When the news went out to the world that Harm City was erupting in riots I received a call from an unlikely tourist; a young man spawned, twisted and tempered in the forge of another east Coast dump Camden New Jersey, a city policed by the U.S. Marshals. My white nationalist friend Mescaline Franklin said, “Jim, I’d like to sit and have a beer with you while we watch den of iniquity burn.”
So there we were, after seeing my friend Quinn as he stepped off the bus. Quinn is a 59 year old liberal democrat black Baltimore City teacher. Oddly enough, mescaline and Quinn like each other’s company. When Quinn gets off the bus Mescaline says, “That’s the guy—the GQ mugging guy. Let’s buy him a beer.”
We had just seen someone go into the mixed-race sports bar yet Quinn could not get in. We stepped up and he said, “Maybe they’ll let me in if I’m with you people.”
We knocked and knocked, no one answered. Quinn then said, “I guess not.”
As he walked off dejectedly the door opened and they let us in for last call. Half the bar was black and half white. They did not want Quinn in there because he had gotten into an argument about the riots with two white patrons yesterday.
We drank our beer while two large women pawed mescaline’s bare tattooed shoulders and biceps, the super large one purring in her throat as she playfully snarled, “I need someone to protect me and I see that protection happening behind closed doors baby. She then tapped me with the back of hand too, and chortled, “You too honey. My old man will understand!”
After hastily downing our brews we were back on the street and Quinn was standing shaking his head. Mescaline said, “We need to cheer him up, buy him a beer—a sorry excuse for a racist I am!”
Quinn, only a part time teacher who has been losing hours at work due to the unrest despaired of going across the street to the upscale bar. But Mescaline put one muscular arm over his shoulder and declared, “It’s on me brother, come on.”
Quinn, sighed with a slight note of protest, “Brother—you better be careful saying that around these hockey fans.”
Mescaline was dismissive, “Nah, all of them have been beat up by the cops and the blacks, so they’re on edge. Let’s go drink with these faɡɡot hipsters. The wait staff is real nice.”
As we entered the bar Quinn was wowed by the real feel of the place, although he was put off by the upscale beer selection. He settled for National Boh and we settled into a three hour conversation that went all over the place, from Quinn being stalked by two black youths, and avoiding their attention by taking the wrong bus and cruising all the way across town to avoid an attack. They, like him, were black of course. And he was well aware that if they killed him he would not be regarded as worth a news bite, let alone a protest.
Used to liberal-conservative discourse, Quinn was quite fascinated by the Darwinism of LaFond and the ethno-anarchy stance of Mescaline. We next to a pillar on three stools around a one by two foot beer stand, with Quinn in the middle. Quinn would alternately be drawn I magnetically toward Mescaline’s novel political discourse, and alternately repelled by the younger man’s hyper angst body language. For instance, when he makes a certain point he seems to be crushing a small enemy skull as he looks into its eyes.
At one juncture, Quinn, said, “What about the curfew? How do we get home?”
I responded, “Why do you think we are buying you drinks. You are the sacrificial lamb we will throw to the pigs when they come with their truncheons!”
Quinn made wide eyes and said, “With all due respect, among the three of us, I would venture to say that I am the most respectable looking by far. Over here we have a heavy from a b-movie. And you Mister LaFond, have perfected the abrasive white trash persona to a T!”
After a good laugh and more beer Quinn asked me what my next piece was I had outlined and I said, “I am going to write a piece on why our mayor would make better decisions if she was my sex slave.”
Mescaline chimed in, “You know, even though it goes against my evil racist creedo, I am attracted to your Mulattress-in-chief.”
Quinn and expert on such things, waxed physiognomic, “It’s the lips, she has those lovely lips because she used to be a fat girl.”
I agreed, “That could explain my Clintonesque fixation.”
Quinn: “Really Sheila Dixon was the girl—corrupt as shit but a hot momma—had that sway to her walk.”
Mescaline: “Oh, really, a corrupt black politician in a mid-sized American city? I don’t believe it.”
Quinn: “I need to take you across the street sometime to educate those thick-headed cousins of yours!”
James: “Steela Dixon is what we called the former ebony babe-mayor. A prime ghetto queen—could be the villainess in a hip-hop movie.”
Quinn: “Yes, but at least she had that presence. I remember sitting at City Council hearing, that was concerned with, among other things, my job. This was back when Ms. Rolings-Blake was on the city council. At a certain point—and this was when she was a big girl—she sent her assistant out to get a bucket of KFC fried chicken, and sat in the corner and ate the whole thing. Really? That’s where she comes from. So perhaps you d have appoint about her being a dominance-starved sex slave joined at the hip with some hyphenated yes man. Still, Sheila Dixon in a heartbeat.”
James: “Me, all have to go with the underused former fat girl.”
Quinn: “What about you Mister Franklin, what kind of woman is to your taste?”
Mescaline: “You see, I’m a white-identified guy. So I won’t let myself cross that line. And, tragically, the only women who smile at me are black and Latina. Now, and this is embarrassing, the kind of women I am attracted to, are these kind of women, the hipster chicks in here that hang out with these gay liberals and have no fear of the police goon squad because the entire system is built around worshipping them and catering to their despicable sensibilities. I am attracted to them, yet hate who they are.”
Quinn: “Before I can even begin to wrap my head around that, I will need another beer.”
Mescaline: “Amen brother, make it a double.”
Quinn than looked out the window and up into the sky as if imagining another time. “I lived through the sixty-eight riots. This almost does not deserve the term. Back then you had militant men bringing pictures of Doctor King to business owners. And if you hung that picture in your window you were spared. This time around—it’s about stealing tennis shoes. Something has been lost—some substance that slipped through our fingers.”
You write well, and are generous to put out the good reporting you do. I haven't been in big cities for years, so it's exotic in a way. I have some connections to Baltimore but most moved. I did live in New Orleans for twenty five years or so.
Thanks also for your combat writing. Being aged, I tend towards a good reliable firearm and can shoot. Still, one needs more than one trick.
I live at altitude and most of my neighbors are animals. I admire your fortitude and think I might see why you do it, but I don't envy you. Good luck in the coming changes.
Living at altitude with animals?
You mean they still have high rise projects somewhere in the U.S., Riley? I thought the housing subsidies were being dispersed to increase suburban sprawl?
Seriously, I suppose this is my wilderness. On Monday night I felt like Daniel Boone ignoring a British order to stay on the east side of the divide.
Thanks a lot for supporting the site.