajesh emerged from behind the bullet proof room with a good ole Louisville Slugger. It was a thirty two ounce bat, which is to say that it had some weight to it. It was supposedly signed by Bo Jackson, who once played baseball for the Chicago White Sox and football for the Oakland Raiders. Ajesh held the bat up as if he were playing Cricket, which he was once very good at back in India. Ajesh was not a small man and was not afraid of black men who tried to intimidate him. In fact Ajesh was secretly hoping that one of them would cross the line so that he could brain them with his bat and then tell the police that he was being threatened with death by some transient.“Who’s the mother fucker now? Mother fucker… Try some stupid shit, bro. I vill charm your fucking snake…”
With that, the transient man walked off and Hector and Sylvia went up to theirroom. The room was musty as if mold was growing somewhere and the toilet smelled of urine like an outhouse. The bed had nothing but sheets on it and every spring on the bedcould be felt. Hector turned on the television to find two Indian men having sex with an Indian woman in a garden while sitar music played softly behind her feigned moans. Sylvia fell asleep talking to her birds, Hector fell asleep watching the Indian manage a trois. They too were good looking Indian people, this time with their clothes off.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Zimbabwe and Rhodesia
Zimbabwe and Rhodesia
Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:15 am Edit ThisTags: Chicago, Mencken, Nietzche, Red Cross, Rhodesia, Zimbabwe
A tall blond woman with an uncommonly beautiful face walked up wearing a wind breaker that had a patch on it that read, Red Cross. This tall blond woman went by the name of Jennifer. Jennifer grew tired of being a sexually desired object for most of her life and at the age of twenty one, spun the globe and purposely kept her index finger below the equator. It landed in the country of Zimbabwe. Fortunately for Jennifer, she did not wind up in a country where she had to speak French, Dutch or Portuguese. The people of Zimbabwe spoke English. They learned English by the English and for a while, the country went by the name of Rhodesia. Jennifer wasn’t even born when the country was called that. In fact Jennifer was living in the country nearly a year when she figured out that Rhodesia and Zimbabwe were the same country. Many white farmers had long since moved out of the country and there were just a smattering of whites in big cities. Jennifer didn’t seem to mind. Jennifer went into a grocery store in the capital during her first few days in Zimbabwe in hopes of buying enough food to sustain her for a few days. Upon entering a clean looking grocery store, Jennifer was shocked to see employees standing around a nearly vacant store. There was bottled water and a few loaves of bread
left. Jennifer had no idea what it meant when the total in Zimbabwean Dollars came to $350,000.00 for two liters of water and a loaf of bread. She gave the cashier a twenty dollar bill in American money and told her to keep the change. The cashier pocketed nearly $400,000.00 Zimbabwean Dollars for herself which was the equivalent of a month’s pay. It was a good day for that woman. The only problem would be that she would have to spend that money immediately before the value changed. The value of the Zimbabwean Dollar dropped by the minute. Inflation was somewhere near 26,000% at the time of Jennifer’s arrival. Today it is nearly 2.2 million percent. Jennifer picked the second poorest country in the world to make a difference. As far as reaching the poor and impoverished, Jennifer was right on track. To compound all of this, the president of the country declared land owned and run by white farmers to be seized. There were nearly 400 white owned farms that helped the country sustain itself in 2000. By 2007, there were just a handful of white hold outs that were in danger of not only losing their land but their lives. Zimbabwe was really not a safe place for white people much less very attractive female white people.
Now at time when blacks were squatting on white farm land and killing white
farmers, Jennifer showed up as innocent as Bambi. The unemployment rate was somewhere near 80%. In the capital of Harare, she went to a clinic for women and told a large black woman behind a desk that she wanted to help. This large black woman was surprised by the beauty and ignorant innocence of a young American woman, in a foreign land, unescorted. After the initial shock, the woman sent her to the middle of nowhere. The town she sent her to was dangerous and not far from the border with South Africa. Most of the men and women were trying to enter South Africa illegally in hopes of finding a job. Even if one could find a job in Zimbabwe, their currency was worth nearly nothing. One might need a dump truck of money just to buy a meal.
Jennifer showed up with a long tight skirt that went to her ankles. She wore Birkenstock sandals with a shirt with George W. Bush’s face on it. The caption said, “Wanted for war crimes”. The people of the town were living in shacks with no plumbing. There was no school for the children and no infrastructure to speak of. It was worse than Tijuana in just about everyway and in this cesspool of human misery and squalor. Jennifer was arguably one of the prettiest women in the world. She came to the village with a back pack and an acoustic guitar.
Jennifer’s father was a partner at a large law firm in downtown Chicago. Their offices took up several floors of a high rise. To be a part of this law firm was prestigious. Attorneys were paid well.
Jennifer’s father had been a life long Republican. He voted for every single Republican presidential candidate going back to Barry Goldwater. Jennifer’s father was religious and driven. They were Episcopal and lived in a small suburb that was in the top ten richest burgs in the country. The village is called Kenilworth and all the streets were named after small towns in Great Britain. England Primarily. Most of the inhabitants were of British descent and very rich. Jennifer too was of English lineage. Ironically, Jack, Jennifer’s father, gave over $10,000.00 a year to an Episcopal missionary who was stationed in Namibia. Jack was never even sure where that was. He just knew his money went there to promote Christianity and safe drinking water.
Jennifer went to prep school in the east and attended Stanford. It was at Stanford that Jennifer had a history professor that told her that all American history was basically fabricated lies just like the bible and that the age of imperialism had come unravelled after World War II and the United States picked up where Great Britain and France had left off. A man who had studied his whole life and received a doctorate at the age of
forty five, challenged young and impressionable people to do something with their lives. This professor read and re-read H.L Mencken and Nietzche in a studio apartment, with no wife and no family. His big moment was protesting the war back in the late sixties and getting arrested. He was promptly bailed out by his parents but told the story for so many years after that his time in jail went from four hours to four weeks. His fabled plight resembled a Kafka novel rather than a simple act of civil disobedience that was considered to be a step above j walking or spitting on the sidewalk.
Be all that as it may, her father, his job, their community, their homogeneity, their insulation and so forth was somehow wrong. Jennifer’s good fortune to be born into a good family was about as unlucky as some poor bastard’s luck to be born at a squatter’s camp in Zimbabwe near the border with South Africa. Jennifer bought the line that it was up to her to make a difference. Jennifer actually did make a difference in the lives of many people in Zimbabwe as did her father.
Jack, the father of Jennifer, indulged his daughter despite the fact that he worried that at best, she would be gang raped by low level military leader, seeking to over throw Robert Mugabe, the first and only president of Zimbabwe. At worst, Jack feared that Jennifer would be killed. Either way, Jack knew that he could not stop Jennifer from doing what she wished. He never set the stage for the word no and so Jack could not say no to Jennifer. Jack built a hospital, a church and a school for the people of the town. Doctors from France came and donated their time to help the people of the town. Jack came at the insistence of his daughter to the remote town that did not even have a name. He drove with a guide six hours in a Land Rover Defender on dirt roads until he found his daughter. Along the way, Jack remembered his father’s friend who he had met in Great Britain during World War II, was someone who had come from the area that became Rhodesia and then Zimbabwe. He fought in the Second World War for Great Britain and lived on a farm about an hours drive outside of the city of Salisbury. Jack’s father had always talked about visiting his old war friend in Rhodesia back when things were going well in the mid to late 1960’s. They never got there. Now Jack was riding in a Land Rover on roads that once existed during the days of colonial rule. In many areas, the paved roads ceased to exist. It after all had been over forty years since colonial rule. Jack’s father never lived to visit his old war buddy but his son made it his duty to visit his daughter in what was once Rhodesia.
The children of the town danced and sang for Jack and hugged him. It was
the first time in his life that he had ever hugged a black person and the people of southern Africa were not like the caramel colored blacks back home that had mixed with whites at some point somewhere between modern times and the landing of the Mayflower. The people of the town were blacker than black. Their skin shined and their teeth and the whites of their eyes contrasted greatly. Despite the fact that they had very little, they were happy looking and Jack left Africa feeling that he had done something very good despite the fact that he was badgered by his daughter. Jack felt good about his contributions and that of his daughter until he received the news with a photograph that Jennifer had married a native of Zimbabwe.
Nkute was like any other poor native of Zimbabwe. It hadn’t been that way for him when he was young. Nkute’s father was a well paid servant in a white household near Salisbury. The man that Nkute’s father worked for was a politician that represented an area of Salisbury in the parliament. He was part of the Rhodesian Front. He had a hand in what was called the Lancaster House Agreement. He wanted to ensure that if black majority rule was on the way, that whites still had a stake in the new government. Whites were to retain 20% of the seats in parliament.
Nkute lived in a descent home and was a champion Cricket player when the country was still Rhodesia. After 1980, things began to change. The white family that his father worked for moved to New Zealand and his father was out of a job. Nkute’s family eventually moved out of the city to the country.
Nkute was as an excellent student He was sent by his village to school in Australia at the age of fourteen. Nkute lived at the boarding school. He was an exceptional student and gifted at soccer or as the call it, football. He also was a valuable member of the school’s Cricket team. Nkute did well all throughout school and became a doctor. Nkute owned a house in suburban Sydney and had a nice life. While listening to the BBC one day on his car radio, Nkute heard about white farmers being killed and land going to waste in Zimbabwe. He listened to the reports of runaway inflation and the lack of medical attention for most who inhabited the country.
Back in the Rhodesian days, white soldiers who assisted the British South Africa Company, were each given 3,000 acres of land through grants. The leader of the British South Africa Company was a man whose name was Cecil Rhodes, hence the name Rhodesia. The received a royal charter back in 1889. The blacks on that land became tenants or were thrown off. Blacks were given land in low rainfall areas and the good land for farming with good rainfall was given to whites. At the time of independence, white farmers owned close to 5,000 farms. The white farmers provided housing, school and hospitals for their black employees. 40% of the farms in the country were run by the 5,000 white farmers who made up over 60% of the country’s GDP. Rhodesia was the bread basket of Africa. Nkute understood what it was like to be ruled by white people and was happy as a young boy when independence happened. It appeared to be the right thing for the majority. The problem was the land distribution killed Zimbabwe’s ability to sustain itself. People who did not understand and know how to farm, were given land and let the land go fallow. It became paramount to import food to feed Zimbabweans. The rate of malnutrition is at about 45% now. It is low considering the inflation rate was 2.2% million percent when I first wrote about the inflation rate. It has now risen again.
Nkute took a leave of absence for a year from the hospital he worked for in Sydney and went to work for Medcin sans Frontier or Doctors without Borders. Nkute made his way over to the same town that Jennifer happened to live in and the rest is history. The normal boy meets girl stuff took place. He was on good behavior while trying to woo her. They married in Zimbabwe and disagreed as to where they would eventually live. Jennifer did not want to remain in Zimbabwe the rest of her life nor immigrate to Australia. Being in love with his beautiful wife, he decided to follow her back to the United States. Nkute had to take further courses and training in order to be a full fledged practicing physician in the United States. They both volunteered with the Red Cross together.
“Excuse me, I am Nkute Nabazeen and thees ees my wife Jennifer… We har weeth thee RRRRed Crrross… Have you anyone who ees urt frrrom the fire?” Said Nkute, in his strong southern African English accent.
Nkute and Jennifer met with the tenants one by one and interviewed them in order to determine if they had somewhere to go for the night. At the end of the night, Nkute and Jennifer returned to their condominium on the 32nd floor that overlooked Lake Michigan. Jennifer went into their bedroom to light candles and prepare to do some yoga to help her unwind from the days events. Nkute purchased the Cricket Ticket on the Dish Network. India was playing South Africa in a test match. Nkute ate a deep dish pizza of spinach and onion, drank a Dutch beer and thought to himself; isn’t life grand?
Comments (1)
Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 4:15 am Edit ThisTags: Chicago, Mencken, Nietzche, Red Cross, Rhodesia, Zimbabwe
A tall blond woman with an uncommonly beautiful face walked up wearing a wind breaker that had a patch on it that read, Red Cross. This tall blond woman went by the name of Jennifer. Jennifer grew tired of being a sexually desired object for most of her life and at the age of twenty one, spun the globe and purposely kept her index finger below the equator. It landed in the country of Zimbabwe. Fortunately for Jennifer, she did not wind up in a country where she had to speak French, Dutch or Portuguese. The people of Zimbabwe spoke English. They learned English by the English and for a while, the country went by the name of Rhodesia. Jennifer wasn’t even born when the country was called that. In fact Jennifer was living in the country nearly a year when she figured out that Rhodesia and Zimbabwe were the same country. Many white farmers had long since moved out of the country and there were just a smattering of whites in big cities. Jennifer didn’t seem to mind. Jennifer went into a grocery store in the capital during her first few days in Zimbabwe in hopes of buying enough food to sustain her for a few days. Upon entering a clean looking grocery store, Jennifer was shocked to see employees standing around a nearly vacant store. There was bottled water and a few loaves of bread
left. Jennifer had no idea what it meant when the total in Zimbabwean Dollars came to $350,000.00 for two liters of water and a loaf of bread. She gave the cashier a twenty dollar bill in American money and told her to keep the change. The cashier pocketed nearly $400,000.00 Zimbabwean Dollars for herself which was the equivalent of a month’s pay. It was a good day for that woman. The only problem would be that she would have to spend that money immediately before the value changed. The value of the Zimbabwean Dollar dropped by the minute. Inflation was somewhere near 26,000% at the time of Jennifer’s arrival. Today it is nearly 2.2 million percent. Jennifer picked the second poorest country in the world to make a difference. As far as reaching the poor and impoverished, Jennifer was right on track. To compound all of this, the president of the country declared land owned and run by white farmers to be seized. There were nearly 400 white owned farms that helped the country sustain itself in 2000. By 2007, there were just a handful of white hold outs that were in danger of not only losing their land but their lives. Zimbabwe was really not a safe place for white people much less very attractive female white people.
Now at time when blacks were squatting on white farm land and killing white
farmers, Jennifer showed up as innocent as Bambi. The unemployment rate was somewhere near 80%. In the capital of Harare, she went to a clinic for women and told a large black woman behind a desk that she wanted to help. This large black woman was surprised by the beauty and ignorant innocence of a young American woman, in a foreign land, unescorted. After the initial shock, the woman sent her to the middle of nowhere. The town she sent her to was dangerous and not far from the border with South Africa. Most of the men and women were trying to enter South Africa illegally in hopes of finding a job. Even if one could find a job in Zimbabwe, their currency was worth nearly nothing. One might need a dump truck of money just to buy a meal.
