Another Try...
Last September (in It’s Un-American...), I posted a little story that exploited every stereotype I could squeeze into one little story. The original idea was that I would write several versions of the same story, using the stereotypes for a different ethnic group in each one, as a way of discrediting stereotypes. Standing alone, however, it was incredibly offensive… and would only become less-so if I followed on on the original plan.
Which, of course, I never did.
So I was forced to choose between just chucking the story into the virtual circular file, or finding some other way to make it politically correct (and yes, I am aware that—in some circles—”politically correct” is anything but politically correct).
This week I heard a radio interview with a songwriter who was explaining the function of bridges in songs. It occurred to me that structuring a short story, like a song, with a bridge in the middle, might be interesting. So, today, I took that offensive story and used it as a bridge between two parts of a new and different story.
Perhaps, in the process, I’ve diminished the offensiveness of the original story.
Or maybe not.
Very White Christmas
White people come in a whole lot of colors.
Some of them be pink. Some cream. Some fish-belly white, like freakin’ albinos. Some of them be tan. Some of them can’t make up they minds—they be milky white but covered with tan freckles. Me. I’m black. Not black like coal or licorice, more like chocolate: brown, milk chocolate. Some black folk aren’t even brown—they be tan, so tan they could pass for white if they wanted.
Whatever the hell white is.
You’re wonderin’ why I’m going on an’ on like this—talkin’ about shit everybody already knows anyway?
It’s because I can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout Greta.
Greta’s a nurse—no, a dental hygienist—who works in my dentist’s office. I’ll be sitting in her chair today when she cleans my teeth. The whole time she’s working on me, I just can’t help staring at her skin. I don’t make eye contact; that might make her uncomfortable, me being all black and having lousy teeth and all. But the skin on the side of her face, next to her long blond braids, is not just white—it’s translucent, like a china teacup. You know, like porcelain. And her eyes, always focused on the edges of my gums, are pale blue. Like that little bit of sky at the edge of the southern horizon.
I could stare at them for ever.
I asked her, this afternoon, if she wanted to go out sometime. She told me she was seeing someone, and eventually admitted that it was her boss. I wanted to tell her that it wasn’t a good idea, but I held back. She told me, all confidential like, while leaning over my face, that Dr. Abramowitz was a jew—like everyone didn’t know that already!—and went on to say how surprised she had been to learn that he didn’t have horns.
That kinda’ put a damper on the crush I’d felt for her. I don’t always have a problem with dumb blondes—but, sweet Jesus, there are limits, if you know what I mean.
The next time I went to the dentist, I was a little worried about having to face Greta again. I was relieved to find that Dr. Abramowitz had hired a new hygienist. Not only that, the new one—Heidi— was even more beautiful than Greta had been. I wondered if the doctor hired such lovely women, on purpose, to make office visits less threatening for patients.
It certainly works, for me.
We exchanged little bits about ourselves, before the cleaning. Then, while her hands and various tools were in my mouth, I just listened. Listened, and studied the face that was only inches away from mine. Her skin was milky-white, her blond hair was cropped short and spiky, and there was a tiny silver ring in her left nostril. I suspected that she had a tongue stud, but never got to see it.
She talked as she worked, telling me she didn’t mind the job—but only did it to support her real love. She must have noticed the question in my eyes, because she quickly corrected, “Not a person—my real love is writing. The job just pays the rent—and supports my writing habit. It’s better than burglary, or selling crack—and I get to meet a better class of people here.”
I laughed a flattered laugh, almost knocking the saliva-sucking tube from my mouth. When I had a chance to speak, I asked what sort of things she wrote. “If you’re interested, I can e-mail you one of my new stories,” she said.
And did.
La Sforza
It was Christmas Eve, and Tony had just one job to do. His wife, Janine, was taking care of everything at home, and had assigned him the task of picking up food for the evening’s festivities.
It wasn’t going to be the traditional feast of the seven fishes... just a selection of delicatessen treats: capicola, provolone, both hot and sweet soppressata, scamorza, prosciutto di parma, an assortment of prepared salads, gorgonzola, some good semolina bread, marinated artichokes, pepperoncini, pickled fava beans, olives—maybe some cannoli, pignoli, or sfogliatelle for dessert—you know, good stuff.
He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere near La Sforza: The Deli de Destino.The situation, inside, was even worse. The place was packed—as tightly as a tin of anchovies, filetti di alici—with customers who could have been clones of Tony. Their hair looked like it had been combed with olive oil, but it smelled a lot like Brylcreem. Apparently sent on the same assignment as Tony, they milled around, shifting their weight from one imported loafer to the other, impatient with delays that their own numbers were creating.
The counter could only deal with a few customers at a time, so the rest of the crowd was massed, across the shop, near the shelves of imported San Marzano tomatoes. Tony wedged himself into what he took to be the end of the line. It wasn’t easy to tell, what with dozens of slicked-back heads, all craning and stretching, trying to find a spot that opened toward the deli cases, cash register, and merciful escape.
