DONL 3
When I pulled up in front of Dumaine after ripping out the old galvanized plumbing pipes under and inside the Rocheblave house, I saw Van across the street washing Royalston's (Mama D's former companion) truck. I was negotiating my truck around the sink hole by the curb and Van was motioning me to park across the street behind Royalston's truck so he could wash mine afterwards. He does me for five bucks which is half the going rate. I'm not really looking for a wash so I just wave at him and exit the vehicle.
He pauses from his work to cross over and talk to me--touch bases as it were--about the Rocheblave job, what did I do today, and will I be needing his help tomorrow. I tell him I'm just piddling around over there, and that I'm hoping to run into Carl--my preferred electrician--on the job in the next few days so I can convince him to wire the house, but before that get me hooked up with temporary electricity so I can get some power tools running, rip out and replace a couple of floors, replace a rafter and a joist or two, do a little bracing here and there, replace the roof, and get whatever I need to get done before begging my preferred plumber to find the time to do my plumbing rough in for one bath, a kitchen, a washer/dryer hookup, and a gas water heater. Van's cool with that but he's really bored over here on Dumaine and needs something constructive to do so please let him know when I need some more help. I told him I would, and gave him an ice cold Budweiser from my cooler, and then I see--and he sees me--(from) across the street, coming from The Magnolia, HP.
"Oh Lord, and he saw me give you that beer."
Van looked over, chuckled, and said, "Don't let him fool you today, Slim, he got that money."
"Okay Van." Van crossed back to finish washing Royalston's truck as HP stumbled up to the curb and greeted me,
"Hey buddy."
"Hello HP."
"Have a beer for me, buddy?"
"No, not for you."
"Why you do me like that, Jim?"
"I need twenty-five dollars, I know you have it, I want it, I want it now."
HP reached into his pocket and brought out a quarter and showed it to me on the platter of his cracked black palm. White whiskers sprouted haphazardly on his chin and cheeks. He was wearing wrap around sun glasses, and a mis-matching blue work uniform from a career gone by, or the thrift store."This is all I have. Let me get that beer."
He was not offering me the quarter.
I took from my cooler another ice cold Budweiser, and gave it to HP.
"I seen you working on that house over by the Schwegmann's" (Schwegmann's was a local grocery chain that went bankrupt. The new store owners operate under the name of Robert's Market Fare, or something, but no one in the neighborhood will ever call it that).
"So you saw me working over there, HP, and you just kept on moving, huh?"
"You over there in that colored neighborhood, buddy."
"Coloreds, where coloreds?"
"Let me get a dollar big spender, so's I can get a cigar 'cross the street."
"I'm your sugar daddy now?"
"All right, you crazy white boy."
Ah, the race card, we have always left that one out of the deck for these games.
"Oh so now it's about skin color, yeah HP?"
"Don't make me get the rope, little buddy."
"Why are you always talking about getting that rope, HP? You gonna hang me?"
"Hog tie you, hog tie you to that fence."
"Then what?"
"You don't wanna know. Crazy white boy." And then it's as if he had never realized how liberating it felt to call a crazy white boy a "crazy white boy" because he says it a couple of more times, but loud enough for most of the block to hear. Van is washing and laughing now, and I'm acting hurt, and getting ready to pretend hurtful.
"So that's what its all about then, huh HP? Always about the color, you old crusty colored coot, you. You, you negro."
"Okay that's it, I'm getting the rope."
"Good."
"Let me get another beer, Jim. This one's almost empty."
I look down into the top of his beer and there is barely a sip gone.
"That one's still full. Why is it you're not happy until you tap the white boy. You're not my friend, you just see me as someone to take advantage of. And I gotta tell you, that really hurts me."
"That's not true, buddy. Let me get a dollar."
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When I pulled up in front of Dumaine after ripping out the old galvanized plumbing pipes under and inside the Rocheblave house, I saw Van across the street washing Royalston's (Mama D's former companion) truck. I was negotiating my truck around the sink hole by the curb and Van was motioning me to park across the street behind Royalston's truck so he could wash mine afterwards. He does me for five bucks which is half the going rate. I'm not really looking for a wash so I just wave at him and exit the vehicle.
He pauses from his work to cross over and talk to me--touch bases as it were--about the Rocheblave job, what did I do today, and will I be needing his help tomorrow. I tell him I'm just piddling around over there, and that I'm hoping to run into Carl--my preferred electrician--on the job in the next few days so I can convince him to wire the house, but before that get me hooked up with temporary electricity so I can get some power tools running, rip out and replace a couple of floors, replace a rafter and a joist or two, do a little bracing here and there, replace the roof, and get whatever I need to get done before begging my preferred plumber to find the time to do my plumbing rough in for one bath, a kitchen, a washer/dryer hookup, and a gas water heater. Van's cool with that but he's really bored over here on Dumaine and needs something constructive to do so please let him know when I need some more help. I told him I would, and gave him an ice cold Budweiser from my cooler, and then I see--and he sees me--(from) across the street, coming from The Magnolia, HP.
"Oh Lord, and he saw me give you that beer."
Van looked over, chuckled, and said, "Don't let him fool you today, Slim, he got that money."
"Okay Van." Van crossed back to finish washing Royalston's truck as HP stumbled up to the curb and greeted me,
"Hey buddy."
"Hello HP."
"Have a beer for me, buddy?"
"No, not for you."
"Why you do me like that, Jim?"
"I need twenty-five dollars, I know you have it, I want it, I want it now."
HP reached into his pocket and brought out a quarter and showed it to me on the platter of his cracked black palm. White whiskers sprouted haphazardly on his chin and cheeks. He was wearing wrap around sun glasses, and a mis-matching blue work uniform from a career gone by, or the thrift store."This is all I have. Let me get that beer."
He was not offering me the quarter.
I took from my cooler another ice cold Budweiser, and gave it to HP.
"I seen you working on that house over by the Schwegmann's" (Schwegmann's was a local grocery chain that went bankrupt. The new store owners operate under the name of Robert's Market Fare, or something, but no one in the neighborhood will ever call it that).
"So you saw me working over there, HP, and you just kept on moving, huh?"
"You over there in that colored neighborhood, buddy."
"Coloreds, where coloreds?"
"Let me get a dollar big spender, so's I can get a cigar 'cross the street."
"I'm your sugar daddy now?"
"All right, you crazy white boy."
Ah, the race card, we have always left that one out of the deck for these games.
"Oh so now it's about skin color, yeah HP?"
"Don't make me get the rope, little buddy."
"Why are you always talking about getting that rope, HP? You gonna hang me?"
"Hog tie you, hog tie you to that fence."
"Then what?"
"You don't wanna know. Crazy white boy." And then it's as if he had never realized how liberating it felt to call a crazy white boy a "crazy white boy" because he says it a couple of more times, but loud enough for most of the block to hear. Van is washing and laughing now, and I'm acting hurt, and getting ready to pretend hurtful.
"So that's what its all about then, huh HP? Always about the color, you old crusty colored coot, you. You, you negro."
"Okay that's it, I'm getting the rope."
"Good."
"Let me get another beer, Jim. This one's almost empty."
I look down into the top of his beer and there is barely a sip gone.
"That one's still full. Why is it you're not happy until you tap the white boy. You're not my friend, you just see me as someone to take advantage of. And I gotta tell you, that really hurts me."
"That's not true, buddy. Let me get a dollar."
- jimlouis 4-05-2000 12:52 pm