by Cat Oars
“There’s a reason we stopped you,” the blond officer said after dispatch confirmed that Trace was neither a wanted murderer, rapist, bank robber, pedophile nor anything equally unpleasant. The officer was suddenly unfolding a piece of paper in Trace’s face.
“Does this guy look familiar to you?”
Trace was looking at a Xeroxed mug shot of a slate-eyed criminal. “No. Never saw him in my life.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. What did – ”
“He’s someone we're looking for, and I think he kind of looks like you.”
Trace laughed. Actually he tried to laugh because right then he wasn’t feeling very well. He bore absolutely no resemblance to the man in the photocopied mug shot but this German tank commander obviously thought otherwise.
“When did you get out?” the cop asked. His cold eyes took in every detail of Trace’s wardrobe: the baseball cap, faded denim shirt with a ballpoint pen and a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket, black jeans with a fashionable tear in the knee, old tennis shoes.
“Get out of what?”
“Did you get out of prison recently?”
“Ummm – no.”
“Ever been in trouble?”
“Never been caught.” A laugh choked in Trace’s throat. The cop didn’t think that was very funny.
“You have a job?”
“I’m self-employed.”
“Oh really?” He said it as if Trace had admitted to being one of L.A.’s thousands of street beggars.
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Uh-huh.” Totally unimpressed. He studied the photocopy of the mug shot for a good thirty seconds and then rested his gaze back upon Trace’s face.
“Are you sure this isn’t you?”
“It’s not me.”
“Thank you.”
The young officer stepped back into the black-and-white. Trace hit the WALK button and waited to cross the street.
The Penguin and the Panda
TapasTonight
WENDY THE PENGUIN and Dean the Panda met at an antiques auction in New York City in the winter of 2003. They were both attracted to each other for the same reasons: They were both black and white and of the same stature, financially and physically. They both had jobs in the fashion industry.
Wendy really liked the way Dean pronounced her name “Windy” instead of the traditional way. And she liked how he would quizzically raise his eyebrows when he asked her if he could do anything nice for her:
“Wendy, would you like more ice cubes?”
“Wendy, would you like me to lower the thermostat?”
Dean really liked the way Wendy looked over her shoulder and shook her wings and tail every time she had parting words for him.
“Dean, I’m trying out a new recipe with bamboo shoots tonight!” (shake, shake) “Dean, you have some leaves stuck on your coat!” (shake, shake)
The two adored each other and soon married, rented a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper Eastside and enjoyed the peaceful life of couplehood. Often, Wendy and Dean would lounge in bed on lazy Sunday mornings, cuddling, and saying things to each other like, “I don’t know where I end and where you begin.” They both enjoyed listening to the Ying Yang Twins and were major donors at the annual New York City Philharmonic Black and White Ball at the Plaza hotel. It was at this particular fundraiser that Wendy met an interesting new friend near the appetizer buffet. The newcomer was a Holstein bovine named Mullata and she had luxurious taste in eveningwear. Diamond and onyx jewels adorned her ears, and around her ample neck was a choker made of black and white freshwater pearls. It was rumored that Mullata had a little black book of celebrities whom she assisted with adoptions of Eastern European and African babies.
Wendy and Mullata chatted amicably about the silent auction items, the high quality of the caviar and the exquisite crab puffs. Eventually, the conversation turned to family and children. Wendy lamented the lack of children in her life. Dean was always working on new tuxedo designs for his employer, and she was always laboring late into the night, poring over the negatives of the latest fashion show she photographed.
Who had time for children? Wendy made up her mind that the joy of parenthood was missing from their lives. She was ready for kids.
At midnight, back at the apartment, Wendy fixed a snack of chocolate milk and Oreos for herself and Dean. Then she pulled out the chessboard for a pre-bedtime round. She knew the contemplative mood and deep thinking required of the game would lend itself to the topic she was about to broach.
“Dean, I want to have a baby,” she simply stated. “I’m ready.”
