Promises, Promises Pt. 02

Penny frowned and stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"You agreed to no science talk, but you're discussing energy levels. How can I trust you?"

I was flabbergasted. "I was only... meal, I was talking food."

She burst out laughing and sat down. "That was too easy."

I didn't know whether to be pissed. "If I say that you're hot will you walk out on me?"

"Not if you promise to do something about it later."

And so the dinner conversation devolved into double-entendres, sexual innuendo and meaningless drivel. Sitting with a woman who was beyond my dreams took away any vestige of impatience I might have had over the mindless chatter. The delicious food also helped.

We switched gears when I drove Dr. Smith to my apartment. The chatter disappeared. The sexual innuendo was replaced by the act; many passionate acts. The copulation of our previous night together was replaced by tender lovemaking.

I was wide awake when she opened her eyes in the morning. I decided it was now or never. I leaned over to give her a gentle kiss. She accepted it, and then sat up quickly. "I have an important meeting with the Dean this afternoon to discuss patent opportunities. I'm gonna commercialize my field and get very rich."

This was the opportunity to open my heart to Dr. Smith, tell her how I loved her even if she was poor. I passed her the robe she had used on her last visit and she went to the bathroom for her morning ablutions. I sat nervously on the edge of the bed.

I decided to get dressed. Penny seemed to appreciate efficiency. Waiting for her, sitting naked on the sheets was not an efficient use of time. She had already shifted to scientist, rather than lover mode. She walked out of the bathroom and I stood up, about an arms length from her.

"Dr. Smith, I think I'm falling for you."

She tilted her head, arched her eyebrows and looked at me with curiosity. "What does that mean?"

"You're the most intelligent, most beautiful woman I've ever met. You're fun to be with, both in and out of bed."

Penny kept her curious expression. "You're stating the obvious. What's your point?"

I couldn't stop now, despite her empty response. "I hope we can have a long-term relation."

"Anytime you have a question about quantum biology, I'll try to make time for you. It may not be right away, but if you have patience, I'll take care of you."

"I'm hoping for a biological relation. You know..." I pointed at the messed-up bed. "And an emotional relation. If it works out maybe a get married, have children relation."

She stared at me, hands on her hips. After a minute or two she said "You're serious."

I wasn't sure if that was a question or a declaration of astonishment. Maybe both. "I want to have a serious relation with you. I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy."

Penny backed up a step. Her expression was completely flat. "Don't make promises. What you're asking is utterly impossible." She took a deep breath and responded to the consternation on my face. "You're black; a darkie. I'm white, what you people call a cracker. Do you want to have mongrel children, not belonging to one race or the other?"

I was speechless.

She continued. "I don't like fried chicken, grits, watermelon, all those things you people eat. What would your family say if you hooked up with a cracker? I can tell you mine wouldn't be happy if I married a darkie. My uncle Bill, he's a higher-up in the Aryan Nations. He'd probably go coon-hunting when he found out. Well, he'd go after one in particular. He always said he'd like to take his hunting to town."

I couldn't breath. I fell backwards, sitting on the edge of the bed. Dr. Smith sat down beside me and put a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen, Ken. You're a great writer, an okay guy and not a bad fuck. Don't get above your raisin."

"Huh?"

"It means climbing above your station in life, forgetting where you come from."

"Never heard that expression."

"See, I didn't get above my raisin. You can take a family out of the south, but you can't take the south out of the family. I remember where I came from."

I've spent time in Texas, Georgia and Florida. Her family must have left the south decades ago, when racism was accepted behavior there. She sure as hell wasn't talking about the south of today. "Can we leave raisins out of the paradigm?"

She took my hand. "What do you mean?"

"Do you enjoy the time you spend with me? I'm not talking about the sex."

"Sure. You're smart, you have a good sense of humor, you're educated."

"And what about the sex? Were you faking all that passion, all those orgasms?"

She squeezed my hand. "They were real."

"Hasn't our society advanced enough that we can get past skin color?"

