Little White Lies

by Brianna Baker

  Meanwhile, I struggled to imagine what it must be like to be raising a teenager. I figured it had to be some kind of nightmare—even if you are rich enough to have a house in Bermuda next to Oprah’s. So I looked out across the turquoise water and said, “Man, life sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Esther let out a squeak of amusement.

  Douglas played along. “Yeah, this is pretty horrible. Sorry to drag you guys out here.”

  Alex allowed herself to chuckle. “If I have to sit through one more of these crummy sunsets …”

  “Ha. I know. And that gross water! Please don’t make us go in there again.” I slurped down a mouthful of ceviche, then self-consciously dabbed at my chin with my napkin. “Seriously, though, I can definitely see why Bloomberg spent every single weekend out here while he was mayor.”

  Esther leaned slightly toward Alex and me. “In case you were wondering, no, we did not name our son after Michael Bloomberg.”

  Oddly, I just had been wondering exactly that. I stopped myself from expressing relief at sparing their kid the specter of the Undisputed King of Stop-and-Frisk. Also, Alex was reading my mind; she hit me with a glare before I could open my mouth.

  “It must be weird going back and forth between here and the city, especially with Mike—your Mike, I mean,” I said. I was riding a nice rum-and-ceviche buzz and was thinking aloud. “Out here, it’s like paradise. You know your kid is safe. I mean, aside from the Bermuda Triangle*. But otherwise you’ve got literally nothing to worry about.”

  “Except property taxes,” Alex muttered.

  Esther nodded thoughtfully. “We do worry. Of course our son is a very sensible young man, but we’ve also taught him the differences between the system and the individuals who are charged with enforcing the system. Between the government and those who represent it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I smirked. “And what are those differences?”

  Alex kicked my leg—hard—under the table.

  Esther turned to her husband.

  “Systems are flawed just like people are, Karl,” Douglas offered. “Both are capable of change, but it never comes easy. Authority figures—whether they’re teachers, police officers, or security guards, even parents—must be respected. Not that they can’t be challenged. But they must be respected above all for the sake of peace and order. All too frequently for the sake of self-preservation. Even when they are wrong, even if they have not earned or do not deserve your respect.”

  I blinked. “Heavy.”

  Alex tilted her head just enough to silently criticize, Heavy? That’s the best you’ve got?

  “But those are heat-of-the-moment rules, at least to some degree,” Douglas elaborated. “Respect for authority is a baseline expectation. And it should always be the default when interacting with people in their official capacities. That’s true no matter what color or race you are.”

  “That’s not to say you need to hold back,” Esther clarified. “It’s crucial to express your opinions and beliefs when you’re interacting with these same people in a social situation. Over a plate of food, over a drink, you can and should speak your mind—whether it’s to your teacher, your preacher, or the mayor. As long as you conduct yourself in a respectful manner.”

  “And that’s one way you can influence individuals to change,” Douglas added. “Or at the very least, express your views and seek to broaden your outlook through friendly discourse. Of course, there are many ways to foment change within individuals … persuasive writing and debate, conscious artistic expression, progressive social media campaigns.”

  Wow, I thought. Is this how billionaires talk over drinks? I could practically see the ellipses floating through their air to punctuate his thesis.

  “That’s cool.” I said. I ignored another kick under the table from Alex. “So how do you change the system? And please don’t tell me by voting. Because I did vote—for Obama. Twice!”

  “Well, Karl, I’m glad to hear that. We voted for him, too.” Douglas chuckled and glanced at Esther. “We’ve also been fortunate to be able to converse with the Obamas over plates of food, much like we are doing right now.”

  I looked around, exaggerating my movements as if searching for the President and First Lady.

  “Don’t hold your breath, Karl,” Douglas said with a smile.

  “We do realize,” Esther said, “that most people who struggle through this world never get to experience such a wonderful escape as this.”

  “They just stay stuck in the muck,” Alex surmised bluntly.

  In New York City, stop-and-frisk still goes on, even under our new mayor and, yes, the father of a boy with a large Afro, Bill de Blasio. Stop-and-frisk has other names and variations in other cities and towns—rollouts, investigatory stops, um … racial profiling—and the practice is thriving. Unarmed black men are being beaten and shot by the police with alarming frequency.