Wendy shook her wings and her tail as she usually did, then slid the knight to a position of leverage.
Dean looked at her and raised his eyebrows.
“Have you given any thought to how this will change our lives?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “I’d like to continue working after the baby is born, and you can be a stay-at-home father.”
“Hmmmm.”
Dean reached for another Oreo.
“I think I’ll make a Kahlua and cream nightcap. Would you like one, Wendy?”
“Please don’t change the subject, Dean!!”
Wendy wanted to continue talking about having a baby. She knew Dean’s propensity for meandering.
After two more weeks of discussion, Wendy and Dean decided to have a baby after all. Wendy would resume her career as a fashion photographer after the baby reached the age of three months, and Dean would then stay at home to care for their little one full-time.
On the day of the birth, both were delighted to witness an adorable baby flamingo spring from Wendy’s eggshell. Both Wendy and Dean were overjoyed at the sight of the little gray bird they knew would bring a splash of color into their lives as her adult bird feathers grew in. They named their little flamingo Pinky and dressed her in blue denim rompers and mint flannel blankets, red beanies, and yellow sleeping gowns.
On Pinky’s first birthday, the little family celebrated with a party, inviting only close family and friends. Pinky tried to blow out her solitary candle on a brightly frosted cake shaped like a cluster of balloons. Ice cream in every flavor was served, and decorative crepe streamers hung from the ceiling. Children received party favors from the hired clown, and Pinky received children’s wear from the United Colors of Benetton and gift certificates for Jelly Belly.
Tillie the Rainbow Trout (Pinky’s Godmother) raised her Dixie cup of fruit punch.
“I’d like to make a toast!” she announced. All the guests gathered ’round to hear Tillie’s good wishes.
Dean and Wendy assumed the traditional Tillie would exclaim something like, “Life is not always black and white so make sure you paint your world brightly!” Or, perhaps Tillie would go for her usual “Life’s decisions can be good or bad, cut and dry, or black and white …. It's your life! Make your decisions count!”
Instead, Tillie simply raised her cup. Surely, she would speak soon? The guests waited patiently. Soon, Tillie began to look alarmed; her large unblinking eyes were wide with fear. She began to cough violently. A harsh, choking, wheezing sound emanated from her gaping mouth.
At that moment, Tillie slumped. Her eyes glazed over, and her tail and dorsal fin flopped against the hardwood floor with seizure-like tremors. Dean quickly sprang into action and tried to resuscitate Tillie, but his efforts went unrewarded.
“Breathe, Tillie, breathe!” everyone at the party wrung their hands and paws and wings with anxiety. Frustrated, Dean tilted Tillie’s head back and peered into her throat.
“Ah-HAH!” Dean shouted triumphantly.
He reached down into the gaping trout’s mouth to hook a wayward smoked almond from the depths of her gills. Immediately, Tillie began to sputter and gasp and breathe again. Everyone patted Dean on the back and announced how brave and special he was for his speedy reaction to the terrible incident.
The event caught
the attention of news reporters and bloggers alike. The next few days were a whirlwind of media coverage. Photo ops, interviews, and guest appearances on the local news filled each day. The two appeared on “Larry King Live.”
A celebration was held at a SoHo restaurant, where Mayor Michael Bloomberg presented Dean with an award for his bravery. Unfortunately, a grease fire in the kitchen’s restaurant erupted at the same time as all the hoopla in the main dining room, and few attendees escaped the engulfing inferno.
The next day, the headline of the New York Times read:
“Trout, Almond, Dean Focus of Recent Deaths at Local Restaurant”
The Black and White Ball
Tejas
I WENT TO a Black and White Junior League Ball once. Junior League was out of my league, but the man I was seeing came from that world and he wanted to show me off.
My pale skin – lots of it showing – was shockingly white next to the black of my dress. In a crowd where the tannest ruled, it was obvious I hadn’t been to St. Tropez for centuries.
