Malika

 

In 1979 I was 22, living in Harlem working as a dishwasher, it was a strange time, a period when disco and cocaine boomed; I'm up for a few lines anytime, but fuck disco.  

I was the only White guy working at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food joint, and I began to feel accepted when my Black coworkers called me honky, or rabbit. The word nigga was persistently bandied around the kitchen, by everyone except me.

My wages were less than minimum wage, $2.00 an hour cash, tax-free. I never have paid taxes since, because the US Government fucks the middle class and the rich don't pay nothin.

I worked At Amy Ruth's from 9 AM till 5, 6 days a week; the staff was served soul food at a large metal table in the kitchen, I loved it and was gaga for sweet potato pie. 

After work, I'd hit Harlem bars; The Red Roaster, Jumbo's, Big Time, and others. I had a hard-on for Black girls.

Often, I'd be the only White guy in the bar; intuitively knowing to speak softly and be mannerly. At times, you'd see a White guy flashing cash at the bar, a big mistake because he'd get mugged outside. 

Sometimes dead drunk White dudes would hit on Black girls who didn't want the attention; getting their asses kicked; unless you're a Chuck Norris, the Black dude wins every time.

One night at Jumbo's I played my cards right, prudently chatting up an Ebony gal named Malika, a Colombia law student with short hair, wearing 60s-style black glasses, and a hot dress. Tulip wasn't the sexiest gal in the bar, but she had charisma.   

I spent a week's pay on 7 & 7s, then around 11 Milka says, 

Henry, you're sweet boy, I like you, let's go to your place.

wow sure!

I lived in a cheap room at Wilson Men's Club, no women allowed so I lied, 

ah, Tulip, I live at my grandmother's. She's a no-nonsense Catholic virgin who is racist.

Tulip laughs saying,

do Black people intimidate her? 

I suppose, 

okay, Henry, we'll go to my place, I live with my parents they don't like White folks. 

We take a bus to Central Harlem passing the Apollo Theater, Moshe's Deli, and Sam Gluck's Shoes,

Tulip says excitedly, 

I love Moshe's Deli, blintzes, and matzah ball soup, and I say, 

maybe you're a Black Jew, 

We chuckle, feeling this could become a regular thing.

Exiting the bus at 357th Street, we walk a short distance to Tulip's family apartment, a brick 3-story walk-up. She unlocks the front door and we amble up 2 flights of stairs to her family flat, then before going inside she puts her forefinger to her mouth, whispering,  

shush,

Taking off our shoes we tip-toe to her room, there's a desk piled high with law books, and the curtains, wallpaper, and bedspread are flowered. 

We strip and caress on the bed, masturbating; 69, doggy style, missionary, mutely at first, then so wildly that the bed board hammers the wall.

Alerted by a loud knock on the door then illegal entry, her parents march into the bedroom, they're shocked by what they see, and her mother wails, 

what are you doin with that White boy, girl? 

Then, Malika's daddy shows with a shotgun, aiming it in my direction. 

In  boxer shorts, I dive head first through an open window, landing on the fire escape, hustling to the sidewalk, and catching a bus home. 

On the bus in my underwear none of the riders batted an eye, New Yorkers have seen it all.

The following day I'm washing dishes at Amy Ruth’s Soul Food and Malika walks in the kitchen, I ask,

how'd ya know where I work? 

You told me, Henry, I don't care, I love you, but I want you to better yourself.

I will baby, I love you too.

Cantinflas, the Genderqueer, & Jesus

Somewhere between Abilene and El Paso, goin Southwest in my 73 Polaris wagon, I exit at a speck on the map, Salt Flat City, parkin at a Tex Mex joint, Pedro’s Cafe. 

Inside, I sit at the counter, looking over the menu.

The waitress is genderqueer with a florescent Cleopatra wig on, saying to me, 

howdy handsome, do you like Tex-Mex food? Honey, and if you all is game, I give the best head in Texas.

No thanks, sweetie, I'm impotent, I'll have el especial, keep the coffee common, cariña.

In due course, I'm served by Miss Brittany CoxXx, ha ah; chicken quesadillas, cheesy baked burritos, tamales, Tex-Mex  with native aroma, delicioso.

By 9PM, I'm on my way to the El Paso border crossing, it’s closed, I do a U-turn and drive to Gala National Forest, parkin, grabbin my sleeping bag, finding a bushy area, laying it on a bed of pine; on my back lookin up at the sky, tunin into the Earth Mother and da stars above; 

Like a Cowboy in the Boat of Ra.

That morning at 6AM, I pack up the wagon sucking down 3 Red Bulls like there's no tomorrow, hyper-buzzed, drivin' to the El Paso border crossing, stoppin my car at the checkpoint, showing the Mexican agent, who resembles Cantinflas, my passport, and car insurance, he's indifferent, smirking and sayin,  

Don't get the clap, Gringo.

