11.18.2012

Water Cooler Talk From a Far Away Place

"Hey. Did you hear about Chuck from the mail room?" asked Dante as he stirred sugar into his coffee, his hand as dark as the cup's contents.

"No, what happened now?" Lamar replied, tightening the knot in his tie with the help of the mirror mounted over the kitchenette sink.

"He chased his girlfriend through their trailer park with a butcher knife and was arrested." Dante drew a sip of his brew, inserting a perfectly timed pause for dramatic effect, then continued. "The company let him go this morning when the newspaper hit certain desks." His voice was that of disappointment thinly veiled by false pity.

"That's the second honky we've fired this month 'cause of this type of shit," Lamar whispered scandalously.

"Oh, don't sound so disappointed," Dante accused in his booming baritone. "These people are their own worst enemies. White-on-white crime is higher than it's ever been. My wife wants to sell the house because of the recent influx of crackers."

Both black gentlemen looked around the break room to establish that it was safe to continue speaking freely. Such language wasn't encouraged by corporate. When the walls were real instead of cubicles the truth often came out. There had to be a time to vent. Being an equal opportunity employer was one thing, but to condone such a lifestyle for the sake of contrived fairness seemed insane. What company could afford such folly?

"Be easy, brother. Don't go throwing your bigotry around here. I have a lot of white friends."

"And by that you mean you want to pound out Charlene, that dainty little butter bean that winks at you while she pushes her broom down the hallway. If her body was any straighter they'd have Hank in maintenance run the flag up it every morning instead of the pole out front. Jesus, Lamar. I'm no racist, but statistics don't lie. And don't you remember how close they came to costing us that labor contract with the Christmas party fiasco?"

Lamar tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile before answering.

"It's not their fault they can't dance, Dante. Not everyone is born with rhythm. The playing field's not level."

"Listen to you, man. You sound like a bleeding-heart liberal or something. They shouldn't have taken such full advantage of the open bar if they knew it would get ugly. Those people can't resist their Pabst Blue Ribbon, though. They almost ruined it for all of us. Thankfully Jamal understands that they can't help themselves-- a little too much, if you ask me. The only reason he promoted Scott was because..."

"Now you stop right there," Lamar interjected. "Scott and I went to high school together. He was always one of the good ones. In gym class he didn't even bother trying to shoot the ball, he'd pass it right to one of us who could sink a basket. That's being a team player, and it's a trait that's carried on into his career. Scott deserved that raise whether you like it or not."

Lamar flicked his wrist toward the floor in a tic that only showed itself when he needed to make a point. The heavy links of his gold watch jumped and landed again, their settling sound punctuating his statement.

"Try telling that to my kids when they're ready for college. Lord knows I can't afford to send all of them to private schools. At least one may have to go to a state university, unless they get scholarships. Do you know how hard it is for black kids to get scholarships in this day and age? It seems if a white boy can spell his name right some government agency wants to throw our hard-earned tax dollars his way to send him off for a degree he'll never use. Two semesters go by and he's right back on the streets selling meth anyway, only now with a little more chemistry experience for his crank-cooking activities courtesy of hard-working Niggas like you and me. Doesn't it turn ya' muhfuckin' stomach?"

A new presence was felt in the room, but Dante was not to be slowed.

"And the way they can't pry themselves from their damn televisions Sunday night, and then be talkin' 'bout that shit all Monday. Or if they lazy asses finally figure out how to cook sumpin' decent and feel the need to take pictures of it to show all they friends. Or how 'bout when..."

"Excuse me, Mr. Jackson, but I find this conversation quite..."

"Goddammit, Leroy! You get yo' ashy ass up outta here before I beat you upside the haid with that 'Uncle Tom of the Year' trophy the comp'ny gave you."

Lamar shrugged his shoulders at quiet old Leroy Jefferson and turned back to an enraged Dante, who would now be visibly red had there not been so much melanin in his skin. It was all a necessary evil. A man could only take so much before feeling like he was being used by a system that abandoned him decades ago. The country was going down the tubes, partially due to the recent trend of giving hand-outs to people who didn't want to work, some of them being white. It was enough to anger any God-fearing, self-respecting, taxpaying citizen like Dante Jackson. Lamar could sympathize. It was, as Dante often said, enough to drive a Nigga crazy.


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