Ferg

I was 11 or 12 when my Dad first talked to me about how to deal with police. I forget what exactly prompted the lecture, but I remember him giving my brother and myself a quick rundown of what to do if we were to find ourselves face to face with a fucking pig with a badge an officer of the law.

 

"It's 'yes sir no sir' for everything the police officer says."

 

"What if it's a girl?"
 

"Don't be a smartass." I've been a smartass since forever. "Yes sir, no sir. Face him with your hands at your sides, and don't move your hands unless he tells you to put them in the air."

 

"Like I just don't care?" Oh, me. I was so Raven before That's So Raven.

At the time I thought this talk was akin to the ones ol' Pop-Pop had given in regards to speaking to elders, teachers, the Pope, etc. An etiquette type thing. It didn't cross my mind until I was much older that he was genuinely concerned that my lack of officer talkin' finesse could get me arrested or killed. Luckily I have only had a handful of cop encounters in my life, none of which have ended with me dying in a hail of gunfire. Good job Dad!

 

The underlying issue of my Father's warning was that people would treat me differently because of the color of my skin. And the silky smoothness of my skin. Go ahead, touch it. No, really, touch my skin. C'mon, touch it. See? Fucking smooth, right? I know, it's crazy. Who wouldn't want to oppress this skin, na' mean? 

 

I digress.

 

There have been times where I am very conscious of the fact that I am a minority. When I get followed around a grocery store by employees, when I walk past a woman gripping her purse with all her might, when I get pulled over while walking, I generally assume that my skin had something to do with the matter. While the above examples totes suck whenever they happen, they do not happen to me as often as they did to my Father when he was my age. And they certainly do not carry the same viciousness as when my Grandpa was my age.

 

I feel ambivalent talking about dealing with prejudice because, while I feel the effects on a daily basis, such prejudice serves as little more than a nuiscance. I'm not being barred from entering establishments and I can whistle at white women to my heart's content without fear of retribution. Like, they can tell me to fuck off but I don't have to worry about them lynching me, y'know? Nothing that happens to me is really all that bad, and other ethnicities have their own little racial obstacles they must navigate during their day to day.

 

On the flipside, I find it frustrating that some people refuse to belive such prejudice even exists. They Quantum Leap around American history, highlighting the kick-ass freedom parts whilst glossing over the Trail of Tears, Japanese internment, and the death of Emmett Till. They see a large percentage of blacks in prison, but don't see that for similar offenses to white men black men recieve harsher sentences.

 

I had a co-worker ask me (paraphrasing) "If racism is still around, then why do white people think Michael Jordan is the greatest basketball player ever? If they were really racist wouldn't they call Larry Bird the greatest?" Can't see the forest for the trees.

 

I don't know what happened in Ferguson on August 9, 2014. I do know that it is a pretty stupid idea to get into a physical altercation with an armed police officer, and I do know that a police officer shooting an unarmed man six times is doing a shitty job of being a police officer. I also know that Mr. Brown's complexion only served to expedite his demise. I understand the anger of the black community. I don't agree with the looting or Al Sharptons of the world, but I understand the anger.

 

From my paternal grandfather, to my Dad, to myself, I can see the anger dissipating. My progenitor's have every right to remain indignant until the day they die, for they lived through injustice the likes of which I literally cannot fathom. And I'm great at fathoming shit. However, for myself, my generation, our barriers are not as omnipresent. Racism is still prevalent, but it no longer has a death grip on our lives.

Jesus

Sara: High! How are you doing?

 

Jesus: Great, how are you?

 

S: Fantastic, fantastic. So sorry to keep you waiting, I had to take a call from distribution that just dragged on and on.

 

J: No worries, I understand how it can be.

 

S: Please, please come inside. Have a seat right here, thank you.

 

J: Sure thing.

 

S: You've been waiting quite a bit so I'm going to be very blunt and cut to the chase; the reason we called you in for an interview is because you have one of the most impressive resumes we have ever seen.

 

J: Aww shucks, I'm blushing.

 

S: I don't mean to speak in... what's the word, hyperbole? But seriously, your resume reads like a 'what-to-do' for aspiring Best Buy Team Leads. The extensive experience working our Jasper store, sensitivity training you volunteered yourself for, and dying for our sins after being wrongfully sentenced by Pontius Pilate are all huge pluses.

 

J: You are too kind.

 

S: Plus I haven't seen many people pull off Comic Sans on their resume, but I would expect no less from the Son of God.

J: Thank you. Well I've never been too big a fan of Times New Roman, or Romans for that matter, so I tend to switch up the font here and there.

S: Your references all spoke glowingly of both your work ethic and ability to cure leprosy. One of your references, John I think it was? Seemed a bit off compared to the other three.

J: He can be a bit over dramatic but he's a good dude.

 

S: Going over your work history I see you mostly worked in miracles between 33 and 1996.

J: Oh, I was, uh, in Heaven serving with my Father. It was an administrative position, mostly paperwork and the like.

S: What made you leave, Your Holiness? I imagine serving as the right hand of God is a pretty tough position to walk away from.

J: Just odd hours, honestly. Mostly because the Sun never sets. Makes it hard to know what time it is.

S: So Jesus, tell me what you feel you can bring to the Best Buy staff? How do you feel you can help this store succeed? I guess what I'm asking is, why should we hire you?

J: Well first of all, I am Jesus.

S: ...

J: ...