  The United States is the world leader in incarceration, with more than two million citizens behind bars—a five-hundred-percent increase over the last forty years. The US now imprisons a larger percentage of its population than Russia or China. Black men are six times more likely to be incarcerated than white men, and Hispanic men are two and a half times more likely. For black men in their thirties, one in ten is in prison or jail on any given day.

  Okay, enough bad news. I realize that I’m beginning to sound like a cranky old man. Hey, at least I can sleep at night knowing that incarcerated youth won’t be targeted and mined by the Skools with bogus vouchers and plans for global reeducation. The rum helps, too.

  Don’t even get me started on Obama. I can’t believe I used to like that guy! (Oh, well, he’s gotta be better than McCain* or Romney*. And I guess if he’s friends with the Corneliuses, then he can’t be all bad.) And climate change? Fugeddaboudit! But seriously, enough. We all know that the world has gone to shit. And yes, cranky people over the age of thirty have probably been saying the same thing for the past five thousand years, at least. So what are we going to do about it?

  The truth is, in all seriousness, I honestly don’t know.

  But I think what Coretta said in her impromptu speech at the end of the first and final episode of Takin’ U to Skool is a good place to start: seek and empower truth and justice; recognize and oppose injustice and deception.

  Beyond that, you tell me:

  What are we going to do?

  APPENDIX 1: KARL’S CULTURAL REFERENCES

  Beastie Boys (1981–2012) one of the greatest rap groups of all time.

  Bermuda Triangle A weird zone in the Atlantic Ocean where, legend has it, countless ships and planes have disappeared—mysteriously and without a trace. The Bermuda Triangle was big in the ’70s, even though most of the disappearances were said to have occurred decades before.

  Birdman (1969–) You know who Lil Wayne is, but you don’t know who Birdman is?? Not to be confused with the Academy Award–winning film Birdman, or the overly tattooed Caucasian NBA star also known as Birdman, this Birdman is the overly tattooed rapper—aka Baby—who cofounded Cash Money Records, and is reported to be worth well over a hundred million dollars. Lil Wayne—who once considered Baby his father figure (Birdman signed Lil Wayne when he was only twelve years old, and the two of them once released an album titled Like Father Like Son)—filed suit against Cash Money Records for some fifty-one million in monies due.

  Johnny Cash (1932–2003) The Man in Black. Shot a man in Memphis just to watch him die. Or so the song goes. One of the heaviest dudes of the twentieth century. No irreverent Appendix entry will do Johnny Cash justice. Forget whatever preconceived ideas you may have about country music and seek out this man’s recordings.

  CIA The Central Intelligence Agency. An inaccurately named organization (also the wrong word). Probably best to leave it at that. I’m already on enough watch lists.

  Pink Floyd (1965–1994; 2013–2014) was not a man but a band. I can’t say I’m much of a fan. According to some folks, the band went downhill after the
weird older dude, Syd Barrett, left in 1968. And then there’s been a bunch of weird stuff between the two other main guys, I think. They did have some cool album covers. And “Another Brick in the Wall” was my favorite song when I was in eighth grade. I use the song “Money” as a ringtone on my R$$P because it’s called “Money.”

  Errol Flynn (1909–1959) was an actor, adventurer, playboy, and scalawag who came and went before my time. I haven’t seen his films, but he’s been on my mind since I read his highly entertaining autobiography My Wicked, Wicked Ways. Swagger to the fullest. My treacly lilt does him no justice.

  Killer Mike (1975–) Do you kids remember the rap group Outkast? Well, way back in 2004, Killer Mike was the Strong Man in that circus-themed video for “The Whole World,” spitting that relentless verse while holding an old jalopy above his head. And now the future of non-bullshit rap music appears to be resting on his shoulders. You might know Killer Mike as a spokesman for his community who has appeared on CNN and other news outlets, or as the heftier half of the two-man rap supergroup Run the Jewels, along with the great El Producto aka El-P.

  Lil Wayne (1982–) Of course you know who Lil Wayne is.

  John McCain (1936–) An old man who ran for president in 2008 and chose an Alaskan husky as his running mate. Back then Matt Taibbi wrote a profile about the old man called “Make-Believe Maverick” for Rolling Stone magazine. I highly recommend it.