Jennifer showed up with a long tight skirt that went to her ankles. She wore Birkenstock sandals with a shirt with George W. Bush’s face on it. The caption said, “Wanted for war crimes”. The people of the town were living in shacks with no plumbing. There was no school for the children and no infrastructure to speak of. It was worse than Tijuana in just about everyway and in this cesspool of human misery and squalor. Jennifer was arguably one of the prettiest women in the world. She came to the village with a back pack and an acoustic guitar.
Jennifer’s father was a partner at a large law firm in downtown Chicago. Their offices took up several floors of a high rise. To be a part of this law firm was prestigious. Attorneys were paid well.
Jennifer’s father had been a life long Republican. He voted for every single Republican presidential candidate going back to Barry Goldwater. Jennifer’s father was religious and driven. They were Episcopal and lived in a small suburb that was in the top ten richest burgs in the country. The village is called Kenilworth and all the streets were named after small towns in Great Britain. England Primarily. Most of the inhabitants were of British descent and very rich. Jennifer too was of English lineage. Ironically, Jack, Jennifer’s father, gave over $10,000.00 a year to an Episcopal missionary who was stationed in Namibia. Jack was never even sure where that was. He just knew his money went there to promote Christianity and safe drinking water.
Jennifer went to prep school in the east and attended Stanford. It was at Stanford that Jennifer had a history professor that told her that all American history was basically fabricated lies just like the bible and that the age of imperialism had come unravelled after World War II and the United States picked up where Great Britain and France had left off. A man who had studied his whole life and received a doctorate at the age of
forty five, challenged young and impressionable people to do something with their lives. This professor read and re-read H.L Mencken and Nietzche in a studio apartment, with no wife and no family. His big moment was protesting the war back in the late sixties and getting arrested. He was promptly bailed out by his parents but told the story for so many years after that his time in jail went from four hours to four weeks. His fabled plight resembled a Kafka novel rather than a simple act of civil disobedience that was considered to be a step above j walking or spitting on the sidewalk.
Be all that as it may, her father, his job, their community, their homogeneity, their insulation and so forth was somehow wrong. Jennifer’s good fortune to be born into a good family was about as unlucky as some poor bastard’s luck to be born at a squatter’s camp in Zimbabwe near the border with South Africa. Jennifer bought the line that it was up to her to make a difference. Jennifer actually did make a difference in the lives of many people in Zimbabwe as did her father.
Jack, the father of Jennifer, indulged his daughter despite the fact that he worried that at best, she would be gang raped by low level military leader, seeking to over throw Robert Mugabe, the first and only president of Zimbabwe. At worst, Jack feared that Jennifer would be killed. Either way, Jack knew that he could not stop Jennifer from doing what she wished. He never set the stage for the word no and so Jack could not say no to Jennifer. Jack built a hospital, a church and a school for the people of the town. Doctors from France came and donated their time to help the people of the town. Jack came at the insistence of his daughter to the remote town that did not even have a name. He drove with a guide six hours in a Land Rover Defender on dirt roads until he found his daughter. Along the way, Jack remembered his father’s friend who he had met in Great Britain during World War II, was someone who had come from the area that became Rhodesia and then Zimbabwe. He fought in the Second World War for Great Britain and lived on a farm about an hours drive outside of the city of Salisbury. Jack’s father had always talked about visiting his old war friend in Rhodesia back when things were going well in the mid to late 1960’s. They never got there. Now Jack was riding in a Land Rover on roads that once existed during the days of colonial rule. In many areas, the paved roads ceased to exist. It after all had been over forty years since colonial rule. Jack’s father never lived to visit his old war buddy but his son made it his duty to visit his daughter in what was once Rhodesia.
The children of the town danced and sang for Jack and hugged him. It was
the first time in his life that he had ever hugged a black person and the people of southern Africa were not like the caramel colored blacks back home that had mixed with whites at some point somewhere between modern times and the landing of the Mayflower. The people of the town were blacker than black. Their skin shined and their teeth and the whites of their eyes contrasted greatly. Despite the fact that they had very little, they were happy looking and Jack left Africa feeling that he had done something very good despite the fact that he was badgered by his daughter. Jack felt good about his contributions and that of his daughter until he received the news with a photograph that Jennifer had married a native of Zimbabwe.
Nkute was like any other poor native of Zimbabwe. It hadn’t been that way for him when he was young. Nkute’s father was a well paid servant in a white household near Salisbury. The man that Nkute’s father worked for was a politician that represented an area of Salisbury in the parliament. He was part of the Rhodesian Front. He had a hand in what was called the Lancaster House Agreement. He wanted to ensure that if black majority rule was on the way, that whites still had a stake in the new government. Whites were to retain 20% of the seats in parliament.
Nkute lived in a descent home and was a champion Cricket player when the country was still Rhodesia. After 1980, things began to change. The white family that his father worked for moved to New Zealand and his father was out of a job. Nkute’s family eventually moved out of the city to the country.
Nkute was as an excellent student He was sent by his village to school in Australia at the age of fourteen. Nkute lived at the boarding school. He was an exceptional student and gifted at soccer or as the call it, football. He also was a valuable member of the school’s Cricket team. Nkute did well all throughout school and became a doctor. Nkute owned a house in suburban Sydney and had a nice life. While listening to the BBC one day on his car radio, Nkute heard about white farmers being killed and land going to waste in Zimbabwe. He listened to the reports of runaway inflation and the lack of medical attention for most who inhabited the country.
Back in the Rhodesian days, white soldiers who assisted the British South Africa Company, were each given 3,000 acres of land through grants. The leader of the British South Africa Company was a man whose name was Cecil Rhodes, hence the name Rhodesia. The received a royal charter back in 1889. The blacks on that land became tenants or were thrown off. Blacks were given land in low rainfall areas and the good land for farming with good rainfall was given to whites. At the time of independence, white farmers owned close to 5,000 farms. The white farmers provided housing, school and hospitals for their black employees. 40% of the farms in the country were run by the 5,000 white farmers who made up over 60% of the country’s GDP. Rhodesia was the bread basket of Africa. Nkute understood what it was like to be ruled by white people and was happy as a young boy when independence happened. It appeared to be the right thing for the majority. The problem was the land distribution killed Zimbabwe’s ability to sustain itself. People who did not understand and know how to farm, were given land and let the land go fallow. It became paramount to import food to feed Zimbabweans. The rate of malnutrition is at about 45% now. It is low considering the inflation rate was 2.2% million percent when I first wrote about the inflation rate. It has now risen again.
Nkute took a leave of absence for a year from the hospital he worked for in Sydney and went to work for Medcin sans Frontier or Doctors without Borders. Nkute made his way over to the same town that Jennifer happened to live in and the rest is history. The normal boy meets girl stuff took place. He was on good behavior while trying to woo her. They married in Zimbabwe and disagreed as to where they would eventually live. Jennifer did not want to remain in Zimbabwe the rest of her life nor immigrate to Australia. Being in love with his beautiful wife, he decided to follow her back to the United States. Nkute had to take further courses and training in order to be a full fledged practicing physician in the United States. They both volunteered with the Red Cross together.
“Excuse me, I am Nkute Nabazeen and thees ees my wife Jennifer… We har weeth thee RRRRed Crrross… Have you anyone who ees urt frrrom the fire?” Said Nkute, in his strong southern African English accent.
Nkute and Jennifer met with the tenants one by one and interviewed them in order to determine if they had somewhere to go for the night. At the end of the night, Nkute and Jennifer returned to their condominium on the 32nd floor that overlooked Lake Michigan. Jennifer went into their bedroom to light candles and prepare to do some yoga to help her unwind from the days events. Nkute purchased the Cricket Ticket on the Dish Network. India was playing South Africa in a test match. Nkute ate a deep dish pizza of spinach and onion, drank a Dutch beer and thought to himself; isn’t life grand?
Comments (1)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Department van Levity
oktober 16, 2009
departement van levity
liasseer onder: kort storie, uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:18 is etikette: delusions, humor, miami, skrik
sergio was 'n amerikaans gebore kubaans dat kan verbygaan vir 'n middel easterner en so hy geneem arabies as 'n taalkundige in die weermag. tale het gekom maklik om te sergio. hy spreek engels en spaans sonder 'n aksent en geleer almal romanties tale gou en bekwaam en was gerig by die milit�r om te neem arabies. na sergio’s milit�r dae, die regering het begin 'n covert taakmag dat geneem vooraf-emptive beweeg om te vind daardie binne die grense van die verenigde state wat sal wees meeste wenslik om te los die toestande om op te lei as 'n terroriste en terugkom to amerika om te pleeg tree op van skrik. meeste mense ge-ondervra was niks meer as delusional misfits met wisselend grade van verstandelik siekte. maar die regering gehou uit hoop dat hulle’d vind daardie pas genoeg om uit te dra terroriste aktiwiteit.
9:00 is maandag- outdoor café op suid strand in miami. sergio slyteer 'n collared lank sleeved wit hemp, son glase en gee voor om te wees praat to iemand op sy sel foon wanneer dr. trent oewers stappe op. trent hoor party gutturaal woorde in arabies. trent verstaan niks van wat sergio is gesegde op sy sel foon. wat ges� was losserig vertaal tot hierdie; re�ndruppels op rose en bakkebaard op kittensskerp koper kettles en warm woolen mittens bruin papier pakkies vasgebind op met stringe, hierdie is sommige van my gunsteling dinge. sergio hang op en brei uit sy hand to dr. oewers.
“salaam mnr. mohammed, Ek moes neem 'n vliegtuig van new york to cleveland dan to buffel en dan hier. Ek wou seker wees Ek was nie om te wees gevolg. Ek waarlik glo die feds is volgende my. hulle weet Ek’m 'n mediese dokter, hulle weet dat ek was eens 'n aktief{we} lid van die kommuniste party van amerika terug in kollege en hulle weet Ek voel omtrent die rigting van hierdie land,” ges� trent terwyl soek kant to kant.
sergio lyk ingespanne tot trent as alles was om te wees opgeneem op 'n ho� getrouheid draad aangeheg(te) to sergio’s borskas. trent’s asemhaal kan wees opgetel by die duur opname apparaat. daar was geen mistaking wat ges� was.
“Ek is 'n historian wie het gestudeer die fallacies van amerikaans geskiedenis. die snert omtrent die groot slagting regtig word my bok. dit’s geen toeval dat jode hardloop hierdie land, die bank sisteem ensovoorts. kyk na die geld ons gee to israel… dit’s 'n misdaad,” ges� sergio.
“wel my vriend, haat jode is nie genoeg om te kry u binne-in ons elite troep van liberators. vertel my hoe u sien gemeenskap as 'n hele, my vriend,” ges� sergio, terwyl rubbing sy scruffy bakkebaard met sy duim en voorgrond vinger.
“wel eenkant van jode, mense het bekom so onnosel in hierdie land. onnosel dinge oproep onnosel mense. musiek, films en televisie as deel van pop kultuur in hierdie land het dumbed af gemeenskap hier. hierdie kultuur is 'n siekte wat sal dom af die w�reld. dit moet wees gestop. indien Ek kan vertrouwe stel in iets met u, mnr. mohammed… Ek probeer om te kom op met 'n dwelm wat sal beheer die verstande van mense deur sublimiteit boodskappe. indien Ek kan doen hierdie, Ek om te wees die skepper van hierdie dwelm, kan koers vat hierdie land terug in die behoorlik rigting. Ek glo my produk kan baie bruikbaar wees tot jou organisasie. Ek is gewillig om te wees jou apteek, jou wetenskaplike, jou hoof konsultant in kwessies hoe hierdie,” ges� trent.
“hoe is dinge kom, my vriend?” gevra trent.
“Ek’m bly u vra… dit kom langsaan wel. ek het gebruik hierdie op honde tot dusver met baie positief uitslae. Ek kan kry honde om dinge te doen op my opdrag. kwaad, visieus honde is gemaak heeltemal submissive en heeltemal cooperative,” ges� sergio.
“sal u wil gaan na ons mengsel oorsee om te bespreek hierdie opsie met ander binne ons organisasie? ons is baie gelukkig deur jou brief ons via die internet en vind gerief in die feit dat daar is amerikaners hoe jouself wat gewillig om te wees uitmekaar van die oplossing dat is beste vir die w�reld. hierdie malheid moet wees gestop. ons makeer intelligent en gemotifeer individuus hoe jouself om te help maak idees 'n werklikheid. waar kan ons bereik u, dr. trent?”
sergio aangemeld tot sy direkte beter dat hy het 'n vooruitsig op die haak. hulle het gelok in 'n ontnugter amerikaans burger wie verskyn om te wees gewillig om te sluit aan forseer dat was gebuig op vernietig die verenigde state deur 'n obskuur werf op die internet. sergio was georder om te soek uit die dokter vir 'n tweede onderhoud tot sy hotel naby downtown miami. sergio ontmoet die moeder van die dokter by die deur van daar hotel plek. haar naam was sylvia en sy was 'n ouer joods vrou met 'n pasi�nt glimlag. trent’s moeder gestap binne-in die gang om te bespreek trent’s kondisie met sergio. dit was op daardie oomblik dat sergio geleer dat dr. trent kus was eintlik harold fishman.
“meneer… Ek’m nie seker presies wat harold bespreek met u. net so u weet, harold ly aan delusions en het gediagnoseer as schizophrenic. hy genoem my en gemaak die fout van {belroep} my van die hotel foon en Ek opgespoor hom af hier. die institusie dat hy was lewe tot knip kapitaal en Ek moes neem hom in terug tuis weer. dat verbrands internet is afskuwelik vir mense soos harold… Ek vra verskoning indien hy het beloof u iets. hy is nie 'n miljoen�r, 'n dokter, 'n wetenskaplike of deel van die koninklik hollands gegooi… Ek hoor almal van hulle.”
“Ek sien… dankie vir jou tyd mev,” ges� sergio voor excusing homself.
sergio verkry binne-in sy motor en onmiddellik geskakel sy baas om te bespreek tog 'n ander dood einde.