S: The Perfect Man, with the perfect answer. Listen, being honest with you Christ Almighty, you got the job. You had the job the moment you walked in this office.

J: Excellent! Wonderful! I am Jesus!

S: However, discussing with my supervisor we feel that you are a bit overqualified for this position.

 

J: Is it because I'm your Lord and Savior, turned water into wine, all that?

 

S: Exactly, exactly. But let me clarify. We like what you bring to the table. We really do. We just don't want to hire you and then three days later you ascend to Heaven or accept a position at Circuit City. It's not very often we get a deity of your caliber wanting to work for Best Buy.

J: I will do whatever you ask using my name, so that the Father will be glorified by the Son... I will do it. (JN 14:13)

S: I don't think that answered my question but I like Bible references. Congratulations, Jesus Christ, welcome to Best Buy.

J: Appreciate this. Thank you so much.

S: We'll be giving you a call some time this week to let you know when your first day and orientation is.

J: I'll be looking forward to it.

S: Um, Jesus?

J: Yes, my child?

S: Just one final question, if you don't mind.

J: Sure, anything.

S: ...so are you, like, your own dad or uh, how... how does that work?

Laundry

I fucking hate doing laundry.

It's a 20-25 minute walk from my apartment to the nearest laundromat. While I could drive, these legs of granite aren't going to chisel themselves. I load my duffle bag with clothes and snacks, walk in a circle five times before exiting my door (I have OCD), then lock/unlock my door eight times (OCD again; it's not quirky, it's miserable) and head about my way.

As I near the laundromat I notice a motley crew of foul mouthed children playing a rather raucous game of craps in the parking lot. Recognizing the smallest child, and hoping to avoid conflict, I quietly shuffle by whilst avoiding eye contact.

"Hey Coats!" The smallest child calls to me. He flicks his cigarette and approaches menacingly. "Ya' got a lotta fuckin' nerve, ya' know that?"

"Knuckles, please, I just need a little more time," I plead. He flips out his butterfly knife and grabs me by the collar.

"Ya' got one week, ya' hear me? One fuckin' week, then I gut ya' like the fuckin' pig ya' are. Understand, friend?"

"Yes sir, thank you sir." He balls up his fist and punches me in the stomach, which elicits laughter from his fellow eight year olds. I sort of have a gambling problem, and sort of owe people money.

Dragging myself into the laundromat I'm greeted by grainy Ranchera music and babies running around in diapers. The mounted television is playing one of those Mexican game shows that has some clowns, some hot women, and some mustaches. The scene causes either nostalgia or indigestion to briefly consume my being, as my local laundromat is the closest I will come to visiting El Paso, my home, for the foreseeable future.

As I'm loading my clothes into the nearest washer I feel a tiny foot repeatedly kicking my leg. A small, ice cream stained toddler stands behind me, his face in perpetual I'm-about-to-sneeze-I'm-about-to-sneeze-no-wait-I'm-good mode. His mother quickly runs up and grabs him by the hand, apologizing. He looks up at me, with his stupid three year old eyes, turns absent-mindedly to his left, then does the most impressively awkward sprint I have ever, or will ever, see in my life. Like a gazelle missing one leg, with its remaining legs on fire. Ambivalent as to what to do in such a situation, I turn to the mother and say "Cute kid."

"Oh, thank you," she smiles politely. "He's not mine." Her smile slowly dissipates. "Not yet." She is staring off into the distance. "Soon. Soon he will be." Her eyes are the eyes of one who has seen much sorrow, of one who will see much more. "Mine. Forever."

Focusing on the task at hand I put my quarters in the washing machine. Not one to disappoint, the washing machine eats my quarters. The machine reads ERROR: DESPAIR. Using my Ring of Summoning (+2 Wisdom, +15 Mana) I call forth Quarter Wizard Lady the Gray.

She stops sweeping the floors and comes to my aid. "Que paso? It eat you quarters?"

 

"Your grace, this washing machine has broken the Pact of Six and consumed my quarters without having first laundered my laundry. I beg your assistance in retribution, o' Great Wizard."

"Oh, este no work. No use it." Quarter Wizard Lady's sagacity never fails to impress me. She hands me six quarters. "Different one."

"You humble me with your assistance, Quarter Wizard Lady. A thousand pardons for having disturbed you from your sweeping." She grunts and waddles off to sweep floors that need sweeping.

Many moons later I transfer my clothes from a washing machine to a dryer. I briefly contemplate what would happen if one put a washing machine into a dryer, then quickly shake such juvenile thoughts from my head. Obviously it would make a Transformer®.

 

I notice that an older gentleman is removing my laundry from the dryer. I reach for my wallet to flip a silver dollar for his troubles, then I realize he is stealing my clothes. I flare my lats to look hella jacked and more intimidating, then ask him what he is doing.

 

"Him what he is doing?" My brain and mouth don't always see eye to eye.

 

"What?"

 

"What are you doing?"

 

"Getting my laundry."

 

"That's my laundry."

 

"Whaaaaaaat?"

 

"Do you work for UNT?"

 

"Maybe, maybe not. What's it to you?"  

"Because those are UNT shirts I wear for work."

"Oh, it looks like you're right. These are clearly shirts for pussies."

"There's no need for name calling."

"There's also no need for you to have such colorful underwear."

"Just drop the clothes, dude."

"You must say that alot." He drops the clothes, then he drops the mic.

I fucking hate doing laundry.