  The Meters (1965–1977; 1989–) are, after Louis Armstrong, arguably the greatest musical force to ever come from New Orleans. Armstrong played jazz. The Meters play funk.

  Barney Miller A 1970s sitcom that took place in a fictional Greenwich Village NYPD precinct. Hal Linden plays the eponymous affable captain in charge of a staff of colorful detectives representing a range of ethnicities, but sorry, no women. And damn, they got a funky-ass theme song!

  “Two Tickets to Paradise” A song by Eddie Money, the haggard and bloated rocker you see before you in 2013—in the double-breasted sport jacket, necklace over a turtleneck sweater, wheezing into the saxophone—was a beautiful young man who had it all in 1979. Born Edward Mahoney to a family of NYC cops, Eddie ditched the police academy, changed his last name to Money, and set out for California to pursue his dream: sex, drugs, and rock and roll. According to Wikipedia, rock impresario Bill Graham once said, “Eddie Money has it all … Not only can he sing, write, and play, but he is a natural performer.” The reason I use his cheeseball song as a ringtone on F$$P? The man’s name is Money!

  Huey P. Newton (1942–1989) Cofounder of the Black Panther Party.

  Night Court A 1980s sitcom that took place in a Manhattan courtroom during the night shift. I’ve just learned from Wikipedia that the show’s creator, Reinhold Weege, also worked on Barney Miller. The young, wacky judge is played by actor-magician Harry Anderson. Not much point in IMDB-ing that guy or, frankly, watching the show, but I do recommend checking out their theme song. Maybe not as funky as Barney Miller, but funky nonetheless. And the show’s cast actually includes more than one female character.

  Barack Obama (1961–) I’m not sure we need an entry in this Appendix for the forty-fourth President of the United States, Barack Hussein Obama. But now that I’ve written it, I can’t stop staring at his amazing name. I suggest you try it. Right now. Stare at his name: Barack Hussein Obama.

  Peter Luger Steakhouse (1887–) One of Brooklyn’s most ancient and important institutions. The steak is mouthwatering, the bread basket is excellent, their German home fries are crunchy and delicious, but everything else kind of sucks … except the shrimp cocktail, which is decent but unremarkable. The waiters are generally gruff if not outright rude, the ambiance is stark, and the clientele skews heavily toward the white male patriarchy.

  The Peter O’Toole Society takes its name from an informal association of people with double-penis names, such as Peter O’Toole, Jimmy Johnson, Woody Johnson … You get the picture: lots of Johnsons. We were in college and not terribly mature.

  Reinsurance The reinsurance industry consists of insurance companies that insure other insurance companies. If you want to make lots of money and if the idea of living in Bermuda appeals to you, reinsurance is a field you may wish to pursue.

  Trent Reznor (1965–) As a young man, I enjoyed his creepy-sexy, skin-crawling music videos and some of his angsty, light-industrial jams. He has since emerged as a bona fide scorer of films—some say his music saved the movie The Social Network.

  Condoleezza Rice (1954–) A professor at Stanford University and gifted pianist, Condoleezza Rice was National Security Advisor under President George W. Bush at the time of the 9/11 attacks. She became Secretary of State in 2005, and it was later revealed that longtime boss of Libya, Muammar Gaddafi (who deserves his own Appendix entry but isn’t getting one), had a huge crush on her.

  Mitt Romney (1947–) A rich man who ran for president in 2012. Romney once transported Seamus, his family’s (incontinent) Irish Setter, on a six-hundred-fifty-mile journey on top of his Chevy Caprice station wagon. Here’s a fun Internet search: “Romney who let the dogs out.”

  Star and Buc Wild (Troi Torain: 1964–; Timothy Joseph: 1979–) Troi Torain aka Star founded the seminal magazine Around the Way Connections, served as a controversial and embattled hip-hop radio host, and authored Objective Hate. In 1995, he created an alter ego named Buc Wild to pen a monthly column in The Source back when the magazine was cool, sort of. Called “Reality Check,” the column was the one voice of dissent in an otherwise ass-kissing morass of industry hype. The alter ego later came to life in the form of Star’s younger half-brother, Timothy Joseph. Their subsequent media triumphs and misadventures are too numerous to mention here. I’m sure they’re still hating away on the Internet somewhere …

  Three Loco (2011–) A laugh-rap supergroup that consists of Dirt Nasty, Andy Milonakis, and Riff Raff.

