Posted 4 years, 2 months ago in the early afternoon by oso
He was having a difficult time reading them. The closest one was white, almost Opie looking. Vintage clothes, practically one of those scooter-riding hipsters, but without the holes in the jeans and the grease in the hair. He looked like he was about to fight back, but for the time was mostly quiet and attentive. He nods too much, in a thoughtful but disingenuous way. In the back of his distracted head, it is obvious, the gears are grinding.
Across the table, the other one was louder, accelerated, almost aggressive. But his bouts of quick jabs were tempered with the occassional right hook of squinted eyes and flashy, white teeth. That smile was his trademark; it was immediately obvious that it managed to both get him into and out of trouble – sometimes within the same minute. He was a Mexican. Or Laahhhteeenooo or Hispanic or whatever the fuck they call themselves these days.
But as he thought that he remembered his own cousin’s thrown up arms every time he called himself African-American. Nigga, how many times you been to Africa? You couldn’t find Africa on a map. Ain’t nothing African about you. You is Black. He started to miss his family back home. Funny, just a couple days and you’re missing the people you love to hate the most.
It was a business trip that brought him out here. Southern California … same concrete jungle, same little Chinese kids in their lowered Hondas, same paper chase. It’s a trip man, more you see in life, more it starts to all blend together.
This was his second night. Tomorrow, back to the frostbite. And the phone call he’d been putting off. Seeking distraction, he started to listen in.
“Come on dawg, are you telling me you don’t believe in justice? Let me ask you this, if you steal a candy bar and you get caught, what do you gotta do? You gotta give it back. That’s justice.”
“Putting a candy bar back and killing someone are two completely different things. Dude, that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Yes it …”
“Hold on man, here, let me tell you my main point … he was doing more good in jail than he’s doing now. That’s enough for me.”
“Dawg, what about justice?”
“What, an eye for an eye?”
Southern California … freeways, shopping plazas, and people rapping about the same shit. He could’ve been anywhere back in Detroit. Last night he stayed in the hotel. Room service, his first ever. Yeah, he’d contemplated going out. Read up on the club scene online at the office. But that’s what got him in trouble back home. The hustle. Tonight he had to get out of the hotel though. Driving the rental car, he stumbled on a Vietnamese restaurant, remembered his ex – banging body – who taught him how to use chop sticks, and decided to stop in. That’s when it ocurred to him: a black dude, a white dude, and a brown dude all eating Vietnamese food with chop sticks. It’s a trip man, more you see in life, more it starts to all blend together.
He decided to chime in.
“I’m sorry gentlemen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just heard what you are … were talking about … you’ve got to consider this. If just one time, just once, if you just mess up one time, you’re taking away an innocent man’s life. And then, who pays the justice for that? Every single supporter of the death penalty – that’s on all of them.”
And the conversation went on. Slowly to start, as they sniffed each other out with humor and careful word choice. They went around in circles, contradicted themselves, and enthusiastically agreed when they found common ground.
He still couldn’t get a feel for them though and had to ask: “So where you guys at, like politically?”
It was the white guy who responded.
“I’m left, he’s right.”
He was caught off guard by how easy they owned up to political labels. No one does that anymore. These days he was really only interested in politics as a way of finding out more about someone’s psychology, their past, the things that make them tick. He remembered his days in the unions: the slogans, the mottos, the 30-minute rants by the corrupt bosses. Just another business like any else. He still had his beliefs, but wasn’t willing to fight for them so much like in his younger days.
“Me, I guess I’m somewhere in the middle. I like to call myself independent.”
There was a silence. The Vietnamese waitress was staring at the television and they all looked over to admire her curves. She pretended not to notice.
“How do you two feel about Wal-Mart?”
They both sat up in their chairs. Prize fighters at the bell. The Mexican was a good half foot shorter, he noted. A scrappy Napolean. He added the observation to his mental archive of political stereotypes.
And the conversation went on, round and round like a gospel choir.
It was getting late. The three had been talking for too long and though the buzzing, unanswered cell phones insured their masculinity, anything longer would have betrayed the secrecy of their loneliness. They each tipped the waitress too much, waved each other off without handshakes or introductions and went back to their lives. Same concrete jungle, same little Chinese kids in their lowered Hondas, same paper chase.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. My first guess...
Poor guy actually stepped into a conversation on politics with you and HP. Did he go running back to Detroit?
Assumptions assumptions Cindylu. This post is fiction.
Daymn, label it fiction man! You don’t want to get exposed on The Smoking Gun.
Figured it was fiction, though. It didn’t sound right.
Come on Cindyluv, this should have given away that it was fiction,
They both sat up in their chairs. Prize fighters at the bell. The Mexican was a good half foot shorter, he noted. A scrappy Napolean. He added the observation to his mental archive of political stereotypes.
Shieett, I am more of a Mexican Maximus than Napolean.
