All Entries in the "Lifestyles at Risk" Category

One Christmas Eve

Standing over the hot stove cooking supper, the colored maid, Arcie, was very tired. Between meals today, she had cleaned the whole house for the white family she worked for, getting ready for Christmas tomorrow. Now her back ached and her head felt faint from sheer fatigue. Well, she would be off in a little while, if only the Missus and her children would come on home to dinner. They were out shopping for more things for the tree that stood all ready, tinsel-hung and lovely in the living room, waiting for its candles to be lighted.

Arcie wished she could afford a tree for Joe. He’d never had one yet, and it’s nice to have such things when you’re little. Joe was five, going on six. Arcie, looking at the roast in the white folks’ oven, wondered how much she could afford to spend tonight on toys. She only got seven dollars a week, and four of that went for her room and the landlady’s daily looking after Joe while Arcie was at work.

“Lord, it’s more’n a notion raisin’ a child,” she thought.

She looked at the clock on the kitchen table. After seven. What made white folks so darned inconsiderate? Why didn’t they come on home here to supper? They knew she wanted to get off before all the stores closed. She wouldn’t have time to buy Joe nothin’ if they didn’t hurry. And her landlady probably wanting to go out and shop, too, and not be bothered with little Joe.

“Dog gone it!” Arcie said to herself. “If I just had my money, I might leave the supper on the stove for ’em. I just got to get to the stores fo’ they close.” But she hadn’t been paid for the week yet. The Missus had promised to pay her Christmas Eve, a day or so ahead of time.

Arcie heard a door slam and talking and laughter in the front of the house. She went in and saw the Missus and her kids shaking snow off their coats.

“Ummm-mm! It’s swell for Christmas Eve,” one of the kids said to Arcie. “It’s snowin’ like the deuce, and mother came near driving through a stop light. Can’t hardly see for the snow. It’s swell!”

“Supper’s ready,” Arcie said. She was thinking how her shoes weren’t very good for walking in snow.

It seemed like the white folks took us long as they could to eat that evening. While Arcie was washing dishes, the Missus came out with her money.

“Arcie,” the Missus said, “I’m so sorry, but would you mind if I just gave you five dollars tonight? The children have made me run short of change, buying presents and all.”

I’d like to have seven,” Arcie said. “I needs it.”

“Well, I just haven’t got seven,” the Missus said. “I didn’t know you’d want all your money before the end of the week, anyhow. I just haven’t got it to spare.”

Arcie took five. Coming out of the hot kitchen, she wrapped up as well as she could and hurried by the house where she roomed to get little Joe. At least he could look at the Christmas trees in the windows downtown.

The landlady, a big light yellow woman, was in a bad humor. She said to Arcie, “I thought you was comin’ home early and get this child. I guess you know I want to go out, too, once in awhile.”

Arcie didn’t say anything for, if she had, she knew the landlady would probably throw it up to her that she wasn’t getting paid to look after a child both night and day.

“Come on, Joe,” Arcie said to her son, “let’s us go in the street.”

“I hears they got a Santa Claus down town,” Joe said, wriggling into his worn little coat. “I wants to see him.”

“Don’t know ’bout that,” his mother said, “but hurry up and get your rubbers on. Stores’ll all be closed directly.”

It was six or eight blocks downtown. They trudged along through the falling snow, both of them a little cold but the snow was pretty! The main street was hung with bright red and blue lights. In front of the City Hall there was a Christmas tree-but it didn’t have no presents on it, only lights. In the store windows there were lots of toys-for sale.

Joe kept on saying, “Mama, I want …”

But mama kept walking ahead. It was nearly ten, when the stores were due to close, and Arcie wanted to get Joe some cheap gloves and something to keep him warm, as well as a toy or two. She thought she might come across a rummage sale where they had children’s clothes. And in the ten-cent store, she could some toys.

“O-oo! Lookee….,” little Joe kept saying and pointing at things in the windows. How warm and pretty the lights were, and the shops, and the electric signs through the snow.

It took Arcie more than a dollar to get Joe’s mittens and things he needed. In the A. & P. Arcie bought a big box of hard candies for 49¢. And then she guided Joe through the crowd on the street until they came to the dime store. Near the ten-cent store they passed a moving picture theater. Joe said he wanted to go in and see the movies.”

Arcie said, “Ump-un! No, child! This ain’t Baltimore where they have shows for colored, too. In these here small towns, they don’t let colored folks in. We can’t go in there.” “Oh,” said little Joe.

