The workday started on a stretch of sidewalk just one block from Northshore Park and the shore of Tampa Bay. Most of the crew were burnt out black folks who could only dream about living in this kind of a neighborhood. A man and his wife brought thier 1800 dollar pair of Irish Wolfhounds out of their mansion to romp around on the front lawn. They were kept in check by the tiny yapping figure of yet another pedigree dog that came in the form of a 900 dollar Cairn Terrier. Various comments came from the crew, mostly concerning the kidnapping of said dogs and the collection of all awards thereafter. The sort of inane bullshit clatter one would hear in the prison yard. It was kind of hard for me to stomach, seeing that I had known Mr. Baker and his wife for several years. I even remembered his huge hound named McGregger and Shasta the small Cairn Terrier. He must have gotten the other Irish Wolfhound within the last year or so. The dogs were loaded up into a smart looking SUV for an early morning trip to the vet.
Pick Axes and supplies were unloaded onto the dew covered lawn and the work commenced. I decided to let the Jigaboos swing the picks and lift the block while I would hover in front like the ever faithful "Step 'n Fetch It" and grab the lifted blocks and stack them neatly to the side of the walkway for later replacement once the bed was cleared of tree roots, raked even and levelled off with the planeing boards. The progress of the work would remind older folks of that movie "Cool Hand Luke," only I aint no goddamn convict. That was the crux of the whole damn thing. We were working in my own freaking neighborhood for crying out loud! I could see the raw hatred on the faces of these ignorant savage motherfuckers that I have to work with every time some one that knew me came by and
chatted with me. I can empathize with them though, because on our lunch breaks when we are gliding through the 'hood on our way to "Red's Snak Shak," or some other source of ethnic wonderment, I am witness to the bombed out urban decay of their part of town. Sidewalks that are made up more of the weeds bursting up through the cracks than of concrete. Every other house a boarded up wreck with a sign out front pleading for new ownership like a street begger holding a tattered cardboard message, hoping for the magic handout. The broken down derelects hanging out here and there, looking ever more like the lone Native American survivors of a small pox outbreak back in the Old West.
As the day went on, after lunch, the crew leader actually began talking about how drug testing affected the football team at Northeast high school, and I tried, I really fucking tried, to talk about how with my generation twenty years previous was dragged into Straight instead of just merely tested, and was met with looks like I was a Hollywood writer desperate to sell a pilot to the networks or some shit. I let it go. Fuck it. Maybe Sembler will start up some new "Ghetto Straight" or some shit. It would serve these Mongoloid fuckers right.
The icing on the cake for today's adventure came at the end of the day, when the crew chief was driving us around eating up the clock, until it was time to head back to the yard. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, yet still miles from the victim, he cruised through a neighborhood just as school buses were unloading kids. He came upon an Urban Goddess walking her two sons home from the bus stop. She reminded me of Olivia Brown (the cute black cop chick from Miami Vice) and proceeded with his line. From the prospective of the woman, the first thing she really seen was the emblem of the City of St. Petersburg on the side of the work truck. Magically, her two sons who were most likely twins now had sticks in their hands. They vented their feelings against a nearby fence as my crew chief left the truck and walked over and worked his magic on this lady. I will never forget how he called out to her, arm hanging out the window like a circus ape, "Oh baby, you afraid of being hurt?" "I aint about hurt'n, I'm bout healing." Yeah right, this is coming from a man who's been married for thirteen years. Give me a break. But still, the thing that is still stuck in my mind was the raw unharnessed emotion that poured out from the very essense of this young women as her entire face was swept with a rip tide of emotion when she was asked "What are you afraid of?" and she replied, "I am afraid of being hurt."
So what it all comes down to is that a married man of thirteen years may get himself some pussy, all because he is driving a vehicle that represents money. Money that came from my taxes.
Money that is not being redistributed to this young lady because of our asshole President and his policies. This is what happened today. This is not made up. This is real, and is what our society has to show for itself. I hope you found it to be entertaining. There will be more to come. Working this shit, man, I hav'nt had this much fun in years!!!!