"It's not just skin color, Ken. The differences between your people and my people are real. You have kinky hair. Your children will have kinky hair. Same with your pug nose, loose morals, your likelihood of having diabetes, sickle cell anemia, prostate cancer... I could go on and on. The differences are down at the genetic level."

She was holding my hand affectionately, but I felt as if she had punched me in the throat. I was practically gasping for breath, but she continued.

"You're going to make an amazing husband for the right-colored woman one day. You're smart, considerate. I was so impressed when you refused to do any of the fast numbers when we went dancing. Everyone knows Negros have good rhythm, but you didn't want to embarrass me."

I had thought out what I wanted to tell her in advance. The words came spilling out, though they were no longer appropriate. "Penny, is this how you really feel? We're so good together. If we ended up getting married, I would make you the happiest woman—"

" We're not getting married. Ever. We're not having a relation outside science. Ever. Get it through your head."

"Because I'm black?"

"Well that too. Mostly because I'm married."

I jumped up and yelled. "You're married?!"

She smiled, went to her purse, pulled out a ring and slipped it onto her finger.

"What the hell!"

"I figured you might be one of those moralistic guys who's afraid of fucking a married woman."

"So you took the ring off."

"Well, the first time you came into my lab I didn't know yet whether or not I wanted to screw you, so I just covered my hand. Once my husband said it was okay, I took them off every time I anticipated seeing you."

"Your husband said it was..."

"I've had an obsession about black penises for a long time. I heard so much, I saw pictures online, I just had to try one."

"And your husband was okay with that."

"Larry didn't want me to fuck any thugs, like, you know, regular Negros. He was afraid it could lead to trouble. I might get hurt or catch a disease. The delays till we fucked were while he checked you out."

"How did he check me out?"

"I didn't ask. The important thing is he said you were harmless, so we got to have all that great sex together."

"Does he often send you out to have sex with other men?"

Dr. Smith let out an exasperated sigh. "I told you, it was for my curiosity about black dick. I've never cheated on Larry, never will. Tell me, if you'd have known I was married, would you have fucked me?"

"I don't do married women. Not knowingly, at least."

She smiled. "So you're one of those moral Negros. Good thing I took my ring off." She patted the bed next to where she was seated. "Come on, sit down. We can still be friends. There's nothing that says Negros and regular people can't be friends."

I shook my head. "There's nothing that says Negros and 'regular people' can't get married and raise a family together. But you're not regular people, Penny."

She smiled and patted the bed again.

"I didn't mean that as a compliment. Dr. Smith, please leave. Go away."

She pouted. "You're supposed to give your guest breakfast."

I pulled ten dollars out of my wallet and threw it at her. "There's an IHOP at the corner."

"What about a ride back to my lab?"

I pulled twenty dollars out of my wallet and threw it at her. "That will cover a taxi."

"What about these?" She stood up, slid out of the robe and cupped her tits.

"What about them?"

"Are you in such a hurry to say goodbye to them? Larry said I could have two nights with a black penis, and I used them both on you. It means I like you, even though you don't have the huge equipment I was expecting."

"It's strange how I could mistakenly think something is beautiful, and then when I get a good look realize the ugliness. You're hideous, Dr. Smith. Your physical shell can't make up for your revolting soul. Get dressed and get out."

Penny scowled. "You're an uppity n—"

"Stop talking!" I shouted. Tears were rolling down my cheek.

"Oh, I hurt poor baby's feelings."

I stopped myself from responding; she was clearly trying to provoke me. I was amazed that someone so smart could be such an idiot, could be such an asshole. I took a step back, to avoid any temptation to slug her. It took Dr. Smith about five minutes to get dressed, gather her belongings and leave.

I was in a daze. I guess I've lived a pretty sheltered life. My father had warned me that when certain people looked at me, all they would see is my black mother; my Italian father would be invisible. I thought it was only hillbillies, rednecks... the uneducated poor who had such attitudes. Dr. Penny Smith was an up and coming scientist. With the right breaks she could become an opinion leader in her field. And as a designated expert in one field, people would assume she was knowledgeable in others. It wasn't a giant leap to see her as a designated expert, an opinion leader on the issue of race.