In the ten-cent store, there was an awful crowd. Arcie told Joe to stand outside and wait for her. Keeping hold of him in the crowded store would be a job. Besides she didn’t want him to see what toys she was buying. They were to be a surprise from Santa Claus tomorrow.

Little Joe stood outside the ten-cent store in the light, and the snow, and people passing. Gee, Christmas was pretty. All tinsel and stars and cotton. And Santa Claus a-coming from somewhere, dropping things in stockings. And all the people in the streets were carrying things, and the kids looked happy.

But Joe soon got tired of just standing and thinking and waiting in front of the ten-cent store. There were so many things to look at in the other windows. He moved along up the block a little, and then a little more, walking and looking. In fact, he moved until he came to the white folks’ picture show.

In the lobby of the moving picture show, behind the late glass doors, it was all warm and glowing and awful pretty. Joe stood looking in, and as he looked his eyes began to make out, in there blazing beneath holly and colored streamers and the electric stars of the lobby, a marvelous Christmas tree. A group of children and grownups, white, of course, were standing around a big jovial man in red beside the tree. Or was it a man? Little Joe’s eyes opened wide. No, it was not a man at all. It was Santa Claus!

Little Joe pushed open one of the glass doors and ran into the lobby of the white moving picture show. Little Joe went right through the crowd and up to where he could get a good look at Santa Claus. And Santa Claus was giving away gifts, little presents for children, little boxes of animal crackers and stick-candy canes. And behind him on the tree was a big sign (which little Joe didn’t know how to read). It said, to those who understand, MERRY XMAS FROM SANTA CLAUS TO OUR YOUNG PATRONS.

Around the lobby, other signs said, WHEN YOU COME OUT OF THE SNOW STOP WITH YOUR CHILDREN AND SEE OUR SANTA CLAUS. And another announced, GEM THEATRE MAKES ITS CUSTOMERS HAPPY – SEE OUR SANTA.

And there was Santa Claus in a red suit and a white beard all sprinkled with tinsel snow. Around him were rattlers and drums and rocking horses that he was not giving away. But the signs on them said (could little Joe have read) that they would be presented from the stage on Christmas Day to the holders of the lucky numbers. Tonight, Santa Claus was only giving away candy, and stick-candy canes, and animal crackers to the kids.

Joe would have liked terribly to have a stick-candy cane. He came a little closer to Santa Claus, until he was right in the front of the crowd, And then Santa Claus saw Joe.

Why is it that lots of white people always grin when they see a Negro child? Santa Claus grinned. Everybody else grinned too; looking at little black Joe-who had no business in the lobby of a white theater. Then Santa Claus stooped down and slyly picked up one of his lucky number rattlers, a great big loud tin-pan rattle such as they use in cabarets. And he shook it fiercely right at Joe. That was funny. The white people laughed, kids and all. But little Joe didn’t laugh. He was scared. To the shaking of the big rattle, he turned and fled out of the warm lobby of the theater, out into the street where the snow was and the people. Frightened by laughter, he had begun to cry. He went looking for his mama. In his head he never thought Santa Claus shook great rattles at children like that – and then laughed.

In the crowd on the street he went the wrong way. He couldn’t find the ten-cent store or his mother. There were too many people, all white people, moving like white shadows in the snow, a world of white people.

It seemed to Joe an awfully long time till he suddenly saw Arcie, dark and worried-looking, cut across the side-walk through all the passing crowd and grab him. Although her arms were full of packages, she still managed with one free hand to shake him until his teeth rattled.

“Why didn’t you stand where I left you?” Arcie demanded loudly. “Tired as I am, I got to run all over the streets in the night lookin’ for you. I’m a great mind to wear you out.”

When little Joe got his breath back, on the way home, he told his mama he had been in the moving picture show.

“But Santa Claus didn’t give me nothin’,” Joe said tearfully. “He made a big noise at me and I runned out.”

“Serves you right,” said Arcie, trudging through the snow. “You had no business in there. I told you to stay where I left you.”

“But I seed Santa Claus in there,” little Joe said, “so I went in.”

“Huh! That wasn’t no Santa Claus,” Arcie explained. “If it was, he wouldn’t a-treated you like that. That’s a theater for white folks – I told you once – and he’s just an old white man.”

“Oh .  . .” said little Joe.