“joe? 'n ander flop… yea, yea… voorkoms, ons’re om te kry niks maar crackpots. meeste van hierdie ouens lewe in 'n parallel heelal en het moeite maak hul beddens sm�rens… wel Ek verstaan en ja ek hou van om te eet en betaal my verband en so Ek voortgaan om dit te doen maar hierdie om hulle uit te klop tot die pons ding deur te plaas geheim(sinnig) advertensies op klets kamers ensovoorts, is net aantrekking weirdoes wie lewe alleen met hul moeders. ons’re om uit te klop dood perde… alles reg joe. waar doen Ek gaan m�re? idaho? 'n voormalige band van wit supremacists wie wil gaan na trein in afganistan… goed. jy s� voormalige alhoewel, huh? hoe een stop om te wees 'n wit supremacist? goed… dat’s fyn. Ek’ll maak my manier to boise teen m�re. net hoeveel het ons eintlik geword om te probeer en kommissie 'n vliegtuig vir afganistan? dat baie, huh? wel so lank as die regering glo ons’re maak hoof manier, dat’s al wat saakmaak. ten minste ons gewen’t wees blootgestel vir probeer Om te verkoop $200.00 toilet sitplekke, reg{ter} joe? gee my liefde tot die vrou en kinders… sien u volgende week vegas. don’t vergeet om te bring jou gholf klubs… seker, ons’ll het 'n swel tyd.”
departement van levity
liasseer onder: kort storie, uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 7:18 is etikette: delusions, humor, miami, skrik
sergio was 'n amerikaans gebore kubaans dat kan verbygaan vir 'n middel easterner en so hy geneem arabies as 'n taalkundige in die weermag. tale het gekom maklik om te sergio. hy spreek engels en spaans sonder 'n aksent en geleer almal romanties tale gou en bekwaam en was gerig by die milit�r om te neem arabies. na sergio’s milit�r dae, die regering het begin 'n covert taakmag dat geneem vooraf-emptive beweeg om te vind daardie binne die grense van die verenigde state wat sal wees meeste wenslik om te los die toestande om op te lei as 'n terroriste en terugkom to amerika om te pleeg tree op van skrik. meeste mense ge-ondervra was niks meer as delusional misfits met wisselend grade van verstandelik siekte. maar die regering gehou uit hoop dat hulle’d vind daardie pas genoeg om uit te dra terroriste aktiwiteit.
9:00 is maandag- outdoor café op suid strand in miami. sergio slyteer 'n collared lank sleeved wit hemp, son glase en gee voor om te wees praat to iemand op sy sel foon wanneer dr. trent oewers stappe op. trent hoor party gutturaal woorde in arabies. trent verstaan niks van wat sergio is gesegde op sy sel foon. wat ges� was losserig vertaal tot hierdie; re�ndruppels op rose en bakkebaard op kittensskerp koper kettles en warm woolen mittens bruin papier pakkies vasgebind op met stringe, hierdie is sommige van my gunsteling dinge. sergio hang op en brei uit sy hand to dr. oewers.
“salaam mnr. mohammed, Ek moes neem 'n vliegtuig van new york to cleveland dan to buffel en dan hier. Ek wou seker wees Ek was nie om te wees gevolg. Ek waarlik glo die feds is volgende my. hulle weet Ek’m 'n mediese dokter, hulle weet dat ek was eens 'n aktief{we} lid van die kommuniste party van amerika terug in kollege en hulle weet Ek voel omtrent die rigting van hierdie land,” ges� trent terwyl soek kant to kant.
sergio lyk ingespanne tot trent as alles was om te wees opgeneem op 'n ho� getrouheid draad aangeheg(te) to sergio’s borskas. trent’s asemhaal kan wees opgetel by die duur opname apparaat. daar was geen mistaking wat ges� was.
“Ek is 'n historian wie het gestudeer die fallacies van amerikaans geskiedenis. die snert omtrent die groot slagting regtig word my bok. dit’s geen toeval dat jode hardloop hierdie land, die bank sisteem ensovoorts. kyk na die geld ons gee to israel… dit’s 'n misdaad,” ges� sergio.
“wel my vriend, haat jode is nie genoeg om te kry u binne-in ons elite troep van liberators. vertel my hoe u sien gemeenskap as 'n hele, my vriend,” ges� sergio, terwyl rubbing sy scruffy bakkebaard met sy duim en voorgrond vinger.
“wel eenkant van jode, mense het bekom so onnosel in hierdie land. onnosel dinge oproep onnosel mense. musiek, films en televisie as deel van pop kultuur in hierdie land het dumbed af gemeenskap hier. hierdie kultuur is 'n siekte wat sal dom af die w�reld. dit moet wees gestop. indien Ek kan vertrouwe stel in iets met u, mnr. mohammed… Ek probeer om te kom op met 'n dwelm wat sal beheer die verstande van mense deur sublimiteit boodskappe. indien Ek kan doen hierdie, Ek om te wees die skepper van hierdie dwelm, kan koers vat hierdie land terug in die behoorlik rigting. Ek glo my produk kan baie bruikbaar wees tot jou organisasie. Ek is gewillig om te wees jou apteek, jou wetenskaplike, jou hoof konsultant in kwessies hoe hierdie,” ges� trent.
“hoe is dinge kom, my vriend?” gevra trent.
“Ek’m bly u vra… dit kom langsaan wel. ek het gebruik hierdie op honde tot dusver met baie positief uitslae. Ek kan kry honde om dinge te doen op my opdrag. kwaad, visieus honde is gemaak heeltemal submissive en heeltemal cooperative,” ges� sergio.
“sal u wil gaan na ons mengsel oorsee om te bespreek hierdie opsie met ander binne ons organisasie? ons is baie gelukkig deur jou brief ons via die internet en vind gerief in die feit dat daar is amerikaners hoe jouself wat gewillig om te wees uitmekaar van die oplossing dat is beste vir die w�reld. hierdie malheid moet wees gestop. ons makeer intelligent en gemotifeer individuus hoe jouself om te help maak idees 'n werklikheid. waar kan ons bereik u, dr. trent?”
sergio aangemeld tot sy direkte beter dat hy het 'n vooruitsig op die haak. hulle het gelok in 'n ontnugter amerikaans burger wie verskyn om te wees gewillig om te sluit aan forseer dat was gebuig op vernietig die verenigde state deur 'n obskuur werf op die internet. sergio was georder om te soek uit die dokter vir 'n tweede onderhoud tot sy hotel naby downtown miami. sergio ontmoet die moeder van die dokter by die deur van daar hotel plek. haar naam was sylvia en sy was 'n ouer joods vrou met 'n pasi�nt glimlag. trent’s moeder gestap binne-in die gang om te bespreek trent’s kondisie met sergio. dit was op daardie oomblik dat sergio geleer dat dr. trent kus was eintlik harold fishman.
“meneer… Ek’m nie seker presies wat harold bespreek met u. net so u weet, harold ly aan delusions en het gediagnoseer as schizophrenic. hy genoem my en gemaak die fout van {belroep} my van die hotel foon en Ek opgespoor hom af hier. die institusie dat hy was lewe tot knip kapitaal en Ek moes neem hom in terug tuis weer. dat verbrands internet is afskuwelik vir mense soos harold… Ek vra verskoning indien hy het beloof u iets. hy is nie 'n miljoen�r, 'n dokter, 'n wetenskaplike of deel van die koninklik hollands gegooi… Ek hoor almal van hulle.”
“Ek sien… dankie vir jou tyd mev,” ges� sergio voor excusing homself.
sergio verkry binne-in sy motor en onmiddellik geskakel sy baas om te bespreek tog 'n ander dood einde.
“joe? 'n ander flop… yea, yea… voorkoms, ons’re om te kry niks maar crackpots. meeste van hierdie ouens lewe in 'n parallel heelal en het moeite maak hul beddens sm�rens… wel Ek verstaan en ja ek hou van om te eet en betaal my verband en so Ek voortgaan om dit te doen maar hierdie om hulle uit te klop tot die pons ding deur te plaas geheim(sinnig) advertensies op klets kamers ensovoorts, is net aantrekking weirdoes wie lewe alleen met hul moeders. ons’re om uit te klop dood perde… alles reg joe. waar doen Ek gaan m�re? idaho? 'n voormalige band van wit supremacists wie wil gaan na trein in afganistan… goed. jy s� voormalige alhoewel, huh? hoe een stop om te wees 'n wit supremacist? goed… dat’s fyn. Ek’ll maak my manier to boise teen m�re. net hoeveel het ons eintlik geword om te probeer en kommissie 'n vliegtuig vir afganistan? dat baie, huh? wel so lank as die regering glo ons’re maak hoof manier, dat’s al wat saakmaak. ten minste ons gewen’t wees blootgestel vir probeer Om te verkoop $200.00 toilet sitplekke, reg{ter} joe? gee my liefde tot die vrou en kinders… sien u volgende week vegas. don’t vergeet om te bring jou gholf klubs… seker, ons’ll het 'n swel tyd.”
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Viagra 73% Off
Now Steven was worried about pleasing his younger wife. She had told him matter of fact like one night that she loved to have sex for hours, several times a night. Steven had gone to the junk box on his computer and opened up the spam that advertised Viagra for 73% below the market value. Steven loved a deal and so he purchased the drug on line from a distributor in a small town in Alberta up in the plains section of Canada. This distributor was able to get the drug from the Canadian Government for next to nothing. He worked in a hospital where they dispensed drugs. The government paid him a meager $25,000.00 a year salary. By borrowing the drug, he could make over four times that amount. This particular man had bank accounts set up in Barbados under his children’s names. He withdrew all his money one day from the Royal Bank of Canada when the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, nabbed drug dealers in British Columbia. The drug dealers were caught with millions in Scotia Bank accounts. One night while eating dinner with his family and watching the national news on CBC, this particular Viagra dealer got to his RBC and wired the money to Barbados. He had always wanted to go to Barbados, now he had a good reason. His money was there.
To be fair, we shall not name for fear that the RCMP might pick him up in Alberta. He posted the sale of Viagra on the web at a savings of 73%. Steven was not aware that he was only saving about 20% and so he bought the little blue pills on line. He initially took just a half a pill as was suggested and found that his member hung to the left as if it were asleep. Steven took the rest of the pill. It was within an hour that he broke out into body sweats and felt a surge of heat run through his body. Steven could feel his heart beating in his eyes. The veins on his neck bulged and he got an erection that was so hard that it hurt him. It throbbed so. Steven’s younger wife had no idea. What she believed was that Steven was inspired by her. Steven was good for two or three rounds. His biggest fear was that he might get a heart attack or a stroke from the drug.
Cynthia tried so hard to appear as though she was really in love with her husband. What she was really in love with were all his assets. By law, she was half owner in all that he owned. Within ten years, Cynthia would be as they say, fucking him to the tune of five million dollars, a house, a condo, two cars and monthly maintenance.
Cynthia’s people had hit the proverbial jack pot some years back. It was determined that Cynthia’s mother was part of the Luiseno Indian tribe. One day her mother received a letter from the chief of the Luiseno Indians that she would be getting $200,000.00 a year for being one of a select few that were really and truly from the Luiseno Tribe. It was great while it lasted.
The Luisenos arrived from Asia over 2,500 year ago and settled just south of Palm Springs. They were hunters and gatherers. The Spanish and small pox did them in. Today there are about 40 native speakers of the language left. Cynthia’s mother got money until the day she died. Cynthia had her mother in a nursing home in Hemet, California for years while she collected the money. Upon her mother’s death, it was determined by the tribe leader that Cynthia could no longer receive the money on her mother’s behalf since she had been adopted. Cynthia had no idea that she had been adopted until her mother’s death. A private detective hired by the tribe was conclusively able to prove that Cynthia was born of Scottish and Swedish extraction and was there by not a Luiseno. The well had run dry.Now Cynthia’s mother had been told as a child, that their grandfather had been a full blooded Luiseno Indian that had moved near Los Angeles and married a white woman. Their children married other whites until the Indian look was white washed away. Due to the fact that Cynthia’s mother was of direct Luiseno lineage, she was entitled to a share of the profits that came in from the food mart, RV resort and the Pechanga Resort and Casino. It is a four diamond resort with 522 rooms and suites designed in a style hailing back to Frank Lloyd Wright. Mr. Wright was from Illinois but was no Indian. Golf, gambling, boxing, swimming and even comedy can be found on the grounds of the Pechanga Resort and Casino. Cynthia’s mother received a cut of the proceeds for having Luiseno blood. Upon the death of her mother, Cynthia needed to find a way to retain the style of life that she had grown accustomed to. Into her life entered Steven Swartz. Cynthia help founded a new tribe. No casino but plenty of proceeds and benefits
To be fair, we shall not name for fear that the RCMP might pick him up in Alberta. He posted the sale of Viagra on the web at a savings of 73%. Steven was not aware that he was only saving about 20% and so he bought the little blue pills on line. He initially took just a half a pill as was suggested and found that his member hung to the left as if it were asleep. Steven took the rest of the pill. It was within an hour that he broke out into body sweats and felt a surge of heat run through his body. Steven could feel his heart beating in his eyes. The veins on his neck bulged and he got an erection that was so hard that it hurt him. It throbbed so. Steven’s younger wife had no idea. What she believed was that Steven was inspired by her. Steven was good for two or three rounds. His biggest fear was that he might get a heart attack or a stroke from the drug.
Cynthia tried so hard to appear as though she was really in love with her husband. What she was really in love with were all his assets. By law, she was half owner in all that he owned. Within ten years, Cynthia would be as they say, fucking him to the tune of five million dollars, a house, a condo, two cars and monthly maintenance.
Cynthia’s people had hit the proverbial jack pot some years back. It was determined that Cynthia’s mother was part of the Luiseno Indian tribe. One day her mother received a letter from the chief of the Luiseno Indians that she would be getting $200,000.00 a year for being one of a select few that were really and truly from the Luiseno Tribe. It was great while it lasted.
The Luisenos arrived from Asia over 2,500 year ago and settled just south of Palm Springs. They were hunters and gatherers. The Spanish and small pox did them in. Today there are about 40 native speakers of the language left. Cynthia’s mother got money until the day she died. Cynthia had her mother in a nursing home in Hemet, California for years while she collected the money. Upon her mother’s death, it was determined by the tribe leader that Cynthia could no longer receive the money on her mother’s behalf since she had been adopted. Cynthia had no idea that she had been adopted until her mother’s death. A private detective hired by the tribe was conclusively able to prove that Cynthia was born of Scottish and Swedish extraction and was there by not a Luiseno. The well had run dry.Now Cynthia’s mother had been told as a child, that their grandfather had been a full blooded Luiseno Indian that had moved near Los Angeles and married a white woman. Their children married other whites until the Indian look was white washed away. Due to the fact that Cynthia’s mother was of direct Luiseno lineage, she was entitled to a share of the profits that came in from the food mart, RV resort and the Pechanga Resort and Casino. It is a four diamond resort with 522 rooms and suites designed in a style hailing back to Frank Lloyd Wright. Mr. Wright was from Illinois but was no Indian. Golf, gambling, boxing, swimming and even comedy can be found on the grounds of the Pechanga Resort and Casino. Cynthia’s mother received a cut of the proceeds for having Luiseno blood. Upon the death of her mother, Cynthia needed to find a way to retain the style of life that she had grown accustomed to. Into her life entered Steven Swartz. Cynthia help founded a new tribe. No casino but plenty of proceeds and benefits
Suburban Life
Suburban Life
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:53 am Edit This
Boothe was the new tennis instructor at the Country club. Boothe used a Rod Laver wooden tennis racquet to teach the women at the club that over looks Lake Michigan in the northern Chicago suburb of Winnetka.
