Dirty Red Kisses
By Derek Henkelone
It goes like this:
I'm white, but I live with the brown people, and each morning, everything changes when the black people get on the bus.
The ride starts with the brown people and I sitting or standing. We look out the windows and keep to ourselves. There's conversation, but it's in another language from the one I speak, so it's like easy listening music to me. The scenery passes by, and we slip in and out of our thoughts until the black people join us.
I know some of you will probably call me a dumb punk. I'm not. Have you read Dr. Martin Luther King Jr? I have. He was a great man. Rosa Parks? Courageous. Jimi Hendrix? Genius. I don't have to list anymore. You get the idea.
Besides, we all have the same color blood.
When the black people get on the bus, the brown people and I have to put all our energy into pretending that we don't witness the radios and loud conversation.
I know the black people didn't want to be here. They were kidnapped and made to be slaves. It's just that the bus ride is almost pleasant when it's quiet. It's like a dream.
When I lived with other white people things were different. My life was linear, planned, sensible. I had a home and a wife. Now, I share an apartment and have an ex.
During the past year I was fortunate enough to meet a mirror. Her name is E. I met her at a dance club near the water on a Saturday night. My friend thought that this was an excellent place for people to meet, and he was correct.
The majority of the women were white, although there were black, brown, and yellow women as well. They all wore clothes that covered as little as possible. I knew I was gonna like the place.
The majority of men were white too, but there were some black, brown, and yellow men also. A lot of the guys seemed kinda sleazy. Some actually wore gold chains, and had their shirts unbuttoned revealing their majestic chest hair.
In all fairness, there were women there that were Bimbos. The obvious match went unanswered. The sleazy men should have been paired with the Bimbos. It would make the most sense. But, all the sleazy guys I saw were trying to get the nice women.
My guess is that they really wanted to fail. I think they feed on rejection. Either that, or they're just plain stupid. And for the Bimbos, well, they never go home alone.
Once we got inside, my friend and I moved among the mass of flesh, and discovered there were three areas: the DJ dance floor, the eating area, and the live band room. My friend stayed in the room that had the live band playing oldies and top forty songs. It was bright, and the people were boring. I left him and went to the DJ dance floor. It was darker, and the people seemed more interesting.
I took a seat on one of the speakers and watched the crowd. I could actually feel the volume of the bass, and it seemed to me the flares of my trousers were flapping with every beat.
A slim attractive brown woman, in a skin-tight black dress, motioned for me to join her on the floor, so I did. She smiled and swayed. She couldn't move a great deal because her dress was so tight. She was there with friends, and she nodded toward a small group of white women standing on the outer edge of the dance floor.
She pointed to the prettiest of them, and told me to go ask her to dance. I walked over to the prettiest one, took her by the hand, and pulled her onto the floor. At first she seemed stunned with my approach, but I said her friend told me to bring her to dance. She smiled and began dancing.
She moved her shoulders and her feet a little, and bobbed her head. After a few songs I thanked her and went and sat on the speaker. I continued to watch her dance and noted the herky-jerky way she moved. She had an angelic face and the most intense eyes.
I started watching the other people, and lost track of the prettiest one, until the dream state I was in was broken by her grabbing my hand and dragging me onto the dance floor. She held me very, very, close and it felt fantastic. After a few songs she pulled away and faded into the crowd. I sat again on the speaker. I was pleasure dizzy and could hardly think.
My head cleared enough for me to decide I should give her my telephone number. It was a weird sensation. It was like the idea literally popped into my brain. I distinctly remember physically feeling the thought arrive.
I got a pen from the bar and wrote my number on a napkin. I looked for her. I didn't see her, but I did see the brown woman who first motioned me to dance.
I asked her if she would give my number to her friend. She seemed perturbed at my request and reluctantly agreed, folding the napkin and putting it in her purse. I thanked her and found my friend in the live band room.
He was having a good time dancing with a white woman who had yellow hair. My friend is black. I smiled and he waved.
I became bored with the band and headed over to the DJ section, and saw the prettiest one in the eating section of the club sipping a drink.
"I thought you left," I said to her. She looked up slightly and continued sipping her drink.
"Oh, hi," she answered. I introduced myself and she told me her name.
"Let's go outside and talk." she said.
She walked away, and I followed her through the eating section, through the DJ dance area, out the entrance, and into the late night air. She took a clove cigarette from the little black purse she was wearing and offered me one. I have never liked clove cigarettes. When I was a kid going to rock concerts it seemed like someone was always smoking one in front of me. They smell awful. They smell too sweet.