-Langston Hughes, December, 1933

Rediscovered at Busboys and Poets Restaurant

Tacoma Park, Washington DC, December 2019

December Marks Thanksgetting

A quick reminder to our reader: December begins the holy weeks of Thanksgetting when people turn from being thankful for the past to being avaricious and covetous of the future. Thank to all who have resisted this unhealthy tradition. Maybe to the confused and manipulated Christmas/Winter Solstice will be about more than fairy tales and money.

King of vulgar words mispronounced for centuries

(Worchester-on-Tomichi) A foul expression of immeasurable significance in so many grammatical contexts, the F word has been incorrectly uttered since the Assyrians, in an attempt to draw the the enemy out from their fortified gates, taunted the Babylonians with the expletive at Tarbisu.

According to discarded idiomatic measuring vehicles unearthed near here, the word is correctly pronounced with a long U thus rhyming with clue or more closely Duke or puke. To further verify this startling account bits of pottery chards and beads from the ocean often accompany these miraculous finds that threaten to divert our attention away from what is our sacred idiomatic quest.

After the defeat and dismemberment of the Assyrian Empire in 615 BC the F word quickly assimilated into the everyday jargon, the street lingo, the downtown slang of numerous Mideast hierarchies, some of whom built rambling temples to the Great F.

But that was then and this is now.

After millenniums it’s much the same old song. The word has appeared with umlauts (two dots) above it and it has flaunted itself with the letter e at its rear end. It has broken stride with other more cooperative, yet compound sounds by inserting an h and sometimes even sneakily implanting the y sound for emphasis, thumbing its’ syntax at gerunds and misunderstood participles.

And if that’s not enough proof for you doomsayers out there: Only last month Russian dermatologists studying the layers of Mars and Saturn have discovered an ancient and forgotten code ensemble that clarifies stoic babbling and tramples superstitions. They contend that surface dust on both heavenly bodies interfaces well with the long-held misnomer that overuse of teenage skin creams made from lightly distilled, yet passable vodka can lead to redness and circles under the eyes.

Social scientists in the free world were hesitant to confront the Russians saying that it could take 5000 years for the people of the earth to begin to pronounce the F word properly again.

“This is not something that must be decided this afternoon,” said one.

-Kashmir Horseshoe

Ridiculous Laps Self

(Los Angeles) It had to happen sooner or later. After centuries of the human experience on this planet the stark concept of the ridiculous/absurd has caught up with and passed itself.

According to a pack of silly watch dog groups organized to monitor the rise of the ultra-ridiculous in modern society, inhabitants of the planet first recognized the existence of the ridiculous early on when hairy little men in animal skins went out to do battle with saber-toothed tigers and mammoths, armed with only a flimsy spear, some menacing rocks and the ability of rational thought. Some were even naked. Living in caves without television and dish washers extracts a hearty toll on one’s sense of balance, priority and applied logic.

Later, with the rise of civilized societies in the Mideast warfare dictated the height of ridiculous in that vast armies would hurl themselves at each other for no apparent reason other than the ego of kings, and the desire for glory on the battlefield. Arrows begot shields and castles demanded moats. Sure, there were the spoils and the plunder but they were secondary to the primitive yearnings for the other guy’s blood.

The situation continued to simmer through the Greek and Roman periods and through the early days of Christianity when pagan holidays magically became Christian ones and superstition replaced clear thought. Later Islamic warriors swept across continent secure in the fact that death for Allah would bring eternity in paradise. Preoccupied Europeans, busy with crooked Popes and the dredges of Black Death didn’t see it all coming.

“All this time the proponents of the absurd never faced up to the burden of validity,” says research analyst, Homer Romer, Director of False Civilization at Cal Polygamy Institute here. “Despite the Industrial Revolution and the dawn of The Renaissance nobody possessed the chronology as to the human emergence or what was in store down the road.”

Romer said that in short: “We have no real proof as to where we came from or where we’re going.

“History joins the ranks of the ridiculous here when we attempt to substitute warped hearsay for biological origins of each living creature on earth,” said Romer. “Sure, we can dig up Mesopotamia and argue about the exact locale of the Garden of Eden but that still doesn’t answer the big question: What was the average Joe up to moments before birth, or better yet moments before conception? Where does he go after all of this?

Romer, dressed in his flagship high-top sneakers and terry-cloth bathrobe, adjusted his caramel-colored Velcro eye patch and discounted the sperm and egg theory as just another biological ploy to throw intellectuals off the trail.

