Twice a week I run into Big Chev, and we have our obligatory conversations. Chev likes me because I do not fear him. He despises those who walk in fear—and a good many others as well. One might say that Big Chev lives a malice-filled life. He seems content though, to rail on about the inferiors that surround him.

I like Big Chev, and do him the occasional favor. These favors generally consist of advice as to how to coexist with people like bosses and still walk tall—always an important factor when you have been defined as a big man.

About twenty years ago I met Big Chev at work and he glared down at me. I just shook his hand and did most of his work, which endeared me to him. The glares soon became smiles. I was his little worker-mule and he was my comic relief, and also provided innumerable sketches for supporting characters in my fiction, as well as material for my nonfiction.

Upon first meeting Big Chev, his boss, and his boss’s boss, and his boss’s boss’s boss all cautioned me not to anger him, as he was known to grab heads and smash them against hard objects. The caution was not necessary. It was that fear on tentative display that brought out the beast in him. What Big Chev really wanted then, when I worked for him, and now, while we are just passing acquaintances, was a patient ear. The man holds deep abiding animosities towards large segments of the population above and below him.

Our relationship works something like so:

He rants about a boss or coworker.

I listen and then offer to respond from his adversary’s point-of-view. For instance I might describe exactly how I would go about firing him in such a way as to not be found liable at the City Unemployment Hearing.

He then asks me how he should manage the interpersonal relationship in question, as he is now long past the age when smashing heads against hard stuff seems to be a sound solution.

I offer face-saving advice and so on.

What do I get out of this social intercourse?

I get dialogue for angry characters for starters. Then there are his stories from his youth. I also get a mind’s eye view of a certain intractable segment of our culture. Big Chev has been put to a variety of uses by this writer, for instance I used him as the basis for an Iroquois war chief in Of The Sunset World, and he will be reincarnated as a Viking before the year is out.

Now Little Bad is my nickname for a young man who wants dearly to be menacing. I pass this young man two mornings a week, normally just before running into Big Chev. For month’s he glared at me as I said "Good morning." Eventually the ghetto veneer cracked and I got a nod, then a reluctantly mumbled "Good morning."

One morning last week while I was speaking with Big Chev, Little Bad passed us. I saw him frown and glare, rearming himself with his menacing mystique upon seeing me speaking with a loud, self-proclaimed racist.

I interrupted Big Chev with a slightly, but not offensively, raised hand and acknowledged Little Bad with a manly nod and an assertive, "Good morning," which could not be returned by Little Bad or seconded by Big Chev under the circumstances without giving up the fiction of the 148-year-old race war they both believe themselves to be engaged in as noble oppressed combatants, forgotten warriors on an increasingly marginalized battlefield.

Before Little Bad was two paces past me Big Chev said in a loud deep tone, “Why did you just say ‘good morning’ to that monkey?”

I returned, “Why do you think?”

Big Chev scratched his heavily boned brow, “I really can’t imagine why you would say good morning to some monkey who hates you.”

I lowered my tone, not wanting my secret to get spread too far, “I just attacked him, not his body, but his self. I did more damage to his methodically constructed self-image by acknowledging our mutual humanity than you could by curb-stomping his scrawny ass.”

Big Chev wrinkled his brow, “So what exactly is your mad-scientist bullshit accomplishing here again?”

I drew into a conspiratorial hush and put my hand on his big shoulder, “He is a vampire that gets his urban superpowers, his ability to terrorize geeks, nerds, moms, twerps and schleps, by drinking your hate. He’s Supaman and you’re Lex Lunger. He needs you or there is no story for him to be the hero of. Every time I treat him with humanity and confident-respect I steal part of his soul, and he doesn’t even realize why he is so uncomfortable, that [it is because] I’m killing his self-image.”

Big Chev then sank back from the precipice of enlightenment into his comfort zone and blurted, “Of course not, because he’s just a fuckin’ monkey!”

I smiled up at him, “So I didn’t really get anywhere here today did I.”

Big Chev just grinned and shook his head, “Look, you can talk to the animals all you want. See ya later!” and off we were on our two separate ways.

That’s it, a ten-minute morning with Big Chev featuring a cameo by Little Bad.

See you at the bus stop.

James 4/22/13

Moral Minority Survival at the End of Caucasian Time Paperback