Boothe had played division I tennis for Cornell and had the type of good looks that made every smile material for an L.L. Bean catalogue. He had sandy blond hair and perfect teeth. He was wiry but muscular and although tennis was his game, women were his sport. The challenge was always putting the chase on and seeing if he could land his target. Only once in ten years since college graduation had Boothe been shot down and the woman who shot him down had actually been really and truly happy with the man she was with; A definite oddity.
Now Tanya, a raven haired second generation Russian woman whose husband struck gold buying up World War II era ranch homes and reconstructing them to be small palaces, was the object of Boothe’s attention. When the economy was good, Tanya’s husband made a killing as they say. Vlad was new money amongst the old money, trust fund, Ivy League clans of Chicago’s north shore.
Vlad was as big as the houses he rehabilitated. He stood six feet five inches and nearly three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He wore his blondish hair in a flat top and with his square jaw; his head looked like a block.
The country club charged him a one time fee of $550,000.00 to become a member which was about $200,000.00 more than others were charged for membership. The price jack was to dissuade the large Slavic man from entering one of the last bastions of Anglo-Saxonism. Vlad paid the fee more than anything to appease his wife who wanted to be like all the other women in the neighborhood. She wanted to work out all day, get her nails done, drink coffee and gossip with other rich neighborhood women and learn to play tennis.
Most of the other women in Winnetka pumped out three to five children a piece and gave them pretentious names like Boothe that was clearly a last name rather than a first name. Old president’s last names were popular as first names for boys and girls alike. Mostly Republican presidents back from the days when presidents were white and primarily Episcopalian.
Tanya had two kids and really felt one more would help her to fit in but with her children being in grade school, the autonomy during the day was quite refreshing and besides at 32 years of age, Tanya was in the best shape of her life.
Boothe caught Tanya’s attention by flashing his model like smile and making small talk. Over time, Boothe was able to take small talk to another level and before long they were meeting for coffee and dinners in the city, far away from the eyes and ears of their small burg.
Vlad was really into fishing and shooting guns. He had a basement full of riffles from all over the world from over a two hundred year period. Vlad had told Tanya that he was going up to Ontario to fish for a week. He packed his large Ford Truck with all his supplies and gave his wife one day notice of his plans to fish and hunt for a week with his friends in northern Ontario. Tanya was actually relieved and liked the idea of Vlad being gone. Tanya could run around with Boothe and not have to worry about excuses or cut their meetings short so as to not draw attention to her numerous absences from home.
COME TO MY PLACE TONIGHT. EVERYONE WILL BE GONE
Boothe looked at his Rod Laver racquet and spoke to it as he twirled it and read the text message out loud. He called his racquet Betsy and spoke to it as if it were real.
“Betsy ole girl, I shall be soon putting another notch upon you… This shall be number 129 over the course of our career. This one will be very special to me as I have never had one from Russia… Very exotic.”
Tanya bathed in the best smelling bath soap she owned and put a hint of perfume on various strategic areas of her body that would be most likely to be kissed and caressed. She wore a dress with no underwear and lit the fireplace. Smooth Jazz played on the stereo. Boothe came in wearing khaki pants with Top Sider boat shoes with no socks. His white sweater was wrapped around his pinstriped collared shirt. He was ready for love. The two of them downed a bottle of sweet red wine from Georgia as in the Republic of Georgia. They kissed passionately and Boothe ran his right hand up Tanya’s dress to find that there were no under garments to impede his progress. Everything was perfectly perfect until Tanya caught a glimpse of a truck pulling up the drive way on her close caption television that had a camera fixed on drive way.
“Oh my god! My husband is here!”
“I thought you said he was in Ontario…”
“He was supposed to be. He left two hours ago… Oh my god! You have to go out the back door now!”
“That’s all fine but my car is in the driveway, he’ll see it as soon as he pulls up.”
Boothe ran through the back yard and scaled the ten foot fence, crushing banzai plants and tripping twice as he ran through the garden in the back. Boothe was walking towards his car as the lights of the truck hit him. He was trying to smooth his breathing out and not look surprised or nervous. Boothe had in the trunk of his Audi, catalogues for time shares in exotic islands all over the world. He calmly as possible opened his trunk and took out a folder of information. Vlad got out of his truck and inquired as to who Boothe was.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Boothe, I work for the country club and wanted to stop by and discuss time shares and condos with you and your wife. Your wife said that you may be interested in buying a time share in Mexico… Does that sound right to you?”
“No, that doesn’t sound right to me… Come in, I want to gather more information myself.”
Tanya too was fast acting and within minutes, she was able to put cold cream all over her face and wrap a towel around her head. She wore a velvet warm up suit and pretended to be talking to her sister in Russian when her husband walked in with Boothe. She pretended to tell her sister that she would call her back when she caught sight of her husband with Boothe.
“Vladi… I thought you would be in Canada by now… What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? You tell me. Who is this man?” Asked Vlad.
At this point, Boothe’s heart was beating at nearly 100 beats per minute. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and was fearful of either being beat to death or shot by one of many muskets in the basement. Boothe stayed cool. Tanya had a wide eyed look that left Vlad unconvinced.
“This is my tennis coach from the club… Boothe, this is my husband Vlad. Vladimir, this is Boothe.”
Vlad looked down at the smaller slighter man with a furrowed brow. Boothe could almost feel him breathing down on him. Boothe took the opportunity to show both of them the information that he had in his trunk. He played it off cool and convincing.
“I’m sorry to come by uninvited. I was at your neighbor Liz’s house discussing property in Maui and I remembered that you had said that you and your husband may be interested in purchasing a time share or a condo at the new building going up in Miami or perhaps the new building we own in Cancun… I apologize for the intrusion. I’ll just leave the info for you and if you’re at all interested, my card is in the folder. You can call me and I’d be happy to discuss with both of you at a time that is more convenient,” said Boothe.
Boothe turned and walked out. He walked swiftly to his car and took off fast. Vlad studied his wife for signs that she was covering up something. She too was playing it cool. Vlad had forgotten his passport down in the basement and came back to retrieve it. It was a plausible thing for him as he was crossing the border into Canada… Allegedly. Vlad came up the stairs and calmly threatened his wife.
“If I ever see that man around here again when I am not around, I will kill him and then you… Do you understand me? I will choke the life out of him with my hands and then when I’m done, it will be you…”
With that, Vlad slammed the door and drove off in the Truck. Tanya wiped the cream off her face with one hand and constructed a text message to Boothe with the other hand.
HE’S GONE. DO YOU WANT TO MEET SOMEWHERE ELSE? WE COULD GO TO A HOTEL OR SOMETHING. LET ME KNOW WHERE.
Boothe never responded to the text message or the other three that followed or the phone calls after that. He got home and looked at Betsy as he poured himself a Scotch.
“Ole girl, I almost met my Waterloo… That was too close for comfort. We’ll have to be happy for 128 for now,” said Boothe.
Vlad parked his truck in the garage of the home he was working on six miles away from home. Waiting in the circular driveway was a large Cadillac stretch limousine. In the car was a pretty young woman of twenty two years of age, which was fifteen years younger than Vlad. She was text messaging a guy that she had been with in the past. The man was her tennis instructor by the name of Boothe. This is what his message said;
I’M SORRY I HAVEN’T CALLED YOU LATELY; I HAVE BEEN BOGGED DOWN WITH STUFF. ARE YOU AVAILABLE FOR A DRINK TONIGHT?
The young girl kissed Vlad as he entered the limousine. She quickly sent a text message back to Boothe.
CAN’T TONIGHT. ON MY WAY TO ARUBA. WILL CALL YOU WHEN I GET BACK. I WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU AGAIN SOON.
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 5:53 am Edit This
Boothe was the new tennis instructor at the Country club. Boothe used a Rod Laver wooden tennis racquet to teach the women at the club that over looks Lake Michigan in the northern Chicago suburb of Winnetka.
Boothe had played division I tennis for Cornell and had the type of good looks that made every smile material for an L.L. Bean catalogue. He had sandy blond hair and perfect teeth. He was wiry but muscular and although tennis was his game, women were his sport. The challenge was always putting the chase on and seeing if he could land his target. Only once in ten years since college graduation had Boothe been shot down and the woman who shot him down had actually been really and truly happy with the man she was with; A definite oddity.
Now Tanya, a raven haired second generation Russian woman whose husband struck gold buying up World War II era ranch homes and reconstructing them to be small palaces, was the object of Boothe’s attention. When the economy was good, Tanya’s husband made a killing as they say. Vlad was new money amongst the old money, trust fund, Ivy League clans of Chicago’s north shore.
Vlad was as big as the houses he rehabilitated. He stood six feet five inches and nearly three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He wore his blondish hair in a flat top and with his square jaw; his head looked like a block.
The country club charged him a one time fee of $550,000.00 to become a member which was about $200,000.00 more than others were charged for membership. The price jack was to dissuade the large Slavic man from entering one of the last bastions of Anglo-Saxonism. Vlad paid the fee more than anything to appease his wife who wanted to be like all the other women in the neighborhood. She wanted to work out all day, get her nails done, drink coffee and gossip with other rich neighborhood women and learn to play tennis.
Most of the other women in Winnetka pumped out three to five children a piece and gave them pretentious names like Boothe that was clearly a last name rather than a first name. Old president’s last names were popular as first names for boys and girls alike. Mostly Republican presidents back from the days when presidents were white and primarily Episcopalian.
Tanya had two kids and really felt one more would help her to fit in but with her children being in grade school, the autonomy during the day was quite refreshing and besides at 32 years of age, Tanya was in the best shape of her life.
Boothe caught Tanya’s attention by flashing his model like smile and making small talk. Over time, Boothe was able to take small talk to another level and before long they were meeting for coffee and dinners in the city, far away from the eyes and ears of their small burg.
Vlad was really into fishing and shooting guns. He had a basement full of riffles from all over the world from over a two hundred year period. Vlad had told Tanya that he was going up to Ontario to fish for a week. He packed his large Ford Truck with all his supplies and gave his wife one day notice of his plans to fish and hunt for a week with his friends in northern Ontario. Tanya was actually relieved and liked the idea of Vlad being gone. Tanya could run around with Boothe and not have to worry about excuses or cut their meetings short so as to not draw attention to her numerous absences from home.
COME TO MY PLACE TONIGHT. EVERYONE WILL BE GONE
Boothe looked at his Rod Laver racquet and spoke to it as he twirled it and read the text message out loud. He called his racquet Betsy and spoke to it as if it were real.
“Betsy ole girl, I shall be soon putting another notch upon you… This shall be number 129 over the course of our career. This one will be very special to me as I have never had one from Russia… Very exotic.”
Tanya bathed in the best smelling bath soap she owned and put a hint of perfume on various strategic areas of her body that would be most likely to be kissed and caressed. She wore a dress with no underwear and lit the fireplace. Smooth Jazz played on the stereo. Boothe came in wearing khaki pants with Top Sider boat shoes with no socks. His white sweater was wrapped around his pinstriped collared shirt. He was ready for love. The two of them downed a bottle of sweet red wine from Georgia as in the Republic of Georgia. They kissed passionately and Boothe ran his right hand up Tanya’s dress to find that there were no under garments to impede his progress. Everything was perfectly perfect until Tanya caught a glimpse of a truck pulling up the drive way on her close caption television that had a camera fixed on drive way.
“Oh my god! My husband is here!”
“I thought you said he was in Ontario…”
“He was supposed to be. He left two hours ago… Oh my god! You have to go out the back door now!”
“That’s all fine but my car is in the driveway, he’ll see it as soon as he pulls up.”
Boothe ran through the back yard and scaled the ten foot fence, crushing banzai plants and tripping twice as he ran through the garden in the back. Boothe was walking towards his car as the lights of the truck hit him. He was trying to smooth his breathing out and not look surprised or nervous. Boothe had in the trunk of his Audi, catalogues for time shares in exotic islands all over the world. He calmly as possible opened his trunk and took out a folder of information. Vlad got out of his truck and inquired as to who Boothe was.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“My name is Boothe, I work for the country club and wanted to stop by and discuss time shares and condos with you and your wife. Your wife said that you may be interested in buying a time share in Mexico… Does that sound right to you?”
“No, that doesn’t sound right to me… Come in, I want to gather more information myself.”
Tanya too was fast acting and within minutes, she was able to put cold cream all over her face and wrap a towel around her head. She wore a velvet warm up suit and pretended to be talking to her sister in Russian when her husband walked in with Boothe. She pretended to tell her sister that she would call her back when she caught sight of her husband with Boothe.
“Vladi… I thought you would be in Canada by now… What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? You tell me. Who is this man?” Asked Vlad.
At this point, Boothe’s heart was beating at nearly 100 beats per minute. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and was fearful of either being beat to death or shot by one of many muskets in the basement. Boothe stayed cool. Tanya had a wide eyed look that left Vlad unconvinced.
“This is my tennis coach from the club… Boothe, this is my husband Vlad. Vladimir, this is Boothe.”
Vlad looked down at the smaller slighter man with a furrowed brow. Boothe could almost feel him breathing down on him. Boothe took the opportunity to show both of them the information that he had in his trunk. He played it off cool and convincing.
“I’m sorry to come by uninvited. I was at your neighbor Liz’s house discussing property in Maui and I remembered that you had said that you and your husband may be interested in purchasing a time share or a condo at the new building going up in Miami or perhaps the new building we own in Cancun… I apologize for the intrusion. I’ll just leave the info for you and if you’re at all interested, my card is in the folder. You can call me and I’d be happy to discuss with both of you at a time that is more convenient,” said Boothe.
Boothe turned and walked out. He walked swiftly to his car and took off fast. Vlad studied his wife for signs that she was covering up something. She too was playing it cool. Vlad had forgotten his passport down in the basement and came back to retrieve it. It was a plausible thing for him as he was crossing the border into Canada… Allegedly. Vlad came up the stairs and calmly threatened his wife.
“If I ever see that man around here again when I am not around, I will kill him and then you… Do you understand me? I will choke the life out of him with my hands and then when I’m done, it will be you…”
With that, Vlad slammed the door and drove off in the Truck. Tanya wiped the cream off her face with one hand and constructed a text message to Boothe with the other hand.