She asked me where I lived, and I told her I lived in the city. I asked her where she lived, and she was vague saying she lived in the Bay Area. I said that was a big area to live in and she shrugged her pretty shoulders.
Then she asked me what I did for a living. I told her, and asked the same.
"I'm a jewel thief. I steal jewelry."
She smiled, and I knew she was playing with me. I smiled and took another drag from the awful clove cigarette I was smoking. Her friend that I gave my phone number to was leaving the club with a guy, and she stopped long enough to retrieve the napkin and give it to E. I explained that I gave that to her friend to give to her, and she put it in her purse.
She studied me, holding my chin in her hand, and moved my head for a left, and then a right profile.
"You have a strong face."
"Thanks."
We finished our cigarettes, and I followed her inside. We hooked up with her friends in a booth in the eating part of the club. The two girls we joined had a sleazy man on each side of them whispering in their ears.
After a while the sleazy men went away, and it was just the girls and I. My friend and the yellow haired woman stopped by, and then left. Eventually it was closing time and the girls offered to take me home.
The girls and I waited outside while E got her coat. I listened to them chit-chat about who was with who, and who was only a player. E came out and took my chin in her hand again, showing her friends my strong face, and then we left. As we were walking, the girls were saying how hungry they were, and started naming restaurants we could go to in the early morning.
We passed a pizza place, and there was a delivery guy standing in the doorway holding a pizza. E said that she would love a pizza. I bought the pizza, much to the delight of the girls. Each took a slice as I held the box open. E fed me since my hands were full. She held the slice and I would take a bite and keep walking.
We got to the car and E demanded to drive. I rode shotgun and handed the remaining pizza to the girls in back. We circled the block once to see who was leaving the club with who, and then headed down Mission Street toward where I live.
I told E that what would really impress me was if
she could drive the car with no hands steering only with her knees. She demonstrated she could do this, so I added that she needed to keep steering with her knees and act like she was taking a bong hit. She did that as well. I told her I was impressed.
The girls in the back began questioning me about what it was I did, and one asked me point blank if I made a lot of money. My response was rather crass and defensive, but it ended their questioning. E didn't seem put off by my reply, and pointed out a good looking man in a car. I said he was gay and she argued with me.
"Well, he must be bisexual then because I've slept with him."
Of course I hadn't, I just wanted to rattle her and it worked. She seemed confused, and the girls in the back started laughing, and would point out other men in cars asking if I'd slept with them. I kept saying yes because it upset E. She had an angry expression on her face and wouldn't look at me.
I eventually took pity on her, and assured her that I had not slept with those men. It seemed to put her at ease. She was thinking awfully hard, and had a quiet confusion about her that went unnoticed by the girls in the back who were laughing about something else by now.
We got to my neighborhood, and I had her pull to my corner to let me out.
"Call me." I told her.
She said she would, and sped away. I could see the girls in the back of the car laughing. They might have been laughing at me.
I didn't mind.
two
So, I live in El Barrio with the brown people.
Actually, there are other white people. The Fringe Folks. The screwed and tattooed. They wear odd clothes, and you wonder where it is they work. In my old life, I used to think I was better than these people. Not anymore, now they are my peers. I'm with them at the laundromat next door, or at the bus stop across from my complex.
One of the things I can't become used to in this neighborhood is the trash that's everywhere. I don't understand why the streets are littered with every object imaginable: used condoms, syringes, cereal boxes, newspapers, and dog crap. I have to watch where I'm walking so I don't step in the dog crap.
I like my neighbors. It's a sin in their religion to get divorced. In fact, it's not allowed. The roles they play are still very traditional. Dad works hard for little money, and Mom raises the kids and keeps house. I don't get it when white people say they are taking jobs. What jobs? Picking fruits and vegetables? Bussing tables and washing dishes? Laying tar roofs?
I know there are many brown people who own businesses, and who are in politics, and who are rich. But not where I live.
AMERIKKKA!
The above is written in mustard on the inside of a bus shelter, and as I'm reading it, a homeless man staggers by singing a Christmas carol. You would think that if you wanted your message to last you would write with something other than mustard. Oh well, I guess you use what you have.
I've been doing a lot of walking the last year. Sometimes late at night I walk by the area near my home where the prostitutes are. Not the ones you see downtown. Not the young ones that wear a lot of make up and sexy clothes.
The prostitutes near me are in bad shape. They are older. They look like they've been beat up many times. They look like the homeless women you see sometimes sitting on the sidewalk with a dirty child and a sign in their laps.