 

Going south to Torreón, Mexico, is 7 hours from El Paso, halfway to Mexico City. , rockin' to Ranchera and Mariachi music on the radio. 

At Chihuahua, I pull into a liquor store, buying 2 pints of mescal, a Zippo lighter, and ultra-thin rolling papers.

Driving out of town on Avenida Bolívar I see a Black cowboy standing on the sidewalk, pimpin' somethin, maybe himself, I ask,  

you got any weed, man?

Sure gringo, I got quarter ounces of Diesel Gold for 1000 pesos, 

let me smell some, 

he opens a Ziploc bag, and I take a whiff; the shit’s pungent, so I hand over a 1000 Peso note. Driving into an alley I roll a few.

Driving 45 Southeast, I light a joint, alternating tokes with swigs of mescal, turning up the radio; the Mariachi this time, it's archetypal, it's Mexican folklore the band sings, 

Clap it, clap it, make it loud

Strike it, strike it, with your proud

Broken heart just made me strong

The music won't let me down

C'mon, c'mon, clap it now

Move it, move it, till you drown

Rise your head with the liberation

I won't let you down

By dark I can see the lights of  Zacatecas on the horizon, weary I turn into Parque Nacional Sierra de Órganos; no one is there, not even a watchman.

I lay a sleeping bag on the rooftop of the wagon, counting stars and fading out.

Up early,  I drive into Santana Ciudad buyin half a dozen bolillo

I'm no linguistic and Mexican might as well be Swahili 

In 3 hours, I’m in Mexico City, passing grimy brick buildings, exhaling soul shadows that shake me to the bone. 

In the comunity of Tepetos, a dicey area, I notice a rusted neon sign at the end of an alley, El Last Exit.

I park on Calle Juarez and walk to it, inside I see a big gal in a metal cage, who asks,

do you want a woman gringo? 

Señora, I want to book monthly,

esta bien señor, 2000 pesos and a 500 peso deposit. 

I walk to room 107, unlocking the door. There's a made-up double bed, a hot plate, and a cold-water WC. It's not a good room, it's akin to the dumps young Bukowski lived in. 

Horny to get a taste of the city, I quickly ditch the room.

Outside it smells like a septic tank, I duck into Rico's Cantina. It's dark inside, smelling like stale beer. The hard-drinkin' Mexicans eyeball me, el camarero comes close face to face, his breath is awful, I order, 

let see now, I'd like a shot of top shelf Tequila and a Corona Extra, 

The greaser grabs a machete from under the bar, slamming it on the counter like Noriega like Noriega or Pablo EEscobar 

I belt out;

fuck you, greaser,

running to the safty of  Saint Christofer's Church, buying a red rose from a lady dressed in black; a thorn pricks my finger, and it drips blood. 

Catching my breath, I kneel in the 2nd pew, looking over the crucifix on the sanctuary wall. 

I see Jesus and his face is in motion, it's the color of  Silly Putty, He moves his lips, speaking;

Henry, is there something you want to tell confess? 

May I share a story, 

yes, my son, 

I met a Gypsy kid on a bus goin from Greece to Albania, and he told me a story;

Romani Folklore has it that when You were crucified, a Gypsy stole the holy nails from Your wooden cross, and You were so grateful You told him in the future the Romani people could loot and plunder sin free, Jesus says, 

Yes, son, it’s a faithful tale.

He looks at me earnestly saying, 

Henry, in the coming months human beings will be raised, entering the Kingdom of God, Eternal life, are you ready to skyrocket into the Heavens my son? 

Yes, ah Jesus, it sounds, well, breathtaking, but I'll miss mescal, tamales, and pussy.

Without warning, I wake up in the 2nd pew, feelin horny and wantin a drink. 

I never had another religious experience, which was fine by me.

Back at La Exit, I ask the mamasan to send a woman, fresh orange juice, ice, and a bottle of tequila to my room.

After partying through the night, things felt right again

Da Bum's Final Exit, (a poem)

Prostrate on a rusty port 

& piss-defiled  mattress 

At the Suicide Hotel

A bum in the land of 

Nod as a prurient rat

Grazes on his calf &

Gore & pus plops, plops &

Seeps downward into a

Ochre pool of blood to

Sullen ceramic squares 

Oozing a nasty redolence

& by & by da bum goes the

Way of all ghostly flesh as

His ticker’s nipped in the bud

Da bum’s innermost self bee-

Lines to da abode of da dead 

& da Gods deem him debauched.  

In the Divine Comedy Dante describes Hell as an inverted cone descending into 9 shrinking fdarings; finally reaching the flaming corp of the earth. 

The nine circles of hell in Dante's Inferno are Limbo, Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Anger, Heresy, Violence, Fraud, and Treachery. Each circle serves as a punishment and a reflection of the grave sins people committed during their time on earth.

Hence, the bum drowns over and over again in an ocean of whiskey. Purged, the bum's soul dehydrates into desert dust, goin nowhere, way gone man.