One-by-frustrating-one, a Tony or Alfredo or Luca or Guido emerged from the surging mass and made his way to salumic salvation. At first, Tony was confused by the fact that guys left the line from random positions. In time, he realized that it wasn’t a line at all. It was just a gathering of goombas, and something—other than line order—was determining who was next to be served.
One-by-frustrating-one, the crowd dispersed, until there was just Tony. At last, he reached the counter.
A matriarch in white polyester asked, “What’s your number, honey?”
“Number? Che cosa?”
“Yeah. Number. What’s your number?”
“I don’t have any number.”
“Of course you do. It’s the last three of your phone number.”
“Oh seven four.”
“That’s not on the list.”
“What list?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
“The one you were supposed to sign onto, this morning, at ten.”
“I didn’t know about any list.”
“Everyone knows about the friggin’ list, honey. Sforza has been using it for twenny friggin’ years.”
“How do I get on the list?”
“You don’t. It was filled, and closed, by eleven.”
“You can’t make an exception? It’s the goddam vigilia di natale, fer chrissakes!”
“It wouldn’t be fair to the others, the ones who did sign up.”
“What others? I’m the only one left here.”
“Sorry. No exceptions.”
“Madonn’ ...what the hell am I supposed to do now? What do I tell my wife when I show up with un cavolo... niente?”
“You could try around the corner, at Cucina Cosa Nostra. They always seem to have ways of getting shit done...” flashing a devilish grin, “and can probably take care of you. There’ll be a price, of course.”
Given the alternative of facing Janine—empty-handed—it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Stepping out of La Sforza, he turned his collar up against the sloppy wet snow that was just beginning to fall and mumbled “Merry friggin’ white Christmas.”
There’s a lot of talk about The Great Migration, and the Harlem Renaissance and all—but that makes it sound like something that ended ages ago. It’s true that lots of black folk left The South and moved north to escape Jim Crow, back in the day. People say that things are better now, down south but, for talented or ambitious young blacks, there still aren’t many opportunities for them to fulfill their dreams in Dixie. During The Great Migration, whole families moved north, sometimes piecemeal, a few at a time. Now, young folks—like me—flee Alabama and Mississippi, and move to places like New York City. We no longer have to live in Harlem; almost every neighborhood is open to us now.
Almost.
If we can afford it.
So, here I am, living alone on the Upper West Side, a thousand miles away from the rest of my family, on Christmas Day. I make a call, to the folks back home, to say, “merry Christmas” and all, then start thinking about dinner plans.
Being Christmas, most of the places I like are closed—but there’s one option that’s always available. Chinese. I take the subway—which is oddly empty, because of the holiday—and head to a favorite little spot in Chinatown. The restaurant is right at the elbow of little Doyers Street, across from the Chinatown post office. It’s dimly lit, with a small artificial Christmas tree next to the cash register. Toward the back, I see a single customer seated at a table.
It’s Dr. Abramowitz.
I walk to his table and he looks up from the menu. I ask, “You’re alone for dinner? Not that it’s any of my business, but don’t you usually have a date?”
“Yes,” he replies, “but they all have family obligations today. It’s some sort of holiday, I hear.” He grins at the obviousness of it, then invites me to join him. “So...you know about this place too...”
“Sure. I’ve been coming here for ages. Usually for the eggplant in garlic sauce. They use the skinny purple Japanese eggplants I like.”
“I know them well. My people always go out for Chinks on Christmas—when all the goyim are busy at home.”
“Goyim” is a word I’d never heard in Alabama—but, like “nosh,” and “goniff,” and “tsuris,” it’s part of every New Yorker’s vocabulary. “Goyim” made me think of the doctor’s assistants. “You know, I’ve noticed that you only hire beautiful girls to work in your office... and thank you, by the way, for that.”
“There’s no reason to hire uglies, is there?”
“Bad for the feng shui, I suppose?”
He laughs, and a few globs of duck sauce shoot out of his mouth. He wipes them up with a quick professional flourish of his napkin. “Do you know the work of Ezra Pound... a vicious antisemite, but a damned good poet? He wrote, ‘It rests me to be among beautiful women. Why should one always lie about such matters? I repeat: It rests me to converse with beautiful women, even though we talk nothing but nonsense, the purring of the invisible antennae is both stimulating and delightful.’”
“Nice.” I was caught a little off-guard, hearing my dentist spout poetry, over sprayed duck sauce, in a Chinese restaurant, but it encouraged me to seek an answer to something I already knew a little about. “Do you ever date your employees?”
“Always.”
“I notice that you only hire blondes, and that they’re all German... and they seem to be replaced pretty frequently.”
“Of course.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because, by screwing them, I get to do to them what their people did to my people.”
I stood up, without ordering one from either column A or column B. It was time to find another Chinese restaurant... and another dentist.
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