Do you think for a fly, wings are strictly a mode of
transport?
It was questions like that that were getting me into trouble
in Miami.
In spite of everything -- I liked Miami, because the people,
mostly Cubans, Colombians and Haitians, seemed grateful to be livin’ in Chuck
Berry’s good ‘ol USA.
Where you can get hot dogs, hamburgers and Cooler-raders if
you have enough cash.
[A side note: If you ever get a black male Haitian or
“white” female Colombian taxi driver in ME-a-uh-ME – get out of the cab
immediately and run for your life. I recommend paying them first – with a
two-dollar tip to ward off bad voodoo-mojo – if you want a head-start on the
mad-dash to “Freedom.”]
We call those kinds of people “money Satans” in the
Caribbean.
There.
They are not so much people.
As coin-operating-vacuum machines.
They’d take pennies. And they are just that niggardly.
But, they are not limited to just Haitians and Colombians
(black or white).
The “H.C.’s” only want to suck the six-point-four-inch
greenbacks out of your Gringo American ass – and then spit the refuse out in
the Stygian Miami Dade sewer system – or invest the money in their brother
Fernando’s cocaine-mule scheme (hope you like lube – but, it is better than
Madoff – the payoff is more than Valerie Solanis’ “Up Your Ass.”)
“At least they are grateful to be here,” I keep telling
myself. Which is a different ‘tude to what one might find in the so-called
“American Caribbean.”
Where “Don’t Worry Be Happy” is great – as long as they
haven’t “gone-een” to contributing to the Caribbean being the Murder Capital of
the World per capita thanks to places like Jamaica, Puerto Rico and the
Dominican Republic.
I wish I were kidding.
But I’m not.
I believe it was the 1983 movie “Scarface,” and the ghost of
Tony Montana and his Cuban crew that had kept me out of Miami for close to
thirty years – what can I say – I’m a fraidy-cat at heart – I want to live, but
live well, as well.
So let it be written. So let it be done. I am a live
“fraidy-cat” at present.
Once the drug trafficking moved from South Beach to the Mona
Passage – Miami became safe again for civilians. Only no one had shown me the
memo – kids ride the $2.00 trolley (the driver called it “a train,” and she-he
was quite insistent) – and a smorgasbord of under-age nationalities ride the
elevated train with impunity (only problem is: the stairs to and from the train
are quite steep and short: so if you are 60-70-80-90 – and the U.S. Census says
10,000 people a day are turning 65 years old in America – it is not a recommended
mode of transport no matter what its affordability.
Colombus named Miami: “great swampy worthless land” less
than 24 hours – and I feel that I already know the place – it’s like a wet
catacombs with tropical humidity.
And if “nobody walks in LA,” as the song goes, even fewer do
in Miami, and the white people who do – have backpacks on their hunchbacks and
far-away looks in their eyes – only it’s not Mick Jagger singin’ about
Bakersfield, California that is reverberating between their ears.
When I was young and bright with no intentions of severing
one of my own earlobes ala Van Gogh, I had a “fresh’ perspective on life and
felt that my future was self-assured to be a good one.
Twenty-three years ago I thought it was a certainty that I
would be a success.
I had graduated from a major university. I had made sense
for a while. Granted. I hadn’t done the recommended summer internships at
businesses who laud such utter foolishness – but I chalked it up to youthful
naivite – and figured by sharp, Blarney-stone tongue (with a taste for
Stolichnaya screwdrivers in the summertime) would be able to more than make up
for this minor deficiency.
In New York City, a white woman might be nude except for a
fish-net stocking and pushing a live baby (not Baby Alive) in a stroller. The
white people who are crazy here (loco en de cabeza) make it a little more
obvious by shouting out loud and dancing in broad daylight (only mad dogs and
Englishmen go out in the noon-day Sun).
I was in Supercuts on Brickel Ave. (I kept putting the
accent on the wrong syllable and revealing myself for the hapless tourist I
was) next to Blockbuster below the free trolley (which the trolley driver (a
Spanish female with glasses) said was actually “a train” (at least she wasn’t
hung up on superficial titles).
I came in for a haircut; but I am 48 years old and refuse to
believe that my hair is white/gray at a less-advanced age.