HP,
You and I both know that you are a good six inches shorter than Oso. Plus, I know you both like pho. Scrappy Napoleon seems to fit. What the hell is a Maximus?
Fact or Fiction it is an excellent post. I like the way it was written ‘fo sho’
I loved it too! Great writting—Now you are giving me ideas…, hmm, food fiction in Spanish?. I should move to a place where people do not sleep at all, that way I´ll have time to read all the blogs and take care of mine too
Hugs,
i loved it too. great writing. interesting issues. i seem to be attracted to fiction that could pass as memoir…james frey, jt leroy, oso…
Can’t get away with this one without a comment from me. This is a nice edgy piece, not usually found in fiction. You set up a really fabulous sense of scene, drawing the audience in immediately and incorporate good details for charismatic characters. It’s even kind of funny at the end.
Even though I really like the detail at the beg, I certainly think I would have been more engaged if I read this in 1st POV, which would be difficult since this is just a piece of a story. What’s the dude’s name? Also the dialogue was a bit unrealistic, just a bit of tweeking.
I heart it mucho.
I am stunned you don’t know who Maximus is, he is the guy from one of the best movies ever made, Gladiator.
Oh yeah, six inches? WTF. Maybe an inch or two yeah, three or four at most, but definitely not no six inches. I’m 5′8″, Oso is probably a good 5′11″ to 6′…
First I have to ask,Os, are you inside my head? What you wrote here, is exactly the same stuff I’ve been thinking—not the content but the idea, the approach to ficiton. I even posted someting on my blog about fiction, something I’ve been toiling with for and wrote the last couple of weeks. “Write what you know, Cesar,” my writer friend told me, “You pull from real life and you pull in characteristics of the people you know and encountered and create something.”
This, here, is what you do, and what I have always had a hard time doing. I wish I could just leave work now and go write. But I can’t, and tonight I’m going on a roadtrip, so that urge will have to wait until later.
Patti brings up a great point with the dialogue. You’ve captured a scene, you’re description is great, it’s got a strong voice. You took me there and I was seeing it. But let the characters talk like they know each other.
I’ve been known to write shitloads of pages of feedback for my friends, I’ll spare you from this here. Hit me up if you’d like that.
Someone mentioned the essay approach, like JT LeRoy. I agree, tapping into that surreal-dreamstate essay writing LeRoy does (I suggest you read the gut-wrenching Sarah) is hard to do, but you’ve got a natural sense of description—here I go again…
ya.
bad-ass, man, bad-ass
Don’t forget the best part of his fictional story EMC, the Mexican made by far the more cogent arguments.
that was sweet. i love modern theater
Joel,
Lovely gravatar. This weblog aims for a lot, but certainly never credibility.
Logtar,
Grazi.
Melissa,
I really don’t know how you do it – if I cooked anything more complex than spaghetti, I’d never find the time for my weekly shower.
Risa,
“JT Leroy,” “memoir” – don’t think so. (esp)
Patri,
I heart your hearting. And your gravatar … think it just convinced me to pour myself a glass actually. It’s funny that the dialogue was the unrealistic part ’cause that’s just about the only part of the story that really did take place. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s verbatim.
But you’re right, I’ve always struggled with dialogue. I think mostly because if you transcribe what people actually say, it always sounds unrealistic. I’ve tried it at coffee shops – you know, listening in, transcribing the conversation verbatim and trying to reenact the pauses and breathing with punctuation, but it’s a difficult art. I’m always impressed with those who can do it well.
Also, interesting that you’d prefer it in first person. Like most bloggers, the “I” is what finds its way most easily into my writing, but it’s a temptation I resist when I set out on a short story. It seems like it’s a characteristic of our generation; that we’re constantly inserting ourselves into everything we write, even if it’s through the mask of a fictional character. I gotta admit, I’m old school when it comes to the short story … I like the way Salinger and Hemmingway crafted their stuff.
HP,
If you’re 5′8” you’re wearing platforms homie.
EMC,
We’ve been in each other’s heads for a while my friend. I did see that post over at your blog. I didn’t comment, because I think it woulda been pretty obvious what I would write:
Write on.
And like I told you in the email, I’m flattered by your criticism ’cause I really don’t see myself as a “writer.” I enjoy writing, but only when it comes out (usually a result of over-caffeination and sensory overload more than anything else).
My problem – and the same problem I have with writing songs – is that I never go back and try to make things better. For me it’s all just sorta creative conversation that comes and goes; but never a finished product.
HP,
“Cogent.” It’s great to see that GRE prep class helping with your vocab.
Moreno,
Where the fuck are you man? Word on the street is that you had a show last night and only invited one Dave.
i didn’t know you did fiction. i enjoyed it.
“…unanswered cell phones insured their masculinity.”
So you’re from the school of thought that says that we should…hacerlas sufrir? or am I off here?
I have absolutely no authority on poetry or lyrics, so I wouldn’t be able to comment, but I would love to read some of your songwriting some time.