HE’S GONE. DO YOU WANT TO MEET SOMEWHERE ELSE? WE COULD GO TO A HOTEL OR SOMETHING. LET ME KNOW WHERE.
Boothe never responded to the text message or the other three that followed or the phone calls after that. He got home and looked at Betsy as he poured himself a Scotch.
“Ole girl, I almost met my Waterloo… That was too close for comfort. We’ll have to be happy for 128 for now,” said Boothe.
Vlad parked his truck in the garage of the home he was working on six miles away from home. Waiting in the circular driveway was a large Cadillac stretch limousine. In the car was a pretty young woman of twenty two years of age, which was fifteen years younger than Vlad. She was text messaging a guy that she had been with in the past. The man was her tennis instructor by the name of Boothe. This is what his message said;
I’M SORRY I HAVEN’T CALLED YOU LATELY; I HAVE BEEN BOGGED DOWN WITH STUFF. ARE YOU AVAILABLE FOR A DRINK TONIGHT?
The young girl kissed Vlad as he entered the limousine. She quickly sent a text message back to Boothe.
CAN’T TONIGHT. ON MY WAY TO ARUBA. WILL CALL YOU WHEN I GET BACK. I WOULD LOVE TO SEE YOU AGAIN SOON.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Italian Chef Fire Chief
Italian Chef Fire Chief
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 3:42 pm Edit ThisTags: Fire, Chicago Fire Department, Italian, Family Recipe, Chianti, Plastic, OCD, Obsessive Collector, Mort, Recycling, Northwestern University
Italian chef fire chiefNow the lieutenant from the Chicago Fire Department, tenth battalion of the north west side, called Mort over by holding his palm up and pushing his index finger back and forth.“I think you should know what kind of stuff goes on in your apartment building, sir.” Said the lieutenant in his clean white shirt and tie.Mort suspected body parts of a serial killer or nude pictures of children. Mort braced himself for the worst. Once inside the second floor apartment that belonged to a doctor of philosophy from Northwestern University, was found mountains of newspapers that formed tunnels. Newspapers up to the ceiling in neat stacks. Mort followed the lieutenant through the tunnels to a bedroom in the back.One of the bedrooms was used to sleep in and the other was used to store plastic.
Plastic.
Most of it made from carbon, which was drawn from petroleum. In the bedroom, packed to the ceiling were plastic milk jugs, two liter bottles, discarded household products and plastic grocery bags. The bags were being saved for years since the professor had lived in the apartment for over thirty years. Had these bags decomposed, they would have turned into pieces of plastic and then fine dust. The professor was worried about this dust eventually harming wild life and getting into the water or food chain and so he saved all his plastic. The papers were for reference.It is true that plastic bags hang from trees and then find their way into streams and rivers and then eventually the oceans. Most people use the bags to cart home groceries and then later fill them with dog shit and never stop to think where the plastic eventually goes. Most swirls around like soup in the oceans… For a long time.“What kind of a sick fuck does this?” Asked the lieutenant of Mort, as he tried to use his body weight to push open the bedroom door.The plastic heated up from the intense heat of the fire and had melded together to form a ball of plastic. The milk jugs and old vinyl items got really warm and stuck together but did not melt. The smell was pretty strong and the fumes were really not that good to inhale. One of the firemen climbed across the mountain of plastic until he got to the window and used his pick axe to break open the windows in order to get fresh air.The professor was not home. He was at work working on a computer. When the computer becomes obsolete, he will donate it poor inner city schools so that poorer children in Haiti or Cote d’ivoire, don’t smash the computer to retrieve valuable pieces of the inner components while at the same time, exposing themselves to harmful particulates that fill the air.Say what you will about the professor but for all his inner demons, he knew what was killing the planet. As a recycler, the professor was first rate.Mort was perplexed by the lieutenant’s anger. The lieutenant was more angered by the squirreling away of plastic than the actual fire. The lieutenant chewed his gum in a circular motion and could be heard breathing through his nose as if he had obstructions necessary to clear out. Between the gum chewing, loud breathing and the twitching mustache, all left Mort annoyed. The clencher for Mort was having to endure the strong scent of garlic on the lieutenant’s breath. The whole fire crew had just been at the fire house twenty minutes earlier and the lieutenant was preparing a delicious marinara sauce with garlic bread, soaked in butter. They were just minutes away from dinner when the alarm rang. This is what angered the lieutenant most. He would have to boil a new pot of pasta. The marinara sauce was a family secret that the lieutenant was very proud of. It dated back to Italy. The other firemen thought the lieutenant was an asshole but they loved his food. Here is what the recipe called for… You can try this at home.
8 cups of peeled tomatoes or canned italian plum tomatoes10 tablespoons of butter. Real butter not margarine.8 small onions, finely chopped4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped8 slices of bacon, cooked and crumbled1 cup of marsala1 tablespoon of oregano4 cups of freshly grated Parmesan or Romano CheeseSalt and pepper at your dicretionAdd meatballs
This all goes best with red wine. The lieutenant prefers a Chianti. In fact he insists that all the firemen eat his concoction with at least a half glass of red wine to help bring out the flavor.While the fire was going on, the sauce was simmering on a low flame. No pun intended. Fortunately for all involved, the sauce and meatballs were not burned. http://www.blackhumouristpress.com
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 3:42 pm Edit ThisTags: Fire, Chicago Fire Department, Italian, Family Recipe, Chianti, Plastic, OCD, Obsessive Collector, Mort, Recycling, Northwestern University
Italian chef fire chiefNow the lieutenant from the Chicago Fire Department, tenth battalion of the north west side, called Mort over by holding his palm up and pushing his index finger back and forth.“I think you should know what kind of stuff goes on in your apartment building, sir.” Said the lieutenant in his clean white shirt and tie.Mort suspected body parts of a serial killer or nude pictures of children. Mort braced himself for the worst. Once inside the second floor apartment that belonged to a doctor of philosophy from Northwestern University, was found mountains of newspapers that formed tunnels. Newspapers up to the ceiling in neat stacks. Mort followed the lieutenant through the tunnels to a bedroom in the back.One of the bedrooms was used to sleep in and the other was used to store plastic.
Plastic.
Most of it made from carbon, which was drawn from petroleum. In the bedroom, packed to the ceiling were plastic milk jugs, two liter bottles, discarded household products and plastic grocery bags. The bags were being saved for years since the professor had lived in the apartment for over thirty years. Had these bags decomposed, they would have turned into pieces of plastic and then fine dust. The professor was worried about this dust eventually harming wild life and getting into the water or food chain and so he saved all his plastic. The papers were for reference.It is true that plastic bags hang from trees and then find their way into streams and rivers and then eventually the oceans. Most people use the bags to cart home groceries and then later fill them with dog shit and never stop to think where the plastic eventually goes. Most swirls around like soup in the oceans… For a long time.“What kind of a sick fuck does this?” Asked the lieutenant of Mort, as he tried to use his body weight to push open the bedroom door.The plastic heated up from the intense heat of the fire and had melded together to form a ball of plastic. The milk jugs and old vinyl items got really warm and stuck together but did not melt. The smell was pretty strong and the fumes were really not that good to inhale. One of the firemen climbed across the mountain of plastic until he got to the window and used his pick axe to break open the windows in order to get fresh air.The professor was not home. He was at work working on a computer. When the computer becomes obsolete, he will donate it poor inner city schools so that poorer children in Haiti or Cote d’ivoire, don’t smash the computer to retrieve valuable pieces of the inner components while at the same time, exposing themselves to harmful particulates that fill the air.Say what you will about the professor but for all his inner demons, he knew what was killing the planet. As a recycler, the professor was first rate.Mort was perplexed by the lieutenant’s anger. The lieutenant was more angered by the squirreling away of plastic than the actual fire. The lieutenant chewed his gum in a circular motion and could be heard breathing through his nose as if he had obstructions necessary to clear out. Between the gum chewing, loud breathing and the twitching mustache, all left Mort annoyed. The clencher for Mort was having to endure the strong scent of garlic on the lieutenant’s breath. The whole fire crew had just been at the fire house twenty minutes earlier and the lieutenant was preparing a delicious marinara sauce with garlic bread, soaked in butter. They were just minutes away from dinner when the alarm rang. This is what angered the lieutenant most. He would have to boil a new pot of pasta. The marinara sauce was a family secret that the lieutenant was very proud of. It dated back to Italy. The other firemen thought the lieutenant was an asshole but they loved his food. Here is what the recipe called for… You can try this at home.
8 cups of peeled tomatoes or canned italian plum tomatoes10 tablespoons of butter. Real butter not margarine.8 small onions, finely chopped4 cloves of garlic, finely chopped8 slices of bacon, cooked and crumbled1 cup of marsala1 tablespoon of oregano4 cups of freshly grated Parmesan or Romano CheeseSalt and pepper at your dicretionAdd meatballs
This all goes best with red wine. The lieutenant prefers a Chianti. In fact he insists that all the firemen eat his concoction with at least a half glass of red wine to help bring out the flavor.While the fire was going on, the sauce was simmering on a low flame. No pun intended. Fortunately for all involved, the sauce and meatballs were not burned. http://www.blackhumouristpress.com
Monday, November 9, 2009
Pills
“Folks gather round to hear what I’ve got to say. Come see what I have here today. Are you lonely, scared or tired? Are you frustrated, bound up and wired? Does life lack that zing? Well then I got just the thing… You say you want to be more attractive, well loved and more active? In this here little pill is everything you’ll need to fulfill a fruitful life. You’ll be able to work happy and satisfy the wife. Never tire, never worry, never panic and never hurry never prune up and wrinkle and yet retain that youthful glow… Pop one pill and watch yourself grow. Grow when you’re not moved, enticed or aroused, amorous, romantic and how? How you ask is it possible to stimulate the blood, motivate the mind, open up your pores and bring sight to the blind? It’s easier to try then for me to say, I offer you a sample for you to try today.”
“You say you’re too fat, too skinny, too tall or too mini. Your boring, breath smells and your feet are itchy, you’re too poor, too stressed and the missus is bitchie. Your muscles small, stomach flabby, teeth crooked and the kids are crabby. Slow mind, slow witted, complexion ruddy, puss filled and pitted. You lack zest, vitality and spunk, watched your waist grow as your pants shrunk. Graying falling, thinning hair grows on your ass, your back and in your ears. Your eyes have trouble seeing, your mind has trouble with memory, its difficult peeing and this is why you’ve sent for me. To be happy, to be glad, to be strong and not sad. To be faster, to be wise, to look fit and eat fries, to learn a language without trying, to act concerned without crying. Stop the aging, lines and sagging, warts and moles and things you’re lacking. You say you hear voices in your head yet nobody hears what is said. You desire little boys and little girls or German men with blond curls. Preoccupied with filth and smut and prone to stick little articles in your butt. A need for women’s undergarments made of lace and desire to spew on someone else’s face. Find it runs counter to the 23rd Psalm, a sweaty crack, arm pits and palm. Find you manufacture zits, ear wax and snots, smelly privates and bloody clots. You fear a change of pace, afraid to move and breathe and taste. You eat poorly, wheeze and feel pain a little jealousy and disdain. You lack the vision, verve and drive and are coming apart inside. One little pill can change your life.” “For most this product works and I say for most this product is successful. If you feel dizzy, clumsy or drowsy, light headed trembling or weak. If your urine turns dark yellow, hard to breathe, swallow, concentrate or think or haven’t slept in a week… You may want to stop taking... If you find yourself waking, if you get a rash, itchy or act brash. Personality disorientation, mood swings or constipation, fainting, falling or hallucinations, a painful erection, red complexion, restlessness or irritation. Tightness in the chest, sensitive teeth, eyes or breasts. Ringing in your ears, runny nose or constant tears. Please don’t drive around in cars, smoke, snort, inject and visit bars. For any signs of adversity, complexity or deformity, lack of interest, sleep or conformity please consult a doctor of psychiatry before convalescing, resting or infirmary… Now here’s what you need to order
“You say you’re too fat, too skinny, too tall or too mini. Your boring, breath smells and your feet are itchy, you’re too poor, too stressed and the missus is bitchie. Your muscles small, stomach flabby, teeth crooked and the kids are crabby. Slow mind, slow witted, complexion ruddy, puss filled and pitted. You lack zest, vitality and spunk, watched your waist grow as your pants shrunk. Graying falling, thinning hair grows on your ass, your back and in your ears. Your eyes have trouble seeing, your mind has trouble with memory, its difficult peeing and this is why you’ve sent for me. To be happy, to be glad, to be strong and not sad. To be faster, to be wise, to look fit and eat fries, to learn a language without trying, to act concerned without crying. Stop the aging, lines and sagging, warts and moles and things you’re lacking. You say you hear voices in your head yet nobody hears what is said. You desire little boys and little girls or German men with blond curls. Preoccupied with filth and smut and prone to stick little articles in your butt. A need for women’s undergarments made of lace and desire to spew on someone else’s face. Find it runs counter to the 23rd Psalm, a sweaty crack, arm pits and palm. Find you manufacture zits, ear wax and snots, smelly privates and bloody clots. You fear a change of pace, afraid to move and breathe and taste. You eat poorly, wheeze and feel pain a little jealousy and disdain. You lack the vision, verve and drive and are coming apart inside. One little pill can change your life.” “For most this product works and I say for most this product is successful. If you feel dizzy, clumsy or drowsy, light headed trembling or weak. If your urine turns dark yellow, hard to breathe, swallow, concentrate or think or haven’t slept in a week… You may want to stop taking... If you find yourself waking, if you get a rash, itchy or act brash. Personality disorientation, mood swings or constipation, fainting, falling or hallucinations, a painful erection, red complexion, restlessness or irritation. Tightness in the chest, sensitive teeth, eyes or breasts. Ringing in your ears, runny nose or constant tears. Please don’t drive around in cars, smoke, snort, inject and visit bars. For any signs of adversity, complexity or deformity, lack of interest, sleep or conformity please consult a doctor of psychiatry before convalescing, resting or infirmary… Now here’s what you need to order
Friday, November 6, 2009
Truth and Reconciliation
Blackhumouristpress's Blog
August 27, 2009
Truth and Reconciliation
Filed under: Apartheid, Short Story, obama — blackhumouristpress @ 6:08 am Edit ThisTags: Apartheid, Democrats, District 9, Michigan, obama, Republicans, South Africa, Truth And Reconciliation
In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.
The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.
The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.
Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.
On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.
“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.
“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”
Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.
A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.
“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”
The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.
“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.
“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.
“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.
“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”
“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.
“How do you explain the other claims?”
“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”
“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”
“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.
“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”
“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”
“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”
“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”
“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”
People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.
