“Bzeerda Bzeerda five thirty-one.”
This was a voice over a radio.
“Bzeerda echo charlie delta bravo motherfucker Jesus cow is anyone home?”
I pick up the radio, from a desk near admitting.
“Bzeerda Bzeerda seven eighty-eight on a five thirty-one all over.”
“Bzeerda I’ve got a four eighty-three in Negra territory with eleven twenty-twos truck-mounted aside a Boy Scout encampment near the entrance you know where the highway goes in a circle?”
“Say what? Bzeerda I gotta get you someone else. I’m not even dispatch.”
I place the radio gingerly down on its cradle, looking around, hoping no one will see. Sneaking over to admitting, looking at the asses of Latino nurses working there, thinking myself inside their dresses flapping orange/pink I love that color mildly. Black hair—
“Hey!”
“What, Linda?”
“Don’t touch me! Tha’s my hair. I did it that way this morning. It’s on purpose. You know? This is my job! I’m working here. Can’t you go to your wife or something?”
“Wife?!” I say. “What would my wife have to do with anything. Am I proposing to marry you? To leave my wife? Get me an eight thirty-one in five thirty-five.”
“What is a five thirty-five? I know eight thirty-one but not five thirty-five.”
“Five thirty-five is lickety split!”
I reach my hand out to her bottom and pull it back at the last second. The girl sitting next to her sees, rolls her eyes. I imagine she does that Latino lip smack thing—I love that, I love that lip smack thing.
I could tell you I cruised through the station, tossing the ole morals this way and that. I could tell you I smacked Latino asses and fingered Black pussies from its front to its back. Could tell you the next day I was fired for sexual harassment and laid to rest will full pension and a backyard full of alcoholics to be my buds until I croaked at 53. Survived by a daughter, a wife, an old-ass cop car whose light I shine on couples fucking in the side streets near the cemetery when I’m off duty and definitely not supposed to be snooping on some young Carolina riding her boy, looking to the left side, covering her eyes with hair and a casual hand as if to say, Are you looking at me?
Oh, Caroline. Oh girl with perfect body, getting out of a hot tub when I was young somewhere back in Dallas when my dick was still long and my balls were still short, when my cock got hard on a pin drop and her hand was never quite there. Never quite on it, never quite with me. She didn’t want to sit on my lap. That’s Caroline, standing before me, half my height, her head right at my cock, wanting to take me in, to unwrap me and put me in her like a sucker. Her body, covered in tiny droplets, getting into the tub. I don’t remember her swimsuit. In fact, the memory’s so edited in my mind that she’s naked in my main version and I have to go through quite the onion peeling to get to where she’s clad in something decent, something at least that covers the split between her legs. Oh, Carolina, don’t you cry for me. With a something on her handle and a banjo on her knee. Do I cry for the daughters of the Old Republic? Make myself a slave to my masters—we all say yes to someone. Do I release myself from that servitude, sailing back to Africa under Black skies with the kraken in the belly of the beast—Bermuda looming. Deadly triangles. Murder weapons placed at the side of every meal. Months aboard a slave ship—it sounds kind of family to me! Time with the kids, time away from technology, plenty of entertainment coming out of that little Black prayer book—from your little Black medical book! From your little Black book, is right. Carolina has a little Black book. Hers contains the prayers not only of our God but of the pagan gods of all get out, the pagan hell of multiple partners (excluding the Mormons, who we like) all that 100-virgin bullshit from the Mossads of the world (thinking that is a Muslim organization)—not knowing anything really except how to pronounce certain words, not really how to spell, think, or use logic. I am a beast, I know.
But don’t you think I’m uncultured. I read the paper (mostly Facebook). Go out to dinner (to Hooters with my wife). Go to plays (watch TV—streaming video—Duck Dynasty or American Pickers). Go to cultural events (the Dayton air show, which has pretty much become a death-a-year free-for-all maniac convention, but which I still like). And we go to church—I might have mentioned. I just don’t want you to think that because I hate Black people, and because that basically defines me as a person, that I’m ignorant or uneducated. I went to college. All us kids did. My sisters, the funny one and the smart one. And my other sister, the pretty one. I always like to think that among those markers, one was missing (me). That I would be the handsome one. That was the word we used back then. But, you know, that I would be smart looking. The implication here is that I’m dumb. But calling us the pretty one, the funny one, the smart one, and the dumb one—doesn’t work. Even though it really should.
I’m the loud one. I’m the sturdy one. I was tall from the time I was a kid. I played football but I didn’t really think about it. That’s the point. For some of you it would be like you get to play football or not. For me it was understood I would do it, we played in the yard, and then we played in the field at school. It was nice community—a four-syllable word which a lot of you have not heard nowadays.
Community.
We used to have these, across this country. Ten-block areas within which was a school, a church, a grocery store, and a bunch of houses. There were no Black kids in my high school—know that about me. I grew up segregated, and I’m glad for it. We didn’t have Niggar violence in my school. Fights? Yes. Fights that got you killed? No. Guns? We keep our guns to protect our daughter’s precious little pocket. That’s her pocket and aside from me talking to you about it for the purposes of this book it’s a private pocket. Perfect. Private. Pocket. That’s what the Nigras want. The want the White women. Your daughters. Your wives. Lock them bitches up and get with me in the streets killin’ tha Negras. This is my advice to you, man! The Niggar people are a curse! They’re not even people! They lived the the jungles, man. We brought them here. They hold a subservient mind! What kind of people just sat around while the White man loaded ‘em up on boats?? Sat around throughout slavery? What kind of spiritless animal does that? A vermin? I’m serious—a vermin?? What kind of gnat? And now we release them and look at them. Atlanta. Houston, now. Niggars everywhere. And we, the Whites, are suffering because we, the Whites, are too forgiving. We’ve taken that part of the Lord’s word too seriously. Because that’s the part where we become enablers. Where we enable the Dark races to try to succeed in a society in which they will never succeed.
Poor whites are part of the problem, too. People like my sister. The smart one. Who could make a lot more money but they choose not to. Her son. Living with us at one point after changing his name to some Inhesion Junky doing drugs trying to kill himself lounging at my sister’s house I told them you need to get him out of here I’m going to be coming to town more often to visit my mom and this has to be taken care of before I get back. Just told ‘em that straight out. Told ‘em with the words, “Niggar pussy”—used those words. Made a real impression, I’m sure. This guy is out of a job he says he can’t do work for my company ‘cause it’d be for less of a rate than he normally makes so he’d basically be doing us a favor—this is a man without a job! It’s by choice! He thinks he’s gonna come to my neighborhood—my house—and suggest I pay for his meals? That Nug can die in an alleyway. Rot. No jokes about how that’s my nephew and Jesus wouldn’t recommend me telling him to rot in an alleyway. No jokes about that’s my family and aren’t I supposed to be the party of family—right? No jokes about that. Those things are subtle kinks in the weave of my otherwise logical world. But every logic deserves a loophole—every logic deserves a magical tone.
If you follow me (as you are by reading) down my logical hole, through my Alice’s tumble, you are sure to find yourself someplace you never imagined. That’s how I am, right now. I am still in the police station. It is still night. Sheth Jones is still in an interrogation room and Mrs Smith is waiting quietly in the waiting room. I have slapped the ass of the Latino admitting officer, repeatedly (in my imagination) so it is getting red. My physical location is unknown, except to everyone but me. But I am trying to get out, I just might need some medical attention.