When my article on quantum tunneling would be published in a national popular science magazine, it would help make Smith an opinion leader. I could not allow that, nor could I write the article without talking about her. Maybe I would emphasize how a leading scientist could be so primitive. But that would entail a public discussion of our intimate relation, which wouldn't be right. The publisher wanted to get the article out as quickly as possible. The popular science world hadn't yet wrapped its mind around quantum biology, and my article would put the journal on the cutting edge. Not to mention that it would be the largest paycheque I ever got for a single article.

What about Penny's Uncle Bill, who wants to go coon-hunting? I couldn't let that slip either. The Aryan Nations talked loudly and carried a little stick, but had a track record of spurts of intense violence. Sounds like Uncle Bill felt it was time for another one.

I was starting to hyperventilate. I took control of my breathing, tried to take control of the emotions bubbling through my mind. I wasn't succeeding so I changed into my motorcycle gear, grabbed my helmet and headed off for the mountains. I rode most of the day, stopping only for a light lunch in some small-town diner. By the time I got back to my apartment, I had figured most of it out.

Firstly, Dr. Penny Smith was a miserable cunt. This was all on her, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. Secondly, I would cite her as a footnote in my article. Google "P. Smith." You'll get over a billion results in less than a second. It's a very common name. Yes, someone who wanted to delve into the matter could search for that name along with the terms "quantum biology." It would not be the same level of publicity though, and I would be fulfilling my journalistic and ethical obligations.

I would crush my "raisin," whatever and wherever it was. My mother had taught me that one of the great things about America was that people weren't confined to a particular status in life. The playing field wasn't level. Some people had more opportunities than others, but everyone had opportunities. My great-grandmother was born a slave. My grandfather was a blues musician who lived the early part of his adult life on the streets. My mother was a pediatrician. My father's family moved to this country after their vineyards were destroyed during the Second World War. They had grown up crushing grapes, so my plan wasn't a big departure.

The "Rough Men," my motorcycle club, would have to up it's game. We had a core concept of standing up to violence and aggression, no matter what the source. We were supposed to be Churchill's "rough men" who enabled others to live peaceful lives. We had established protocols, talked about training. We had to start living up to them. I emailed everyone that there was something serious to discuss over our beers when we got together Wednesday evening.

Everyone remembered when Penny from when she had come to the clubhouse to pick up her bra. I didn't focus on Smith's racism, but rather on her Uncle Bill and the Aryan Nations. Someone mentioned that we also had to contend with the increasing boldness of Antifa. "There are a lot of assholes around," I said. "We have to get in their way. When possible we try to defuse conflict, but if we have to, if we know how to, we fight." Everyone nodded in agreement. "But I don't want anyone getting above their raisin when it comes to fighting..."

"Above their raisin...?"

I smiled. "It's an old southern expression I learned from Dr. Smith, meaning don't climb above your station in life. I don't want anyone of us thinking they're Bruce Lee, then getting knocked out by someone bigger and stronger. Don't climb above your station in fighting." I looked at my cousin Marcia. "You especially. You're eager to meddle, you're fearless, and you're also helpless in a fight."

"Well, we talked about taking lessons."

"Women need different lessons than men. Most of the guys here can use brute strength, weight, and combat experience. You can't. Maybe you can do some research into street brawling classes for women."

Marcia shrugged. "I'll get on it."

"Soon?"

"I promise."

I don't know how hard she 'got on it,' but a couple of weeks later she had only the vaguest information about suitable classes. In the meantime Aryan Nations let slip that they were going to be patrolling the streets of Portland to protect its 'real' citizens. Antifa announced that it was going to patrol the city to protect everybody except fascists.

I sent the quantum biology article to my editor. He wondered about the footnote 'P. Smith,' and suggested that we include a picture, making Penny a central feature of the story. He was shocked by my vehement response. When I didn't budge despite his pushing, he said the magazine would probably have to cut my fee because of the blandness of the piece. I told him to go ahead, and he backed down.