“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”
“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”
August 27, 2009
Truth and Reconciliation
Filed under: Apartheid, Short Story, obama — blackhumouristpress @ 6:08 am Edit ThisTags: Apartheid, Democrats, District 9, Michigan, obama, Republicans, South Africa, Truth And Reconciliation
In the year 2013, after the re-election of President Obama and an even greater Democratic control of the House of Representatives and the Senate, came the Truth and Reconciliation Committee.
The idea initially came from South Africa where former prisoners who were tortured under the apartheid regime prior to 1994, could confront the perpetrators. The perpetrators would receive amnesty but have to face the shame of what they did.
The Truth and Reconciliation Committee in the United States forced some big fish to confront those accused of terrorism in an attempt to win over moderate elements within terror organizations. George Bush and Richard Cheney showed up and listened when subpoenaed. George W. Bush looked at his watch frequently as his father had once done in a debate. Rather than risk jail, both former heads of the United States government showed to hear stories of torture and humiliation. The hearings were broadcast on Spike TV in between Ultimate Fighting bouts. The hearings were not on a delay as they were being broadcast in real time. The apologies were numerous and appeared to be sincere until they got to Ambrose Ambrister.
Ambrose Ambrister had been a POW for two years in Vietnam before escaping into Thailand. He went to work for the CIA and was directly responsible for a torture manual that was referred to as the New Testament.
On the panel were two Republicans and six Democrats. The questions came rapid fire. Ambrose Ambrister was living happily and peaceably in the Bahamas until his mother of ninety years of age grew ill. When Ambrister returned to the United States to attend to his mother, he had no choice but to face the committee or face jail time. Ambrose Ambrister spoke freely.
“Ambrose Arthur Ambrister, born April 20th 1948 in Pontiac, Michigan, graduated West Point, served two tours of duty in Vietnam, was a prisoner of war from February 1970 to June 1972 before escaping. He received the bronze Medal of Honor and became general a major before retiring from the Army in 1979. He served in the Reagan, George Herbert Walker Bush administrations and was responsible for conducting interviews of potential terrorists… Is this all correct?” Asked an older middle aged woman as she read from a piece of paper in front of her.
“Yes except that I was actually born in Waterford, Michigan… My mother went into labor at home and the car broke down in the driveway and my father had to deliver me in the back seat of a Pontiac… Fortunately there was good weather that day. So it was actually in a Pontiac rather than in Pontiac… Otherwise the facts are all correct.”
Laughter broke out in the hearing room, lined with photographers and reporters. Ambrose chewed at his nails while listening and studied the manicuring job he did with his own teeth. Twice he spit away pieces of his nails.
A spectacled man of Arab descent stepped forward and with the aid of an interpreter, explained the direct contact he had with Ambrose Ambrister.
“I was taken into a room… After being hosed down with a high pressure hose used to extinguish fires… Mr. Ambrose would smile and offer me a plate of pork sausage and beer with a large German woman on the label with exposed cleavage. The temperature in the air was very cold and my teeth chattered… He would ask me if I was ready to discuss where I was trained and by whom. I told him that I was no more than a citizen of my country. I then was forced to eat the sausage and drink the beer even though I was on a hunger strike. I was then lead to what they called Waikiki Beach… It was small pool where the water was heated to a temperature that would not kill you but would burn you so badly that one would have no choice but to scream and cry. I begged them to stop and they would tie me up and soak me while I screamed. All the while they forced me to listen to a song called The Candy Man by a black man whom they claimed was a Jew. I then would be dried off and a young woman in a bikini would come in and shave all the hair on my body except my face. On my face they would twine my moustache with wax so that it stuck up in the air like Salvador Dali. I don’t know who that is but they would make me scream over and over in Spanish, “Yo soy Salvador Dali”. Then they would attach a rubber band to my penis and force my genitals up towards my buttocks until my front appeared to be that of a shaved vagina. The woman in the bikini would then use a marker to draw a slit where my penis would normally be. Mr. Ambrose would only come once a week but when he came, this sort of treatment would go on for hours…”
The former prisoner accused of terrorism had submitted to the tactics and signed a confession that he had wired a road with explosives that maimed several American soldiers and destroyed a truck. The truth was that the prisoner had done it and there were witnesses who saw former prisoner just minutes before a convoy came down the street. The former prisoner was put up at the Waldorf Astoria free of charge, with food and a round trip ticket to and from New York City. It was believed by most on the committee that showering hardliners with gifts and forcing those responsible for the humiliation to confront victims, that moderation would flourish. It never really happened. After twelve months and millions of dollars, the Truth and Reconciliation hearings were stopped. Ambrose Ambrister was the last to face the committee.
“If I could clarify a few things… I personally loved Sammy Davis Jr. The man had a great voice. As a young man in Vietnam, Sammy Davis Jr. took a picture with me and Bob Hope as part of the USO. They risked their lives to sing and entertain. Those were unselfish Americans who appreciated the job we were doing…” Said Ambrose.
“Is there more that you’d like to clarify?” Asked a Republican member with a southern drawl.
“Yes… The Salvador Dali thing was not my idea. It was one of my men actually. I wanted him to say Rollie Fingers…” Said Ambrose.
“Sir… Rollie Fingers?”
“Yes… Mr. Fingers was a pitcher for the Oakland Athletics back in the seventies who actually invited me as his own personal guest to see the World Series in Oakland, California after escaping a prisoner of war camp… His moustache was more similar to Rollie Fingers actually. It curled at the ends… Oh and Waikiki Beach was just a hot tub, nothing more and nothing less,” said Ambrose.
“How do you explain the other claims?”
“Well I’m going to level with you; I learned from masters in North Vietnam. They were some cruel bastards. They were all trained by the Chinese actually and it’s no mistake that terrorism does not occur in China. The Chinese would hunt them down and torture them until they begged to be killed. Knowing that we couldn’t torture prisoners to death, I used all at my disposal to extract the proper amount of regret for atrocities and what have you.”
“Were you ordered by the president of our nation or any cabinet members, chiefs of staff or others, to carry out these sorts of strategies in order to gain compliance?”
“No ma’am. I was given carte blanche to do what was necessary to get prisoners to cooperate,” said Ambrose.
“How do you explain the humiliation of tying up his genitals and drawing female parts on him?”
“I’ll level with you… This was an old West Point hazing ritual we would do with the young guys. We’d shave them down and hike their equipment back and make them walk the locker room. They had to walk with one hand on the back of their heads like Mae West and repeat “How you like me now, big boy”… This was just a little light hazing. Let’s be honest with each other here…. This sort of stuff goes on in fraternities all over the country and nobody has to come in front of congress to face hardened criminals who are dead set on destroying us. You people put the prisoners up at the Waldorf and I’m staying at the Days Inn on my own dime. Sometimes you get an innocent person here or there, that’s part of life. Think about all the people who go to a hospital and die of malpractice. You could fill a jumbo jet daily with the number of people dying each day and crash that plane into a side of a mountain. How bout the bankers and investors that nearly killed our financial system?”
“Okay, thank you Mr. Ambrister… You may step down.”
“What about those of you that take kick backs from lobbyists and then go to bat for whatever their cause is? How many of you are cheating on your taxes and your wives? As long as we got this tribunal, let’s clean the slate. If were purging each other of past sins and crimes, let’s hear everything… Cold water, hot water, Sammy Davis Jr, Salvador Dali, Rollie Fingers, Pontiac and Pontiac, Michigan… What are we doing here? This is the best exploitation show that ever was. You should be getting those who you lent money to, to buy air time and make a few bucks back for the tax payers…”
“Thank you again, Mr. Ambrister…”
People from all over the country showed up at the Days Inn in Queens and chanted his first name over and over again. The crowd grew so large that cops had to be called in and then a riot squad. Ambrose was soon put on a plane with his mother and flown to Freeport in the Bahamas on a military jet. The next morning, Ambrose sat on a lawn chair next to his wife and mother looking out at the ocean. Ambrose’s mother read the transcripts of what his son had said to the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She studied her son’s picture and set the paper down on her lap and stared straight ahead. Ambrose asked his mother what she thought of it all. After careful reflection, she spoke.
“This is the first time I ever thought this, son… But after reading this article and seeing your picture, I have to say you look a lot like Ted Kennedy.”
“Thanks mom, I knew you’d understand.”
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Women in Bars
Women in Bars
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:02 pm Tags: Bars, Detroit, Greeks, Grosse Pointe, Infidelity, Long Island Ice Tea, Red Wings, Women
Sarah and Angela made plans for two Fridays in a row to leave their homes in Grosse Pointe to have a drink in Hamtramck which is a little island of a town encompassed by the city of Detroit. After a few cancellations, they met at Small’s. In the main room was a noisy garage band. Sarah and Angela found a table under a television where Fox Detroit was agonizing over the unravelling of the Tigers in the last days of the 2009 baseball season. Neither of them was interested in that nor anything else going on in crowed bar that cool autumn night. Catching up was all that they really hoped to do.
Sarah was the mother of four children and was married to a second generation Greek man who owned his own garage. Demetrius inherited his father’s garage that was started back in 1959. Demetrius made a good buck and lived a fairly simple life.
Angela was the mother of two children, one of which played ice hockey on a team with Sarah’s son. Angela and Sarah became friends immediately and carpooled to hockey games and practices and eventually became each other’s confidant.
Sarah ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and Angela had a Corona Light. A young fat man with mutton side burns, many tattoos and a backwards Lions hat on, put ten dollars in the juke box and played every Ramones tune available. Sarah blinked hard and shook her head.
“Have you figured out when boys become men? This little cherub probably still lives at home and plays drinking games in his parent’s basement in between X Box tournaments with his equally unmotivated friends who are living at home with their parents,” stated Angela, while leaning her chin on the palm of her right hand.
“Um my loving husband is sitting right now in my living room with his brother and cousins, watching a Red Wings game on a seventy two inch television. Four fat Greeks wearing Chelios jerseys, eating wings and drinking beer. I could walk naked in front of all of them and they’d never notice. His fucking brother is such a goddamn pig too. He makes that sound when you’re sucking snot up from somewhere in your throat. It is so damn gross and then he swallows it.” Said Sarah.
“I hate it when his parents come over and the wives of his cousins and brother. Everyone is Greek and they all speak Greek and I’m just running around making coffee for the old people who are ripping on me in Greek because I’m not Greek. Thank god I’m not Greek. Something happens when those Greek chicks have kids. Their hips expand and they grow moustaches. I shit you not. Even the good looking ones get fat asses and facial hair. When I first met his parents they assumed I was Greek and then they wanted assurances from me that the kids would go to Greek school on weekends to learn to read and write in Greek. My Greek god turned into just a fucking Greek. Him and his cousins, brothers, their wives, his parents and their Hellenic hip disease… Honest to Christ almighty. I’m immersed in the fucking white sauce of life.” Said Sarah, while Angela laughed uncontrollably.
Sarah was short with brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Sarah’s inspiration unbeknownst to her was Angela. Angela had her last child a few years back and began to work out religiously. Angela’s husband had told her that he could not get aroused since she had become more matronly than he had anticipated. Angela signed up for spin classes, Pilates and swam. Everyday she tried to get in between a half hour to an hour of exercise. Within six months, Angela had lost forty five pounds and looked and felt better than she had in years. Angela’s husband still criticized her one too many times. Angela had found more than exercise to occupy her time.
“I have something I have to get off my chest,” said Angela after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m seeing a Polish poet who works during the day as a plumber”.
Sarah laughed as though Angela had told a joke. Angela wasn’t laughing. Sarah reached across the table and grabbed Angela’s forearm.
“I want to hear about this and don’t leave a fucking detail out,” said Sarah.
“I told Tom for weeks to fix the P trap under the sink in the kitchen. I thought he had done it and I open the cabinet to get cleaning solution to clean up a spot where the cat has taken to pissing over and over and the cabinet had fallen apart totally. I could see the foundation through a hole where there used to be wood. I was so pissed. I go into the den and he was looking at porn or something on the internet. As soon as he heard my feet stomping towards him on the hardwood floor, he turns off the monitor… So fucking childish… Anyway I ask him why he never took care of it. He shrugs like my other kids and says he forgot. I was so mad that I went to the hardware store to get the parts myself. I connect it all up and water is spraying everywhere and I’m about ready to cry. There I am under the sink with a pipe wrench and I have whining kids asking for pudding pops and Tom gets upset because he’s trying to watch football and the kids are yelling. He gives them each a granola bar and tells them to play downstairs. Mind you, I’m under the sink with black shit all over my arms and he never attempts to stop watching football which he could tape if he wanted to and help me with something that he should have done. Instead he tells me that I’m going to fuck it up and sure enough I do. Instead of crying, I put on my running shoes and took the kids to the high school track with me and they walked while I ran. I ran three miles and came home and made cookies and never gave another thought to the damn leaking pipe. Tom runs the water and it’s now spraying all over everything under the sink. He says with his smug assed smile that he knew I would fuck it up. My sister tells me to call this handy man named Marek and he comes over the next morning. This guy walks in and I just knew even before he said one word that we were going to connect. He disconnects what I put on and adds some Teflon tape and it works perfectly. Marek tells me that I did a good job except for the tape and he gets ready to leave and doesn’t charge me. I force the guy to take a fifty and I’m thinking that’s that. A week later, I’m right here in Hamtramck at Trowbridge having coffee one night and low and behold my plumber is reading poetry. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t shirt and nervously reads his poetry in English with his cute Polish accent. There were maybe a dozen people there and I waited until he was done and bought his book of poems and had him sign it. Well one thing leads to another and we get together and he reads my poems and I his and then one night we go to dinner and wind up back at his place for hours. I can’t tell you how many times we made love. It was love. You know when you’re fucking and when it’s actually the act of love making. Every time is so good and I can’t wait until the next time,” said Angela.
Sarah had her mouth open as if someone had poured cold water on her. Sarah asked the obvious question.
“Tom? Tom understands that I’m there but I’m gone. He can smell it on me that something has changed. He had the balls to say to me the other day that I act too good for him now that I got in shape. I told him that I’m the same person I was when my ass was too fat for him. There’s just less of me than before. Have you started running yet? Are you doing the 3K with me at Thanksgiving?” Asked Angela.
“I’ve been begging Demetrius to let me have a dog. I want a dog that will jog with me. Maybe a Doberman or something that’s built to jog. I’m up to a mile a day. It takes me twelve minutes but I’m getting better.” Said Sarah.
“So if you want a dog just go buy one,” said Angela.