Black and white. It’s a useful expression as in, “Look, it’s right there, in black and white,” but it’s boring at a ball. Half the fun of an elegant evening of dancing in the society world is the swirling array of colorful gowns – luscious sherbet shades for the ingenue, shimmering teal for the still-beautiful matron of 50, any shade of red for the recent divorcée. Black and white is the rainbow stripped naked.
Conversation at The Black and White Ball was reserved. I didn’t know for whom it was reserved, but I did know who it wasn’t for. Me. Now, I had enough common sense not to get involved in a conversation about politics with CEOs of major corporations, but I genuinely thought that food was an acceptable subject to discuss around a buffet table. No, I did not mention the starving children in India. But I couldn’t help asking a vice-president of corporate doublespeak about the contaminated milk formula his bosses couldn’t get past FDA inspection in this country, but were able to market successfully in developing African nations.
The only other discussion I took part in was in the powder room, with a fluffy white personage whose dress was adorned in feathers from “a rare albino ostrich” (oh, unicorns aren’t available any more, I speculated silently), and her friend, a honey-skinned goddess one could easily mistake for a person of color. They were lamenting the laziness of the black bathroom attendant. “Good help is SO hard to find these days,” Fluffy the Ostrich complained vaguely, in my direction. I made an appropriate noise, somewhat between a cluck and a hoot, but it was definitely an animal sound: my effort to communicate with her species.
Black and white, right and wrong. I was the wrong sort for this gathering, clearly.
My date was delighted with the impression I made. “I adore bad little Jewish rebels,” he grinned, and bent over to plant a daring kiss upon my alabaster décolleté, making sure everyone saw. I didn’t mind the word rebel because I came from a long line of Marxists, trade unionists, and war protesters. What I objected to was the fact he had invited me simply to flaunt me in front of his family, to show off the Jesus-killing Jewess he was with instead of the good girl debutante he was supposed to marry.
Black and white, right and wrong, good and evil.
I decided to make a dramatic exit, so I slapped him and walked out of the building. I whistled for my unicorn, but was just as happy seeing my first glimpse of color since leaving the ball when a yellow cab picked me up.
Neegee
Francais
THE SCHOOL BUILDINGS were brick, and the bricks were deep red. The leaves of the trees that dotted the playground had turned golden yellow in the New York autumn and each morning of those first few weeks of school brought a new bright blue sky.
I walked to first grade at P.S. 135 every day with Joey and I walked home with him every afternoon. And every morning as we got to school a black kid walked toward us on the playground on the other side of the fence. Going home, he’d be walking the other way, too. We’d see him every day, coming and going.
He wasn’t in our class. He was probably in kindergarten, and because that was in a separate building, he was walking in the opposite direction.
We’d say hi to him and he’d say hi back.
So Joey said to me one morning while we were on our way to school: “I wonder if we’ll see that colored kid today?”
“You’re not supposed to call them colored,” I told Joey.
“Why?” he asked.
“I dunno,” I said. “My mom just told me. You’re supposed to call them Negro.”
Joey disagreed.
“No,” he said. “I think my mom said you’re supposed to call them colored.”
When we saw him that morning, walking toward us on the other side of the fence, Joey asked him: “Hey, what are we supposed to call you?”
“Huh?” he said.
“Are we supposed to call you Negro or colored?” Joey asked him.
“I dunno,” he said. “Colored, I guess.”
“Colored!” Joey shrieked. “With crayons!”
“Hi,” I said. “My mom said we’re not supposed to call you colored. My mom said we’re supposed to say Negro.”
“I know!” Joey said. “We’ll call him Neegee!”
The black kid looked at us and we walked away.
“Bye Neegee!” Joey said.
