Jive Ass Nigga Blues Ch. 01

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White girls in Chocolate City.
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1.

Amy, her eyes cartoon blue, devil in a blue jogging suit blue, West palm white sky beach blue, a father who loved Churchill and George W., blue. Amy in her knee length skirt, adjusting herself in the mirror, while I squirmed in the moist bed, still sweaty from stank breath morning sex. Amy in her blue jogging shorts, stretching in front of the mirror, while I tumbled back to sleep and missed another class. Her hands squeezing my ass, urging me deeper, harder, while I clamped my eyes and thrust and imagined I was fucking someone else, a little prettier with perkier tits and not such a flat wisp of a Wasp ass. Flat as a pancake, a fly smashed against a white wall. Splat. Flat ass the bottom of my father's flat feet, fifteenth century fall of the end of the earth flat.

I woke in my room between four walls, off white. Me, ashy brown. Face mottled with pimples, nappy beard sprouting on my neck. Three days without showering, three days of caked sweat inside my shirt, in between my thighs. Three days of barely throwing water on my stoned face. I crawled out of bed, dug the grime out my eyes, and slipped on my glasses. Out the second story window car lights speared the dark in route for the highway. I plodded down two flights of stairs into the living room. The living room floor, sticky and strewn with ash. I shuffled into the narrow kitchen. Four day's stacked dishes in the sink --plates, forks, knives, spaghetti strands, and two sodden cigarette butts. While the coffee machine dripped, dropped, and spit steam, I sat on the couch rolling a cigarette. Fingers jittery, teeth clattering.

Adam on his bed smoking, and I am next to him. His arms, turrets, loaded and cocked, jutting out a white tank top. One bicep barbed with wire, the other winged by a medieval dragon. And next to his bed the protein packed ammunition that he mixed and gulped down after his workouts. Adam who had a literary childhood. Sick beds, failing limbs, coughing fits. Who still had the stick figure legs that wobbled under his squared and bulked upper torso. A ball of fire flaming on his calf. Chestnut eyes flickering behind rectangular lenses. Adam whose stubbly face and fear of women I admired. Who still stank of two years' worth of vegan dishes. Tofu, soy burgers, since renounced, scraped from the palate into the trash. Adam the apostate, half caste, mongrel Jew from a Lilt white Long Island Township.

Every night between three and four AM, we sat on the edge of his bed. Sat and passed a joint, pointed and laughed at the screen. The show, BET Uncut. An hour long reel of twenty first century blackploitation flics. Hip hop videos too raw to be shown during normal business hours. We sat on the edge of bed laughing and pointing. At the dollars crumpled and tosses at the jiggling black asses' at the black men with gilded teeth and chains fighting for face time; at the spinning rims; the faces contorted for the camera;

fists full of cash; and at the pimp in the green suit, drinking from a diamond studded cup. The show ended, we smoked another one. And I headed out to Dupont Circle.

Five AM bleary sky looming over groggy streets, and I turned right at Twenty First into Dupont Circle. Delivery trucks honked, stopped short. Swarthy men in hoodies pedaled bikes. And I walked up a hill into Dupont's main arteries. Entered a bagel shop, the one with the clenched face Korean manning the counter. On guard, I saluted tip toed through the DMZ, placed my order, then sat down. I reeked of Turkish tobacco. I frowned at my yellow stained fingertips, ground my teeth, bit into one of my jagged nails, chewed on a fragment. Swallowed it. The wall clock read, 5:45. Three hours left before I went to sleep. Six more rolled cigarettes, two more cups of black coffee, another twenty pages of reading, before I went back to bed. And ground and turned and tossed though the morning into the afternoon.

I placed the bubbling cup on the table. Unwrapped the bagel, stared with steamed open eyes at its assortment of seeds. Poppy, sesame, fragments of onion and salt. The wax paper wrapping crinkled. The buttery heat warmed my fingers. Chomp, chomp. I sloshed it down with bitter swigs. Grease stains and poppy seeds on the wax. Dregs swirling in the cup.