“It doesn’t work that way when you’re married to a macho Greek. He says if I blow him once in a while, I can have the dog. I’m blowing him twice a week now and last week I wind up getting a cold sore and he’s so sure that he’s going to get herpes on his nut sack that he makes me give him a hand job. Can you believe it? Like junior high, honest to god. I get olive oil and am jerking his cock while ESPN is on the gigantic television. He’s just about to cum and Stavros calls for me to bring him a drink of water. Demetrius gets so pissed and then I gotta start all over again. My damn right arm was cramping and I offer to go in the shower with him since I’m on the rag and he’s horrified that I suggested a little shower sex. I told him it will be fun kinda like mixing a porno with Psycho. He could watch my blood go down the drain. Anyway he tells me to shut up because he can’t concentrate. Finally he cums and I make sure it goes straight up in the air and lands on his precious Red Wings home jersey. He jumps up and mops the come off like it was fucking ink. He thanks me and I tell him I better be getting a team of mush dogs like they have in Alaska,” said Sarah.
At that moment a young cocky guy walks up holding a beer. He had longish blond hair and wore a Fedora with ripped up jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He lifted Angela’s purse up from the stool next to her and sat down uninvited.
“What’s up, ladies?”
Sarah liked the attention but Angela did not appreciate it. The young man could not hold a blow torch to the Polish/plumber/poet and she let him know in so many words.
“Um Kid Rock… You may not have noticed that we have chosen this table away from everyone else because we wanted to be alone. We don’t want you to go away thinking that we are going to crawl out of here and into a bed with each other because we don’t play for that team. Had you been in tuned to clues, you may have noticed too the rings on both or our ring fingers which is a symbol in our society of marriage. Now marriage may not matter to you and that’s cool but we really don’t want or need the company right now. I’ll buy you a drink if you go away,” said Angela harshly.
The young man walked off and Sarah and Angela continued to share details of their day to day lives. They shared things about their children, things they wanted out of day to day life and the physical changes they hoped to make in their homes. They shared intimate details of their lives and cherished the time they set aside to check in with one another. The speed and demands of day to day life made their meetings a necessity for sanity and order. They hugged as they got to their cars and promised to meet the next Friday. The next Friday did not happen nor the Friday after that. It would be a little more than a month before their next opportunity to connect. You can be sure that they’ll both have something they’ll want to discuss. They always do.
Filed under: Short Story — blackhumouristpress @ 4:02 pm Tags: Bars, Detroit, Greeks, Grosse Pointe, Infidelity, Long Island Ice Tea, Red Wings, Women
Sarah and Angela made plans for two Fridays in a row to leave their homes in Grosse Pointe to have a drink in Hamtramck which is a little island of a town encompassed by the city of Detroit. After a few cancellations, they met at Small’s. In the main room was a noisy garage band. Sarah and Angela found a table under a television where Fox Detroit was agonizing over the unravelling of the Tigers in the last days of the 2009 baseball season. Neither of them was interested in that nor anything else going on in crowed bar that cool autumn night. Catching up was all that they really hoped to do.
Sarah was the mother of four children and was married to a second generation Greek man who owned his own garage. Demetrius inherited his father’s garage that was started back in 1959. Demetrius made a good buck and lived a fairly simple life.
Angela was the mother of two children, one of which played ice hockey on a team with Sarah’s son. Angela and Sarah became friends immediately and carpooled to hockey games and practices and eventually became each other’s confidant.
Sarah ordered a Long Island Ice Tea and Angela had a Corona Light. A young fat man with mutton side burns, many tattoos and a backwards Lions hat on, put ten dollars in the juke box and played every Ramones tune available. Sarah blinked hard and shook her head.
“Have you figured out when boys become men? This little cherub probably still lives at home and plays drinking games in his parent’s basement in between X Box tournaments with his equally unmotivated friends who are living at home with their parents,” stated Angela, while leaning her chin on the palm of her right hand.
“Um my loving husband is sitting right now in my living room with his brother and cousins, watching a Red Wings game on a seventy two inch television. Four fat Greeks wearing Chelios jerseys, eating wings and drinking beer. I could walk naked in front of all of them and they’d never notice. His fucking brother is such a goddamn pig too. He makes that sound when you’re sucking snot up from somewhere in your throat. It is so damn gross and then he swallows it.” Said Sarah.
“I hate it when his parents come over and the wives of his cousins and brother. Everyone is Greek and they all speak Greek and I’m just running around making coffee for the old people who are ripping on me in Greek because I’m not Greek. Thank god I’m not Greek. Something happens when those Greek chicks have kids. Their hips expand and they grow moustaches. I shit you not. Even the good looking ones get fat asses and facial hair. When I first met his parents they assumed I was Greek and then they wanted assurances from me that the kids would go to Greek school on weekends to learn to read and write in Greek. My Greek god turned into just a fucking Greek. Him and his cousins, brothers, their wives, his parents and their Hellenic hip disease… Honest to Christ almighty. I’m immersed in the fucking white sauce of life.” Said Sarah, while Angela laughed uncontrollably.
Sarah was short with brown hair and carried a few extra pounds. Sarah’s inspiration unbeknownst to her was Angela. Angela had her last child a few years back and began to work out religiously. Angela’s husband had told her that he could not get aroused since she had become more matronly than he had anticipated. Angela signed up for spin classes, Pilates and swam. Everyday she tried to get in between a half hour to an hour of exercise. Within six months, Angela had lost forty five pounds and looked and felt better than she had in years. Angela’s husband still criticized her one too many times. Angela had found more than exercise to occupy her time.
“I have something I have to get off my chest,” said Angela after taking a swig of her beer. “I’m seeing a Polish poet who works during the day as a plumber”.
Sarah laughed as though Angela had told a joke. Angela wasn’t laughing. Sarah reached across the table and grabbed Angela’s forearm.
“I want to hear about this and don’t leave a fucking detail out,” said Sarah.
“I told Tom for weeks to fix the P trap under the sink in the kitchen. I thought he had done it and I open the cabinet to get cleaning solution to clean up a spot where the cat has taken to pissing over and over and the cabinet had fallen apart totally. I could see the foundation through a hole where there used to be wood. I was so pissed. I go into the den and he was looking at porn or something on the internet. As soon as he heard my feet stomping towards him on the hardwood floor, he turns off the monitor… So fucking childish… Anyway I ask him why he never took care of it. He shrugs like my other kids and says he forgot. I was so mad that I went to the hardware store to get the parts myself. I connect it all up and water is spraying everywhere and I’m about ready to cry. There I am under the sink with a pipe wrench and I have whining kids asking for pudding pops and Tom gets upset because he’s trying to watch football and the kids are yelling. He gives them each a granola bar and tells them to play downstairs. Mind you, I’m under the sink with black shit all over my arms and he never attempts to stop watching football which he could tape if he wanted to and help me with something that he should have done. Instead he tells me that I’m going to fuck it up and sure enough I do. Instead of crying, I put on my running shoes and took the kids to the high school track with me and they walked while I ran. I ran three miles and came home and made cookies and never gave another thought to the damn leaking pipe. Tom runs the water and it’s now spraying all over everything under the sink. He says with his smug assed smile that he knew I would fuck it up. My sister tells me to call this handy man named Marek and he comes over the next morning. This guy walks in and I just knew even before he said one word that we were going to connect. He disconnects what I put on and adds some Teflon tape and it works perfectly. Marek tells me that I did a good job except for the tape and he gets ready to leave and doesn’t charge me. I force the guy to take a fifty and I’m thinking that’s that. A week later, I’m right here in Hamtramck at Trowbridge having coffee one night and low and behold my plumber is reading poetry. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a t shirt and nervously reads his poetry in English with his cute Polish accent. There were maybe a dozen people there and I waited until he was done and bought his book of poems and had him sign it. Well one thing leads to another and we get together and he reads my poems and I his and then one night we go to dinner and wind up back at his place for hours. I can’t tell you how many times we made love. It was love. You know when you’re fucking and when it’s actually the act of love making. Every time is so good and I can’t wait until the next time,” said Angela.
Sarah had her mouth open as if someone had poured cold water on her. Sarah asked the obvious question.
“Tom? Tom understands that I’m there but I’m gone. He can smell it on me that something has changed. He had the balls to say to me the other day that I act too good for him now that I got in shape. I told him that I’m the same person I was when my ass was too fat for him. There’s just less of me than before. Have you started running yet? Are you doing the 3K with me at Thanksgiving?” Asked Angela.
“I’ve been begging Demetrius to let me have a dog. I want a dog that will jog with me. Maybe a Doberman or something that’s built to jog. I’m up to a mile a day. It takes me twelve minutes but I’m getting better.” Said Sarah.
“So if you want a dog just go buy one,” said Angela.
“It doesn’t work that way when you’re married to a macho Greek. He says if I blow him once in a while, I can have the dog. I’m blowing him twice a week now and last week I wind up getting a cold sore and he’s so sure that he’s going to get herpes on his nut sack that he makes me give him a hand job. Can you believe it? Like junior high, honest to god. I get olive oil and am jerking his cock while ESPN is on the gigantic television. He’s just about to cum and Stavros calls for me to bring him a drink of water. Demetrius gets so pissed and then I gotta start all over again. My damn right arm was cramping and I offer to go in the shower with him since I’m on the rag and he’s horrified that I suggested a little shower sex. I told him it will be fun kinda like mixing a porno with Psycho. He could watch my blood go down the drain. Anyway he tells me to shut up because he can’t concentrate. Finally he cums and I make sure it goes straight up in the air and lands on his precious Red Wings home jersey. He jumps up and mops the come off like it was fucking ink. He thanks me and I tell him I better be getting a team of mush dogs like they have in Alaska,” said Sarah.
At that moment a young cocky guy walks up holding a beer. He had longish blond hair and wore a Fedora with ripped up jeans and a sleeveless shirt. He lifted Angela’s purse up from the stool next to her and sat down uninvited.
“What’s up, ladies?”
Sarah liked the attention but Angela did not appreciate it. The young man could not hold a blow torch to the Polish/plumber/poet and she let him know in so many words.
“Um Kid Rock… You may not have noticed that we have chosen this table away from everyone else because we wanted to be alone. We don’t want you to go away thinking that we are going to crawl out of here and into a bed with each other because we don’t play for that team. Had you been in tuned to clues, you may have noticed too the rings on both or our ring fingers which is a symbol in our society of marriage. Now marriage may not matter to you and that’s cool but we really don’t want or need the company right now. I’ll buy you a drink if you go away,” said Angela harshly.
The young man walked off and Sarah and Angela continued to share details of their day to day lives. They shared things about their children, things they wanted out of day to day life and the physical changes they hoped to make in their homes. They shared intimate details of their lives and cherished the time they set aside to check in with one another. The speed and demands of day to day life made their meetings a necessity for sanity and order. They hugged as they got to their cars and promised to meet the next Friday. The next Friday did not happen nor the Friday after that. It would be a little more than a month before their next opportunity to connect. You can be sure that they’ll both have something they’ll want to discuss. They always do.
Love in Detroit
Love in Detroit
Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 10:17 am Tags: Ann Arbor, Chrysler, Comerica, Daimler, Detroit, Dodge Charger, Henry Ford, Motor City Casino, Royal Oak
A name like Boyd Floyd in the books of most people, as the saying goes, would be a cruel choice. Bobby, Timmy, Joey and so on, would have been better first names that would have fit nicely with the last name of Floyd.
Boyd’s people left the Deep South in the late 1920’s. Word got around that in the City of Detroit, in the state of Michigan, a man by the name of Henry Ford, needed help building automobiles and so they traversed their way up north and settled off what would become the Edsel Ford Freeway in Detroit or just plain old interstate 94. Boyd inherited the modest brick home that belonged to his parents off of Van Dyke in Detroit near the Detroit City Airport, not far from the Plymouth plant belonging to Chrysler Motors.
Boyd had everything going for him with Chrysler until they decided to close the Plymouth plant and along with it, the Plymouth brand. Since graduating high school in 1988, Boyd had worked at the Plymouth plant. His job eight hours a day was to put bench seats in the back of Plymouth Voyager minivans. Each minivan got two bench seats each. Twice back in the early days, Boyd got to meet and shake hands with Lee Iacocca. Mr. Iacocca saved Chrysler from certain death in the late 1970’s and with the development of the K car and minivan, Chrysler was once again productive and viable. Boyd made a good living and supported a family the way his dad did and his grandfather before him. That was until they canned Plymouth.
Now Boyd’s wife left him around the time their two children grew up and went on with their own lives. At the age of 39, on the cusp of 40, Boyd wondered what it was that he was going to do with the rest of his life. He had no job, no wife, no kids and no future to speak of. One day while things looked truly bleak for him and he was pumping gas into his light blue Plymouth Voyager minivan at the corner of Livernois and Michigan Avenues, two young black men put a gun to his head and riffled through his pockets. Boyd had just sold some World War II mementos that belonged to his father who had fought in the Pacific. Boyd received $250.00 for a Japanese issued revolver. The two young thugs took that from him, hopped in his minivan and drove off. It was that day and that moment that Boyd decided to start a life of crime.
It started with small stick ups near the casinos in and around Detroit. There was the Greektown Casino, the MGM Casino and the Motor City Casino. People would go into the Casinos and get all liquored up and leave at odd hours. Boyd would usually try to find the rich cats that pulled up in foreign cars. People who drove foreign cars really burned him up. Boyd once went to Disneyland in California when his children were young and was amazed to find that most cars were foreign on the streets. In fact the foreign car that he was issued at LAX was a Toyota. When Boyd saw the car parked in the space, he went back in and demanded a domestic vehicle. He wound up in a Chevy Suburban that cost him twice with the compact car would have cost him and so it goes. Manufacturer plates on Mercedes was always a sure bet that he was hitting an executive at Chrysler who was probably some German born snob who hated living in Detroit but was sent by Daimler in Germany to make something of their American holding. The robbing business was hit and miss but it kept food on the table for himself and his cat.
Like most people who opt to rob others for their means to an end, they eventually get caught and Boyd was no exception. Boyd was charged with a string of armed robberies and was jailed in the state prison near Jackson, Michigan.