A black woman got elbowed and pushed to the ground while shopping. A Jew had his beard pulled, a Muslim woman her head covering spat on. All of this was on crowded streets, in popular areas. We decided to start three-man patrols at lunch hour and as people were finishing work. I don't think anyone knew who we were or what we represented. To most people we were probably just pudgy dudes on motorcycles.

That was the attitude at least of the aggressor in the first encounter we tried to defuse. A medium height, medium build white man was blocking the path of an elderly black man with a walker. Every time he tried to get by, the young man would step into his path. He didn't stop yelling, didn't stop waving his arms the whole time. We pulled up nearby and listened to what he was saying.

"How many people did you burn alive? How many babies did you bayonet? Every American soldier in that war was an imperialist racist, an evil tool of the capitalist oppressors."

The old man was trying to get away from his dogged aggressor. We hurried over, and I noted his baseball cap declaring himself a Vietnam Veteran. I put on my ugliest scowl and stood in front of the bully, blocking him from once again cutting off the gentleman with the walker.

"Hey, get out of my way!"

"I'm just keeping you out of the way of this proud veteran." My two buddies escorted the old man for fifty feet, thanking him for his service and explaining that the three of us had served in Iraq. The bully raged, yelled and cussed, calling me an Oreo and traitor to my race. Just like Penny, he felt that black people had to behave in certain prescribed ways. I guess he also figured I was getting above my raisin. We stood there shouting at each other for about five minutes; well, mostly him yelling at me while I tried to calm him down.

One of the things I had learned in Iraq was to always be aware of what's going on around you; be alert for any potential threats. I saw a woman with long brown hair jogging towards us. In the corner of my mind I dismissed her as a potential threat, while anticipating possible problems in keeping her out of this conflict. The last thing I wanted was for a bystander to get involved.

"Hey, leave him alone."

Shit, she wanted to get involved. I tried to look sinister. "Mind your own business, ma'am."

"This is my business. Three big rough men against one everyday type of guy. That's not acceptable."

She sounded like one of us. "With an attitude like that you belong in our club."

"I don't think so."

She definitely had the right mindset. I took a couple of steps towards her. That was the last thing I remembered till I regained consciousness lying on a bench, the side of my face aching and swollen. My friends explained that the woman knocked me out with one punch after I had put my hand on her arm. She then took off with the young bully. Nobody gave chase; they were more concerned with looking after me.

"How long was I out?"

"Not long. Maybe two or three minutes."

I tried to shake the dizziness from my head as I sat up. "Did my head hit the sidewalk?" I was worried about a concussion.

"She grabbed you on your way down, made sure you landed gently."

I moved my jaw from side to side, touched the side of my face... nothing broken. "She had to have training to do what she did. We've got to find her, get her to join us."

"Ken, we don't know who or what she is. If we see her again, our best bet is to get as far away as possible."

"You're right, but there's a problem."

"What?"

"I think I'm in love."

"With the woman who decked you."

"Yeah."

"Should we take you to the hospital to check for brain damage? How are you feeling? "

"I'm kidding. She impressed me, but I'm not in love with her. I don't think I am, at least."

"You're crazy, Ken. Just a few days ago you were in love with a rabid racist. Now a woman who... well I don't know what she is, and neither do you. A woman is supposed to win your heart with sex, or at least food. Not by turning your lights off with one punch."

"I'll keep my distance, I promise."

That was an easy promise to keep. I didn't see my assailant anywhere, despite our regular patrols. Maybe she was from out of town. Then again, Portland was a big enough city that I could live a block away and never run into her.

Our patrols were actually doing some good. Just the sight of the Rough Men seemed to break up developing squabbles. We attended some political rallies where the demonstrators and counterdemonstrators seemed to deliberately position themselves on opposite sides of us, using us as a protective barrier.

Marcia arranged some classes for herself and the other women members. I don't know how good they were, but after many months she announced that they were ready to kick butt. They joined us as peacekeepers at a few demonstrations and it was at one of them that everything fell apart. Marcia got separated and was surrounded by masked Antifa. They stole her jacket, ripped her clothes off and groped her, filming all the while with their phones. One of them had the temerity to anonymously send the video to a TV station, with the caption "we give fascists the treatment they deserve."