While I sipped black coffee in D.C.'s white triangle, a hundred and fifty miles north in southern New York, my mother staggered down stairs. One arthritic hand on the banister, her long black robe sweeping the steps, her eyes circled by rings as deep as sand dunes. Her face, half caste Creole syntax. Punctuated by pulpy lips, a wide nose, and Caribbean Sea green eyes. My mother with spent arsenal of Australian Chardonnay bottles assembled in her closet. The bottles she placed in a discrete black garbage bag and smuggled to the end of the driveway. Instead of putting them with the other recyclables. My father in the driveway limbering up, stretching his quads. Yale alumni cap on his bald head, Harvard Law Degree folded and tucked in his socks. Just in case he was stopped and frisked on his morning jog.

My parents. Yes, they'd made it. Pulled themselves up from the Bottom of the Well, scaled the Bell Curve, bridged the Achievement Gap, and slipped onto the Affirmative Action Express, chooo choooo!

They rode the express north out of Brooklyn, along the Hudson River, and got off in Larchmont, NY where I was raised. Where I was the only black kid in the fourth grade class. So the teacher sent me packing, sent my pimply forehead and seven inch afro out the door and down the hall. Down to where the other two black kids in the school, alongside a poor white boy and stuttering Mexican, huddled over remedial texts. The other two black kids in the school who snickered and called me nigger when I passed them on the playground. Four days of testing. Math, reading comprehension, logic. Four days until the Special Ed teacher realized that I didn't belong in the classroom. Four days until I walked back down the hallway, handed a note to my bemused fourth grade teacher, and reclaimed my seat by the window.

I never told my parents about that four day experiment. Never told them because we were the others. The other black people. The good, upstanding, well spoken black people. We prayed Episcopalian, not Baptist or Methodist. We integrated a country club. Voted Republican. Ate sushi. Skinned our chicken. Tolerated lactose. And nibbled funky ass French cheese.

College was the way out. Out of monochromatic Larchmont. And Howard University, the Mecca of black gals with mocha skin and Jack and Jill memberships, was my first choice.

"No child of mine is going to any all black school," my father answered. And then my sister, all berets, "Mom, what's an all black school?"

I ended up across town. Far from the smell of Ben's Chili Bowl and the break beats of D.C. go go, in the middle of the white triangle on the campus of George Washington University.

I spent the first two years rollicking in rickety dorm beds with Laura, Lisa, Janet, Nine the bronzed Israeli chick, and Deborah with the tongue ring. Because at overpriced, private universities it wasn't just the fat chicks who dated black, the one who smuggled extra muffins out the cafeteria. Nope. It was possible to get a white girl like Laura or Lisa or Nina or Deborah. Or Amy. My Amy.

Amy. Precocious lines around her eyes, freckles dotting her soft white cheeks. Wrapping her still wet skin in a white satin robe, sitting down on the couch next to me. She crossed her legs towards me, reached for a pack of Camel Lights on the table. "Clark, why don't we ever go out?" And I winced, twisted away from her, the question. Because it's a fraud, the whole thing. This pretending as if we were mature enough to be rid of all that funky historical shit stuck between our toes and behind our ears. Pretending as if we didn't sniff that whiff of piebald bullshit choking the air. And me pretending as if I weren't playing out my played out Mr. Jive Ass Nigga fantasy.

The Life and Loves of Mr. Jive Ass Nigga, written by Cecil Brown, chronicles the adventures of Ivy-League-Black-Negro-Afro-American expats in Copenhagen during the seventies. Café dwellers, talking Camus and Castro, and wagging their dicks at the six foot, cream filled Danish pastries. I found the novel while digging through my father's abandoned books. Under the dusty editions, two years' worth, of the Black Scholar. And under the framed charcoal drawing of Malcolm X that used to hang proudly in the living room.

Maybe it was because we were broke. Because we watched BET Uncut every night, the tired stream of semiotics. Because the only we cared about was making money. Because we grew up in the suburbs in the nineties listening to gritty street tales, black boy memoirs put to hip hop beats. Like Mobb Deep spitting, Criminal minds thirsty for recognition/I'm sippin' E&J/Got my mind trippin'/. Or Jay-Z, Whoever said illegal was the easy way out/ Couldn't understand the mechanics and workings of the underworld/. But the because probably doesn't matter. Because one night while watching Uncut, we decided to start our own escort service.