  Trading Places A 1983 movie starring Eddie Murphy, Dan Ackroyd, and Jamie Lee Curtis; directed by John Landis.

  Alan Turing (1912–1954) This man’s life and contribution to science defy the confines of this Appendix entry. Start by looking him up on Wikipedia, and go from there. Or see The Imitation Game.

  John Varvatos (1955–) I don’t know much about John Varvatos except he took over the old CBGB for his flagship store and also sells vintage stereo components there. Pretty cool, I guess. Evidently the man loves rock and roll. He also manages to sell worn-out-looking T-shirts for $228, so he must be a damn genius.

  APPENDIX 2: THE BEYONCÉ REVIEW (A LENGTHY EXCERPT)

  Pretty Hurts

  Another one of her ambiguously set period pieces. Is it the ’70s? The ’80s? The ’90s? (So glad we learned about anachronisms in English class! Comes in handy with Beyoncé videos.) Bey shows us the ugly side of beauty. Pains and pressures of being a woman in this superficial society. Backstage at the beauty contest, and it ain’t pretty. Or if it is, it’s a painful pretty. Waist cinching, booty spritzing, and teeth whitening. Alone at home wearing bunny ears and “gangsta” socks. Fat-shaming black albino choreographer. Wha? Beyoncé needs to slim down? I don’t think so! Singing audition. White judges sitting in shadows. The beauty contest emcee is a very familiar-looking old white man in a tux jacket made of silver rubber.

  Loneliness, despair, alienation.

  Sisters throwing shade. Fights over hair dryers. Diet pills, bulimia, Botox, plastic surgery, spray tanning, damaged roots. Working out in clunky shoes on outdated home exercise equipment.

  Thankfully a trophy-smashing fantasy sequence provides some release from this bleak view of the young and beautiful!

  When the pageant is won by an emaciated freak whose face can only be described as otherworldly (and who appears to be the only contestant of color with lighter skin than Beyoncé?), Bey’s character appears relieved. Yes, I must remind myself this isn’t Beyoncé in this video; she is portraying a character. Acting. Beyoncé is not Miss Third Ward; that’s just the character she’s playing.

  Beauty shot of Bey
with super short hair and makeup expertly applied to give the illusion of no makeup.

  We finish with adorable (and seemingly authentic) video clip of Bey as a little girl accepting an award for “female pop vocalist,” no doubt at a beauty pageant.

  The Takeaway: it sucks to be beautiful.

  Haunted

  Okay it’s getting creepy in here. Creepy TV monitors. Creepy 1950s domestic scenes with creepy Caucasian mannequin family. Ambiguous medical equipment. Grotesque opulence. A fire flashes alive in the fireplace and the video’s title appears on the grainy screen of an ancient TV set: HAUNTED.

  Oh, look! It’s Beyoncé and her luggage in a cute little green convertible from some older, more glamorous era. She’s driving along a winding coastal road to arrive at an opulent mansion. Uh-oh, I bet this is where all that creepy stuff is going on. No, wait, that’s not her sexy black butler lighting her cigarette; he’s a bellhop, and this is a hotel.

  Bey takes one luscious drag and drops the cigarette to the marble floor, puts it out with the sole of her very expensive shoe, then makes her way up the winding stairs. With short platinum locks pasted to her head in dramatic waves like a rich white lesbian from the 1920s, she’s got an elegant black pantsuit to match. Her complexion is a shade lighter than Madonna’s. She makes her way through the hotel corridors, glancing into each room to glimpse surreal scenes that vary in degrees of creepiness. The first room offers a relatively innocent tableau of a young man wearing a letterman’s jacket and a very large watch, getting his hair did by a sultry young woman, as Beyoncé’s face looks on from the flatscreen TV behind them. She continues down the hallway and finally starts singing this creepy song. I mean, the Beyoncé on the TV screen sings. The 1920s lesbian Beyoncé walks silently through the halls.