“Since the inception of spiritualism man has imagined all sorts of afterlife possibilities, many hooked to behavior while in the mortal state. The concept of heaven and hell didn’t start with sun worship or the invention of fire but long before that when the first people failed to come to grips with the regular arrival of night. The chicken or the egg controversy came to light soon after a connection between scrambled and over easy. In short: Did the chicken create the egg or the egg create the chicken, and might I have another helping of beans and rice?”

Despite the growing ridiculousness engulfing the planet man went on with his tedious daily pursuits, which usually involved storing more food or honing better weapons.

During one of our Dark Ages, mumbo-jumbo such as the Divine Right theory and Holy Feudalism hurled man into a state of ridiculous stature determined by birth and death. Very little has changed.

Still no one contested the long-held beliefs of order in the heavens presided over by a Supreme somebody.

The rise of sophisticated technology and the arrival of the Industrial Revolution added great heaps of fuel to the roaring fire. Now warfare could be counted on to destroy more people per square mile than ever before. Still an effective method for picking up the trash was never established.

“Until the employment of gunpowder warriors had to work at the destruction of their adversaries, often at the celebrated hand-to-hand category,” said Romer. “Now it could be accomplished en masse with explosives. In the final stand-off lead will beat flesh every time.”

Some historians are convinced that warfare is the great population control yet through the next century of continual warfare we see the planet’s population skyrocket. All these people and no sense of direction. The utter ridiculousness of it all achieved a position of dominance despite the outward trappings of civilization. Still, even during the nightmares of the Twentieth Century the serious observer could distinguish logic from the absurd. No more.

Now that the mindless march of ridiculous notion has gained a poll position there’s nothing stopping it from spinning even further out of control. Whether or not man can reign in his most dangerous inventions is of little consequence as even our very nature is caught up in lemming-like progress. Will the planet finally hit the eject button or go down with humanity’s ship? Is the earth really flat? It sure looks that way in Kansas and in vast sections of Russia. Will people like this Romer fellow still draw a paycheck for their ramblings? Why are hot dogs so bad for us?

“May ye live in interesting times”, whether a curse or a holiday greeting, has never been more appropriate as we watch politicians parrot their virtues, see television replace human interaction, stand-by as mass marketing rules the day. All this with chemically -induced food yields, gated communities and nuclear weapons.

“Who will stand up and demand that common sense is employed,” asks Romer. “Not me, Charlie, I’m off for an afternoon of bridge jumping. I just hope we find water.”

–Tommy Middelfinger

Offensive linemen accused of cannibalism on team bus

(Manana) Two sophomore linemen from the University of Commuter Mantras, have been detained here due to accusations that they ate two other players on an overnight bus to the league finals in Wimpton.

The unnamed perpetrators, a guard and a tackle, had reportedly been banned from the mid-day training table for disciplinary reasons according to someone familiar with the team’s daily routine. That meant they’d have to go until morning on nothing but the light snack served on the bus.

Police confirmed that a place kicker was “gnawed on” and a free safety lost part of his forearm. Both are expected to recover in time for the finals if the Manana squad makes it that far. The suspects have been disqualified from competition until the matter is resolved.

Coaches refused to comment officially on the developments saying only that “place kickers and safeties wee a dime a dozen but good offensive linemen were hard to find.”

NCAA officials, most cannibals in their own right, say they will forbid punitive measures involving food and sleep deprivation since “it brings out the mean streaks far before kickoff.” The college sports watchdog has recently come under fire for policies that limit or prohibit income earning potential among amateur athletes on scholarship or simply participating in current programs.

“If the NCAA represented anyone but itself it might have allowed for lunch allowances from alumni or personal items like toothpaste or gold chains.

-Rocky Flats

WORLD WAR I STARTED ON POOL TABLE

(Strasbourg) Some surface historians blame the First World War on the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand by Serbs in Sarajevo. Others point to the Zabern Affair in the Alsace-Lorraine, which infuriated hawks in both France and Germany. Still other social scientists insist that the massacre began due to a longtime feud between royal cousins with massive armies at their disposal. This is all poppycock. World War I was ignited by a simple game of pool.

Although little has been written and even less documented with regards to this fascinating theory, this shall in no way detour us in our quest for the final truth. What we have already found out might put the stodgier of historians into a tizzy, or worse.

Our flight to Stuttgart was uneventful and the entire entourage felt lightheaded as we deplaned amid yet another month-long harvest festival. We drove to the French frontier, stopping once to check metric tire pressure and once to freshen up.