"We just need some start up money," Adam said. "Couple hundred bucks." The next day I snatched a five hundred dollar emergency loan from Student Financial Services. Then we bought phones, Nextels with the walkie-talkie feature. We choose a name, Bacchus Entertainment. And placed an ad in the back of D.C's Free City Paper.

Bacchus Entertainment. New Escort Service. Female escorts wanted. All races, body types. 18-35. Big earning potential. Call 750-687-7889.

Within a week we booked three interviews.

A goateed Jew from Jersey conducted the first two. He had a penchant for saying the word nigger, and he was the only person we knew who had a suit and a matching portfolio. The interview was a two for one. Two black girls, sisters. Both of them strippers from downtown Maryland. They wanted to branch out, make a little money off the stage. We hired them. The goateed Jew wore the same suit to the second interview. When he came back he said, "She's fucking hot. Half Irish, half Chinese. Really big tits. And blue eyes." Hired!

The goateed Jew had a Bio midterm or an Econ study session. Or just didn't feel like doing another interview. So I ironed a pair of dirty khakis, grabbed a t-shirt off the floor, and headed out.

In a park, a couple blocks away from my house. Lunch time crowd sweeping through, steaming bags in hand. Cotton Dockers, clicking heels, tucked in button down shirts. A stone faced mountain dribbling saliva down its chin. The girl, one part Turkish, several parts Japanese. Short spiky hair dyed orange and brown.

"I go out eat with man. Maybe give massage, right?"

She might not have said it like that. I can't remember. But I do remember her tits. Big, pushing against her white V-neck t-shirt. And I remember feeling anxious. Scanning the park, hoping that no one I knew saw me here with this chick who smelled like cigarettes. Parliament Lights. Strange. Easier for me to remember smells than words. Or maybe the smells are harder to forget. They just stick with you, carve some kind of sensory memory that doesn't go away easily.

"Yeah, you go out to dinner," I said.

She crossed her jeaned legs, slipped one hand between her thighs. "Oh, ok. I think will help my English.

I didn't know what the fuck she was talking about. Dinner, massages. I nodded, squinted. Scratched my face, bit my nails. Calm down, just calm down.

"Yes, you go out to dinner. Give massage." Yep, that's it. Imitate her syntax. Win her trust. Then get the fuck out of here.

She smiled, bobbed her head. "But what going to happen-" She garbled the next few words. I couldn't understand them. "My friend want/won't know-" Want know? What now? Won't know? Fuck. I stared at her. She blinked a few times. And then I might have panicked. Started considering all that shit that we hadn't given much thought. Getting busted, cuffed, hauled away. She might have been an undercover. A great fucking actor, working for D.C. vice squad. The broken syntax, something she'd practiced for months. One big elaborate ruse, the tits, the cigarettes, the exotic ethnicity. Gyoza and Baklava. Or she might have just been clueless. No idea what she was getting herself into.

"Thanks for coming to the interview, Nagami. Someone will give you a call in a few days."

"I got job?"

"No. I don't think so." Then I explained that this probably wasn't the best gig for her. That there were better ways for her to work on her English.

"Oh, ok. I understand." I wasn't sure whether she did or not. Seemed like she was searching my face for answers. Some small talk ensued. Head nods and smiles. Then we said goodbye.

Before I left the park, I turned around. just to make sure she wasn't following me, keeping tabs on where I was going. She was still on the bench, legs crossed, smoking.

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4 Comments
bumcleaverbumcleaveralmost 12 years agoAuthor

Thanks for the comments.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 12 years ago
Graphic novel dialogue

Graphic comic or movie type dialogue writing. Without being accompanied by pics, it falls flat. A one rating indicating hate is too harsh a review. There's no hate to it. It simply does not work.

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 12 years ago

Bukowski reincarnated. Good style, although not what I expected in here!

AnonymousAnonymousalmost 12 years ago

W.T.F.?

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