I optioned left for “color” and a cut.
“Do you think it is for all winged creatures?”
I was still speaking in English, but even if the three
Colombian women who “manned” Supercuts had understood English – they might not
have understood the English that I was speaking.
I think it’s fair to say that the Queen of England might
have said: “No comprende,” to my lame commentary.
And She would have been quite right.
In New York City, when my hair was naturally dishwater
blond, I’d go to a Supercuts-type place (yes, I am from the Midwest) and there
would be one hundred people doing “heads” as they say in “Shampoo.”
I try to disguise my bigotry; but, I always hoped and prayed
to get a hot-looking female with big eyes who would want to suck the marrow
from my bone – rather than a fey gay guy who would want to suck the fungus from
my toe.
In 1987, a hair cut in the Big Apple was about six bucks.
In Miami, in 2011, I figured it would be about eight bucks –
no color included.
There is a fat black woman who works with housekeeping at
the Conrad (as in Conrad Hilton, as in “Be My Guest” Conrad Hilton, as in
“fulfilling our place in the world” Conrad Hilton) who keeps slamming the door
next to me because I have the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on my door and complained
about one of her fellow Obama-entitlement blacks.
If my train of thought seems disturbed, you can blame it on
the Hiltons (my lawyers will try their level best) – they hire niggers and
other malcontents to fuck up your paying-through-the-tooth vacation on purpose.
Do you think if you chose Orlando, that Mickey Mouse, Goofy
and Donald Duck would go to the empty rooms in the Contemporary Resort Hotel
(no such thing – that hotel is booked solid at least two years in advance since
1972) trying to fuck with you for no possible reason?
The answer, as they say in Charlestown, Mass. is: “No!”
The Colombian woman in Supercuts, after lacing my hair with
a toxic light-brown dye that would leave me scratching my scalp for days, kept
insisting: “Did you cut it yourself?”
Of course, the answer, as they say in Santo Domingo, was:
“Jess.” But I’d be damned if I would admit to the stunted-gene pool native
South American-Indian woman hiding the Howitzer under the bed in “Scarface”
(Hector’s wife) that a Great White Shark had recently cut his own hair in the
depths of the “The Great Depression 2” (it’s an artwork by an obscure Detroit
fine artist who exhibited only once in his career – and that itself was in a
“vanity gallery” where one has to pay to play as it were – in art, as in women,
it is always cheaper to pay in advance) because it was more “cost-effective.”
“No,” I told her. I was embarrassed. “It” was correct. But I
refused to admit it to it.
“It looks like someone cut this poor clown’s hair with a
machete,” the kind female Colombian assassin from Scarface who means to
slaughter Al Pacino, said in Spanish.
From this point on, it tends to get a little bad. My expression
on my face must have changed, because the Colombian assassin (if they are not
drug dealers, they are assassins – there is no such thing as a “good” Colombian
– just as there is no such thing as a “smart” and “enterprising” Haitian. They
are each niggers with a capital “N” – one with less melanin than the other.
“Do you think bees can tell each other where to go with
their wings?”
I was babbling incessantly. Of course (por supresto) the
Colombians paid as much attention to me as everyone else. They ignored me in
part due to their own ignorance of the language – in part due to instincts –
and in part due to the factApparently, Heineken, gin, Xanax, Tolulene and Tonic
were not a prescription for success. But, as John Lennon said: “Nobody Told
Me.”
“The bees watch each other’s wings,” I said. “That’s how
they inform each other where to go.”
This information (I discouraged Googling its veracity for
fear of exposure) had been received with less than perspicacity.
“The wicked flee when no one pursues.” That’s from the Old
Testament. That might apply to me.
To that end. The Children of Israel (there were a few
so-called “charney” ones in the Caribbean) may bring their sacrifices, which
they offer in an open field, to the priest to give unto The Lord. As peace
offerings to The Lord.
I’d be willing to sacrifice a Lamb of God to get MasterCard,
VISA, American Express and the Diner’s Club off of my ass.
How do they find me? I threw my iPhone into the Bay of
Biscayne.
It says in the Bible: “If you sell to your neighbor, or buy
from your neighbor – don’t cheat each other.”
If only that rule had applied to my Broker in real
estate.
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