The prostitutes near me stand on the corner and sway and mumble to themselves. The tricks they turn are usually in doorways, or behind parked cars. Their pimps are young brown men. You can see them on the other side of the street with their hands deep in the pockets of their football parkas.
There's a place near this area that I think is a home for the prostitutes. It's basically a garage that's been converted. I've seen people go up and knock on the door. A woman's voice answers, and the conversation is done through the mail slot.
When I walk by late at night, it sounds like there are a lot of people inside. There is always music playing, so you can't really tell what's happening. The police have to know about this place. My guess is that this place is no big deal to them. Either that, or somebody is paying somebody off.
Not like that ever happens...
The Yuppies are moving in and I can't figure out why.
I personally know people who come from families with millions. I really do. And the weird thing is, they aren't pretentious at all. When they are hanging out with the friends of friends I know them through, they adapt to the surroundings, and will kick off their shoes and sit on the floor right next to the catbox.
The problem with the Yuppies is that they don't adapt. They stand out. They drive around the neighborhood in their expensive cars with the top down, talking on their cell phones, oblivious to the fact that no one wants them here.
There is also a lot of building taking place. Live/Work spaces are all the rage. Old warehouses are being converted for new habitation. More cement. I would like to see someone build another park around here, because there's only one that I know of, and that park is shameful.
The park near where I live is divided into sections. The outside perimeter, where the cement picnic tables and metal trashcans are, is where the homeless people sit or camp. There is an asphalt trail that weaves its way through them, that the dogwalkers from the nearby animal shelter follow.
I was in training to be a dogwalker, but it didn't last. Their way of introducing volunteers into their program was just like an animal behavior modification program. You had to keep coming back every week for a short amount of time to learn more about the system. It was way too controlling for me. I was able to interact with the dogs after my first session, and could handle even the wild ones on a leash.
The facility itself is quite impressive. It's well known for the high quality of care the animals receive. The dogs are kept in a neighboring kennel, and are assigned a number that equals the level of goodness, or ease they have interacting with people. The lower the number, the more well behaved they are. If I was a dog there I would be a six, somewhat in the middle, not unruly, but not submissive either.
The room's where the animals are kept are nicer than some apartments I've seen. They have furniture and TVs. The cats' TVs show videos of birds and squirrels. The dogs' TVs show videos of families and other dogs.
On my last day there I was visiting with the dogs, going into their rooms, and petting and talking to them. There was a two-year-old Cocker Spaniel and we bonded instantly. It was true love and it broke my heart. I wanted to carry him to the front desk, fill out the papers, and take him home. But I can't have a dog where I live. So I just spent as much time with him as I could. When I had to go on my walk I let him lick my face.
Fifteen minutes later, a very nice yellow woman adopted the Cocker Spaniel. I smiled at the people I was working with, and made small talk with them as we walked the dogs around the homeless people in the park. When my shift was over, I signed out, put my volunteer apron in the laundry basket, and knew I would not return.
The main section of the park is a soccer field surrounded by a high chain link fence. The field is torn and muddy. The brown people play soccer there. It's empty during the week, except for the occasional pick up game with neighborhood folks wearing street clothes.
On Saturday, the little league teams play. And on Sunday after church, the men play. Some spectators stand outside the fence drinking beer and listening to loud music from their car stereos. Sometimes, they set up a small grill in the parking lot and barbecue.
You know what I'd like to see on that field? A soccer game with the homeless people. I'm sure I'd have to be the one to put the wheels in motion. I would buy a soccer ball, and go some weekday afternoon. I'd have to take the day off work, but I think it would be worth it. I'd wear sporty clothes, maybe even buy a whistle and wear it around my neck, and approach each homeless person and convince them to play.
We would push their shopping carts on to the field, and put them along the sidelines, so they could keep an eye on their stuff, then divide into two teams. It might be too much fo
r them to run the entire field. We could always play using half of the field. It would be fun for them. Exercise is always good. I know they get a lot of exercise with all the walking they do, but still, they might like the feeling of competition. It might be hard to console the losers. Hopefully, there would be graceful winners.
Afterwards, I would go to the grocery store across the street, and buy a gallon of orange juice and paper cups. I would even buy the chocolate chip cookies they make in the bakery in the grocery store. I could give them a cookie and orange juice. I could even have certificates printed for them, like the ones you get at work for doing a good job. The thing is, they wouldn't have any use for a certificate of achievement. It's not like they have anywhere they could display them.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the country. My favorite places all involve the ocean. I like to go onto the piers and look at the water. The piers are for the ferries that bring non-city people to work.
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