There was a break in the good weather, and one morning was overcast. I was walking to school with Joey and his older sister Leslie. There was a crowd of other kids at the crosswalk and we all were stopped to wait for the green light. I put down my little brown leather briefcase to get a better grip on it. Suddenly, I saw Leslie, Joey and all the other kids were already half way across the street. I grabbed the briefcase and hurried after them. I don’t know if I fell asleep standing up or what happened.
The bright sunny autumn days returned. Joey fell on the playground and a doctor had to come to school and stitch the cut on his temple. I found my cousins Arlene and Jeffrey and I started walking home with them. Then I noticed Joey and Leslie were walking behind us.
I turned around and said, “Hi Joey.”
“Shut up, Artie,” Leslie said.
“Yeah, shut up, Artie,” Arlene said.
I guess they thought I was making fun of Joey and how he fell, but I wasn’t. I was just trying to say hi.
The crisp autumn days continued. Joey and I were walking home one day under a crystal blue sky, the red brick buildings behind us, the golden leaves scattered at our feet.
On the other side of the fence, Neegee walked toward us.
“Hi Neegee,” I said.
“Hey, c’mere,” he said to Joey.
“Wha?” Joey said.
“Lemme show you somethin’.”
“Wha?”
“Gimme yo’ hand.”
“Wha?”
“Gimme yo’ hand.”
We stopped walking. Neegee wanted Joey to stick his hand through the chain link fence.
“Nuh-uh,” Joey said.
“Jus’ gimme yo’ hand,” Neegee said. “Lemme show you somethin’.
Neegee put his fingers through the fence. Joey held out his hand toward him.
Neegee gripped Joey’s fingers so their two fists formed interlocking hooks. I didn’t know what was happening. I thought Joey was smiling, like it was a joke, but the smile was just the start of the twist his face made into a mask of pain. In an instant, tears were running down his cheeks. Neegee laughed.
“Ow, owwwwwww,” Joey howled. He wrenched his hand away, stuck it between his thighs, doubling over, sobbing and drooling. Neegee cackled, jumping up and down.
“Are you OK, Joey?” I asked.
“Shut up, Artie,” he sobbed. “Just shut up.”
Neegee hopped away, dancing toward the red brick buildings, still laughing.
Black Grounds on White Paper
Sandshovel
BEING THE SO-CALLED WRITER of the family means I sometimes get assignme
nts that no one else wants. Writing my mother’s eulogy was one of these.
“I’ll write it,” I told my sister, “but I won’t read it.” She nodded her head and muttered something like, ‘whatever’ and so I sat down in front of her computer. What to say? I had a tumultuous relationship with my mother and her attributes did not jump right out at me. I sat for an hour before anything came to mind and then I started writing like a racehorse leaves the gate.
“Come and read this,” I called out to my sister. She read over my shoulder.
“It’s fine … good … but you’ll have to read it at the funeral. Who else is going to do it?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “I’ll do it … somehow I’ll do it.”
The day of the funeral arrived. She was going to be buried next to my father, who’d gone two years before. I’d set the alarm three hours before I needed to be at the church. I was staying with a childhood friend, Linda – I no longer lived in the area. When Linda woke up she found me fully dressed in my black designer dress, black lace shawl and impeccable patent leather shoes.
“Wow! You look stunning.”
“Thanks. I’m pretty nervous. I read the eulogy out loud a few times already this morning. Want to hear it?”
“Sure. Let me get dressed. How long do we have?”
“Less than an hour. Go get ready! I can’t be late.”
I went into the guest room to get the two-page printout. It wasn’t there on the bed where I remembered leaving it. I checked the kitchen table, the countertop and then the bathroom. Not there.
“Don’t panic, it has to be here ....” I muttered and began tearing apart the bedroom. I checked under the bed and between the blankets. Nothing.
We had forty-five minutes to get to the church. Linda lived only five minutes away … but I didn’t want to be rushing in and stressed. Why had I agreed to this?
“What’s the matter, Elaine?” Linda stood at the doorway.
“I can’t find the freaking eulogy. It’s gone. We have less than forty-five minutes and I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