After being in prison for a good long time and witnessing some of the worst things men were capable of doing to one another, Boyd came up with a plan to get himself free. Every time it was necessary to appear in court on yet another charge for robbery, the deputies that transported him were always quite lax about the whole thing. How it would work was that one would drive and one would sit next to Boyd. Now what nobody could have possibly known about Boyd was that he was double jointed. It was quite easy and possible for Boyd to flip his arms from behind him while cuffed to in front of himself in just over one second. Boyd practiced this in his prison cell with his cell mate. His cell mate would take a shoe laces and bind his arms together and watch in awe as Boyd contorted his shoulders and arms in ways that was not possible for most people. Boyd’s cell mate had no idea why Boyd practiced doing the move over and over again until he watched the local Detroit news about an escaped convict who was on the loose somewhere near Ann Arbor. The guys who recognized Boyd cheered wildly when they heard that one of their own had over taken not one but two deputies, disarmed them and left them handcuffed to each other around a tree off of a remote country road thirty miles west of Ann Arbor. Boyd drove the state vehicle for a while until he carjacked a young couple who drove a Dodge Charger. Boyd saw that the car had a souped up Hemi engine that would make the playing field even for him in the event of a police chase. Boyd loved the car but hated Michael Bolton CD’s and so those he threw out of the window while driving along route 14 that had a large sign letting drivers know that they were on their way to Plymouth. How ironic.
Boyd robbed people at gun point in an around Detroit for days and hid out in abandon houses and knew that it would be nearly impossible to find him due to the fact that there were so many abandon homes strewn all over Detroit. The final plan was to hit the Comerica branch bank in the beautiful posh suburb of Royal Oak. It was there that Boyd fell in love.
Everyone was face down on the floor of the bank, hoping that the man with the gun would not opt to use it. A young man of Indian descent, stuffed big bills into a Detroit Tigers pillow case as Boyd unwrapped one of the lollypops in a dish left out for mostly crying children. Lying on the floor in a skirt was a beautiful young woman with the face of an angel and blond hair. Boyd ordered her to get up. He held the gun to her head as he spoke to everyone in the bank.
“I’m walking out this door right now with this young lady… I will have news radio on and if I hear on the radio that I robbed this bank and took this woman with me, I will blow her brains out… If any of you squeal, she dies… Am I clear?”
The young woman went by the name of Amber and she lived Southfield with her husband who happened to be a police officer. Amber had loved her husband dearly for the longest time but had grown to hate him in the last year or so of their seven year marriage. It wasn’t clear if Amber or her husband was incapable of having children. They both just quit trying to have children and pretty much quit the act of love making all together. Amber slept in their big bed alone under a picture of herself on her wedding day in front of the old Tiger’s Stadium with the entire wedding party. She looked so beautiful in her white gown and all the men and women looked so smart in their attire with the Bengal tiger symbol behind them. Amber was absolutely terrified of the escaped convict but was absolutely attracted to the attractive man. Nothing was being said as Boyd drove off in her car while pointing the revolver at her with his left hand which rested on his lap.
“Can I ask you not to point that at me? I’m not going anywhere and I’m not going to fight you… If you want to rape me you can but please don’t shoot me or beat me up,” said Amber in a soft sweet voice.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Miss. I just needed to get outta the bank… I’m actually sorry to do this to you,” said Boyd softly.
As time went on, they spoke to each other as humans and as two people who were genuinely interested in each other. Boyd learned about Amber’s hopeless home life and Boyd told her about he came to become a criminal. Amber listened to Boyd’s plan to escape into Canada and disappear into some Canadian city and try to start over.
“I could go with you… I could help you start over and you could help me,” said Amber to Boyd’s surprise.
“Why would you want to attach yourself to a convict on the run?” Asked Boyd.
“Because I believe that god meant for us to meet,” said Amber.
Whether you believe that god has the time to take small meaningless creatures on one particular planet in the universe who happen to live on Earth, in the northern hemisphere, in a country called the United States in a state called Michigan on the north west side of Detroit, then you can understand where Amber was coming from. Boyd was her gift from god.
Amber went and bought some horned rim glasses and blond hair dye for Boyd as he waited at the Marriott Hotel in Troy off of Big Beaver Road at exit 69 off of interstate 75. You think I’m making those two things up but I’m not. Exit 69 at Big Beaver Road is where Boyd was hiding out. Boyd put his faith in a stranger who he was attracted to and felt that there was some sort of bond growing between them. Boyd showered and shaved and when he finished, Amber came back with new clothes, hair dye and glasses. In a matter of a half hour, Boyd was reinvented. The clothes were stylish and Boyd actually had a European look to him with blond hair.
“How do you think I look?” Asked Boyd.
Amber did not answer him but rather ripped at his clothes and hers until they were without a lick of clothes on either of them and were making passionate love to one another. It had been so long for both of them that the love making almost appeared to be angry. There was no anger though. It would be like giving a steak dinner to a starving person. They devoured each other over the course of hours. Boyd woke up suddenly and the room was dark and he could not see a clock anywhere. Lying on his chest drooling was Amber. She was sleeping soundly after making love several times over the course of two or so hours.
“I’ve got to go,” said Boyd as he sat up.
“Just come back to bed… We can get up early and head over to the tunnel or the Ambassador Bridge and be in Canada in minutes. This time of night they are definitely on the look out for people crossing the border,” said Amber.
Boyd thought about it as he looked out of the window that overlooked the interstate that was mostly quiet except for trucks and a few cars.
“Yeah… Maybe you’re right,” said Boyd.
With that he climbed back into bed and held the warm fit body against his once again. He kissed her neck and ear and she ran her fingers through his hair as she pressed herself against Boyd. They made love for a fourth time and fell back asleep unaware that swat teams, local police, state police all were moving into place. Rather than using cash, Amber used her credit card. They found that within the span of an hour, she bought food at a Coney Island, clothes, glasses and hair dye as well as a room for the two of them at the Marriott in Troy at exit 69 and Big Beaver. For a few short hours on one day in Detroit, two trapped people found heaven. Where was it? Exit 69 and Big Beaver Road. It honestly exists.
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Filed under: Uncategorized — blackhumouristpress @ 10:17 am Tags: Ann Arbor, Chrysler, Comerica, Daimler, Detroit, Dodge Charger, Henry Ford, Motor City Casino, Royal Oak
A name like Boyd Floyd in the books of most people, as the saying goes, would be a cruel choice. Bobby, Timmy, Joey and so on, would have been better first names that would have fit nicely with the last name of Floyd.
Boyd’s people left the Deep South in the late 1920’s. Word got around that in the City of Detroit, in the state of Michigan, a man by the name of Henry Ford, needed help building automobiles and so they traversed their way up north and settled off what would become the Edsel Ford Freeway in Detroit or just plain old interstate 94. Boyd inherited the modest brick home that belonged to his parents off of Van Dyke in Detroit near the Detroit City Airport, not far from the Plymouth plant belonging to Chrysler Motors.
Boyd had everything going for him with Chrysler until they decided to close the Plymouth plant and along with it, the Plymouth brand. Since graduating high school in 1988, Boyd had worked at the Plymouth plant. His job eight hours a day was to put bench seats in the back of Plymouth Voyager minivans. Each minivan got two bench seats each. Twice back in the early days, Boyd got to meet and shake hands with Lee Iacocca. Mr. Iacocca saved Chrysler from certain death in the late 1970’s and with the development of the K car and minivan, Chrysler was once again productive and viable. Boyd made a good living and supported a family the way his dad did and his grandfather before him. That was until they canned Plymouth.
Now Boyd’s wife left him around the time their two children grew up and went on with their own lives. At the age of 39, on the cusp of 40, Boyd wondered what it was that he was going to do with the rest of his life. He had no job, no wife, no kids and no future to speak of. One day while things looked truly bleak for him and he was pumping gas into his light blue Plymouth Voyager minivan at the corner of Livernois and Michigan Avenues, two young black men put a gun to his head and riffled through his pockets. Boyd had just sold some World War II mementos that belonged to his father who had fought in the Pacific. Boyd received $250.00 for a Japanese issued revolver. The two young thugs took that from him, hopped in his minivan and drove off. It was that day and that moment that Boyd decided to start a life of crime.
It started with small stick ups near the casinos in and around Detroit. There was the Greektown Casino, the MGM Casino and the Motor City Casino. People would go into the Casinos and get all liquored up and leave at odd hours. Boyd would usually try to find the rich cats that pulled up in foreign cars. People who drove foreign cars really burned him up. Boyd once went to Disneyland in California when his children were young and was amazed to find that most cars were foreign on the streets. In fact the foreign car that he was issued at LAX was a Toyota. When Boyd saw the car parked in the space, he went back in and demanded a domestic vehicle. He wound up in a Chevy Suburban that cost him twice with the compact car would have cost him and so it goes. Manufacturer plates on Mercedes was always a sure bet that he was hitting an executive at Chrysler who was probably some German born snob who hated living in Detroit but was sent by Daimler in Germany to make something of their American holding. The robbing business was hit and miss but it kept food on the table for himself and his cat.
Like most people who opt to rob others for their means to an end, they eventually get caught and Boyd was no exception. Boyd was charged with a string of armed robberies and was jailed in the state prison near Jackson, Michigan.
After being in prison for a good long time and witnessing some of the worst things men were capable of doing to one another, Boyd came up with a plan to get himself free. Every time it was necessary to appear in court on yet another charge for robbery, the deputies that transported him were always quite lax about the whole thing. How it would work was that one would drive and one would sit next to Boyd. Now what nobody could have possibly known about Boyd was that he was double jointed. It was quite easy and possible for Boyd to flip his arms from behind him while cuffed to in front of himself in just over one second. Boyd practiced this in his prison cell with his cell mate. His cell mate would take a shoe laces and bind his arms together and watch in awe as Boyd contorted his shoulders and arms in ways that was not possible for most people. Boyd’s cell mate had no idea why Boyd practiced doing the move over and over again until he watched the local Detroit news about an escaped convict who was on the loose somewhere near Ann Arbor. The guys who recognized Boyd cheered wildly when they heard that one of their own had over taken not one but two deputies, disarmed them and left them handcuffed to each other around a tree off of a remote country road thirty miles west of Ann Arbor. Boyd drove the state vehicle for a while until he carjacked a young couple who drove a Dodge Charger. Boyd saw that the car had a souped up Hemi engine that would make the playing field even for him in the event of a police chase. Boyd loved the car but hated Michael Bolton CD’s and so those he threw out of the window while driving along route 14 that had a large sign letting drivers know that they were on their way to Plymouth. How ironic.
Boyd robbed people at gun point in an around Detroit for days and hid out in abandon houses and knew that it would be nearly impossible to find him due to the fact that there were so many abandon homes strewn all over Detroit. The final plan was to hit the Comerica branch bank in the beautiful posh suburb of Royal Oak. It was there that Boyd fell in love.
Everyone was face down on the floor of the bank, hoping that the man with the gun would not opt to use it. A young man of Indian descent, stuffed big bills into a Detroit Tigers pillow case as Boyd unwrapped one of the lollypops in a dish left out for mostly crying children. Lying on the floor in a skirt was a beautiful young woman with the face of an angel and blond hair. Boyd ordered her to get up. He held the gun to her head as he spoke to everyone in the bank.
“I’m walking out this door right now with this young lady… I will have news radio on and if I hear on the radio that I robbed this bank and took this woman with me, I will blow her brains out… If any of you squeal, she dies… Am I clear?”
The young woman went by the name of Amber and she lived Southfield with her husband who happened to be a police officer. Amber had loved her husband dearly for the longest time but had grown to hate him in the last year or so of their seven year marriage. It wasn’t clear if Amber or her husband was incapable of having children. They both just quit trying to have children and pretty much quit the act of love making all together. Amber slept in their big bed alone under a picture of herself on her wedding day in front of the old Tiger’s Stadium with the entire wedding party. She looked so beautiful in her white gown and all the men and women looked so smart in their attire with the Bengal tiger symbol behind them. Amber was absolutely terrified of the escaped convict but was absolutely attracted to the attractive man. Nothing was being said as Boyd drove off in her car while pointing the revolver at her with his left hand which rested on his lap.
“Can I ask you not to point that at me? I’m not going anywhere and I’m not going to fight you… If you want to rape me you can but please don’t shoot me or beat me up,” said Amber in a soft sweet voice.
“I’m not gonna hurt you, Miss. I just needed to get outta the bank… I’m actually sorry to do this to you,” said Boyd softly.
As time went on, they spoke to each other as humans and as two people who were genuinely interested in each other. Boyd learned about Amber’s hopeless home life and Boyd told her about he came to become a criminal. Amber listened to Boyd’s plan to escape into Canada and disappear into some Canadian city and try to start over.
“I could go with you… I could help you start over and you could help me,” said Amber to Boyd’s surprise.
“Why would you want to attach yourself to a convict on the run?” Asked Boyd.
“Because I believe that god meant for us to meet,” said Amber.
Whether you believe that god has the time to take small meaningless creatures on one particular planet in the universe who happen to live on Earth, in the northern hemisphere, in a country called the United States in a state called Michigan on the north west side of Detroit, then you can understand where Amber was coming from. Boyd was her gift from god.
Amber went and bought some horned rim glasses and blond hair dye for Boyd as he waited at the Marriott Hotel in Troy off of Big Beaver Road at exit 69 off of interstate 75. You think I’m making those two things up but I’m not. Exit 69 at Big Beaver Road is where Boyd was hiding out. Boyd put his faith in a stranger who he was attracted to and felt that there was some sort of bond growing between them. Boyd showered and shaved and when he finished, Amber came back with new clothes, hair dye and glasses. In a matter of a half hour, Boyd was reinvented. The clothes were stylish and Boyd actually had a European look to him with blond hair.
“How do you think I look?” Asked Boyd.
Amber did not answer him but rather ripped at his clothes and hers until they were without a lick of clothes on either of them and were making passionate love to one another. It had been so long for both of them that the love making almost appeared to be angry. There was no anger though. It would be like giving a steak dinner to a starving person. They devoured each other over the course of hours. Boyd woke up suddenly and the room was dark and he could not see a clock anywhere. Lying on his chest drooling was Amber. She was sleeping soundly after making love several times over the course of two or so hours.
“I’ve got to go,” said Boyd as he sat up.
“Just come back to bed… We can get up early and head over to the tunnel or the Ambassador Bridge and be in Canada in minutes. This time of night they are definitely on the look out for people crossing the border,” said Amber.
Boyd thought about it as he looked out of the window that overlooked the interstate that was mostly quiet except for trucks and a few cars.
“Yeah… Maybe you’re right,” said Boyd.
With that he climbed back into bed and held the warm fit body against his once again. He kissed her neck and ear and she ran her fingers through his hair as she pressed herself against Boyd. They made love for a fourth time and fell back asleep unaware that swat teams, local police, state police all were moving into place. Rather than using cash, Amber used her credit card. They found that within the span of an hour, she bought food at a Coney Island, clothes, glasses and hair dye as well as a room for the two of them at the Marriott in Troy at exit 69 and Big Beaver. For a few short hours on one day in Detroit, two trapped people found heaven. Where was it? Exit 69 and Big Beaver Road. It honestly exists.
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