According to locals interviewed in the German village of Lahr, in the Black Forest, the leaders of nine European countries met here in secret in January of 1914 in an attempt to iron out difficulties and avert a mortal conflict. While most of our sources are only descendants of actual eyewitnesses, they seemed honest enough and we decided to take their recollections to the bank.

After a week of cross-examination we found that villagers from Rastatt to Schaffhausen were in agreement as to how that meeting went down. Most have claimed to have at least a shirttail relative in attendance at that Strasbourg pool hall on the night in question.

Anyway, it appears that Lloyd George arrived first, ordered a Watneys and sat in the corner, that, being the British thing to do. Hungarian Premier Count Tisza, who brought along his own cue stick, fortuitously joined him. Soon Prussian boss Otto von Bismarck, Austrian Premier Count Carl Sturgkh, Chief-of-Staff Paul von Hindenburg and King Constantine of Greece made their way through the door. Then Bismarck bought a round for the house, much to the enjoyment of the curious assemblage.

Georges Clemenceau and Henri Petain were next to show up, fashionably late, yet somewhat miffed that they had missed a rare round purchased by the frugal German clique. Then, with a flair that only the Russian could muster, Czar Nicholas emerged from his royal Cossack coach, driven by miniature horses and a host of gelded Bolsheviks, captured outside the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg over the holidays. Accompanying him was his wife, Alexandra, who quickly grew bored with the milieu and beat feet for Lahr’s strip of trendy boutiques in search of cuckoo clocks and bittersweet German chocolates.

Soon everyone was seated with the noted exception of President Woodrow “League of Nations” Wilson and his military attaché, General John “Black Jack” Pershing. Somehow, during the delay Count Tisza challenged Bismarck to a friendly game of pool, which he won handily, running the table before the proud Bismarck could even choose a stick. Bismarck frowned and sat down, furious at his predicament. Several other players entered the foray at this juncture with Lloyd George soundly whipping Georges Clemenceau and Czar Nicholas destroying a brave eleventh hour bid by King Constantine.

Then, just as the tardy Americans passed through the back door something snapped. Bismarck, still peeved over his loss to the Hungarian, claimed that he had put a quarter up on the table immediately following his defeat. Petain insisted that it was his quarter and told Bismarck to sit back down and drink his beer. His tone was confrontational at best and Bismarck blew up. He charged the smaller Frenchman, punching him about the head and torso. It took three men to pull the two apart.

The Americans, who most locals feel precipitated the fracas by their less than prompt advent, attempted to negotiate a peace but it was not meant to be.

Bismarck called Tisza “an upstart, a roturier, a gypsy!” Tisza responded by accusing Bismarck of “grandstanding” and added that his King Charles Spaniel was “grossly overweight, even fat!” This brought a chorus of laughter from the French and British contingents that were now ordering Long Island Ice Teas by the pitcher and spoiling for a fight. It appears that it was at this point that the alliances surfaced which would ultimately lead to a world war.

Both Bismarck and Tisza glared angrily into the Anglo-Franco peanut gallery hanging onto the bar. Harsh words were exchanged for now it appeared that the Prussian and the Hungarian had buried the hatchet and were more offended by the ridicule now heaped upon them than by the bad blood that had only moments before passed between them.

Another swinging match ensued, this time with Czar Nicholas and von Hindenburg jumping in. Before it was ended Lloyd George was blind sided by a Hupmobile tire iron and most of the decorative glass in the place was shattered. Count Sturgkh suffered a slight concussion after a collision with a brass-serving tray while Petain lost a tooth and retreated, as would become his mode of operation, into the nearest broom closet to await the outcome.

The police arrived at about ten and arrested everyone who had the bad judgment to remain on the scene. Alexandra, who had only recently returned from her shopping trip, subsequently bailed most out of Lahr Municipal Jail. The combatants were then told to get out of town on the next train. President Wilson, setting a dangerous precedent that would not be fully understood until the end of the century, paid damages.

Meanwhile, for most of the civilized world this sad episode dictated what was to come in Europe as the leaders of the world’s greatest nations chose to sacrifice millions of lives rather than swallow their pride over a simple game of pool.

Kevin Haley, lives in Colona where he goes to bed early and hits fly balls to clumsy mule deer in his nearby pasture.  He thinks Aristotle Onassis was an Irish philosopher.