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Gay, Black, Crippled, Fat!
From Gay, Black, Crippled, Fat! by Adarro Minton
It’s Just a Dream
I have this recurring dream where I am confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life because the chair fell in love with me. Every morning when I wake up, it’s there by the side of my bed waiting, genuflecting, demanding I join with it just once more. Then it will leave me alone. But it lies, and the next day it is there again feigning compassion. While clandestinely leaving it’s accessories around the house. When I confront it, it threatens to leave, rolling to the door, leaving me and my lifeless legs on the floor. Only after I beg does it return, daring me to ever again rebuke it.
End.
A look at the base, vile, twisted, deviant world of, GAY MARRIAGE!
James didn’t smell food or hear pork chops frying in the kitchen. Mike, even though he had the whole day off, didn’t find it necessary to carry his lazy black ass into the kitchen to cook something for dinner. James, pissed off now, began pulling take-out menus from the junk drawer, and slamming them, one by one, onto the counter. Trying his best to intentionally disrupt Mike from The Oprah Show, and the simultaneous phone conversation he was casually having with his best friend Rita.
He didn’t want Chinese, SLAM, not tonight. He didn’t have a taste for Indian or Thai either; SLAM; SLAM. Mike heard and slid into the kitchen, his normally smoldering curly hair all fucked up and pushed grotesquely to one side, crusty boogers dried in the corners of his eyes, still dressed in the same drawers he slept in and asked James, “Hun, can you run back out to McDonald’s?”
James, awake since 5:00 a.m., two and a half hours commuting, eight hours at work kissing white mother fuckers ass, and then commuting three more hours to get home, picked up his briefcase, walked past Mike to the front door, and tossed it out onto their manicured White Plains lawn.
Mexican landscapers had carefully clipped crisp lines where the grass met the sidewalk, perfectly rounded hedges, and small happy pink, red, and yellow flora that only the crazy old “cat lady” at the end of the block knew the name of. James clapped his hands together and declared:
“THAT’S IT, I’m gonna take two years off and go back to school!”
“And work free-lance from home like your lazy ass.”
“I’d sure like to sit on my ass for awhile.”
“Maybe when we go broke I can get a decent meal on a fuckin’ soup line!”
Mike stood, repentant. His head down, appropriately soundless. James brushed by him, thumped the drawer closed, and slapped the menus off the counter. Mike flinched as their bedroom door slammed shut.
Vexed for letting the day get away from him, Mike grabbed a pair of shorts from the hamper in their downstairs bathroom, and went outside to retrieve James’ attaché. As he headed back into the house, Harriet Ludwig, from across the street, gave him a “toot-toot” on the horn, and a smiling wave as she passed him in her mini-van; on her way to get her daughter from ballet class.
Mike picked up his car keys as he passed through the living room up the stairs and stopped halfway and said:
“James I’m going to Boston Market!” James didn’t answer.
Mike tried again, “James, you want Mac and cheese or rice with your dinner?”
James answered, “I don’t care.”
“James, do you want food from Boston Market or not?” Again, there was no answer.
James, hoping to parlay this minor/major transgression, into some GOOD oral later on, was trying on the ginger and black suede shoes he’d bought a few weeks earlier at Bijan, and planned to wear to a party at Rita’s house on Saturday night.
“J-a-m-e-s”, Mike sung, pleading. “Do you want Boston Market or not”.
“no.”
“You want me to go to Manarola, get that pasta you like,” willing to pay any reparation even REALLY GOOD oral, after dinner.
“Do you, J-a-m-e-s?”
“yes”.
“Okay, I’ll be right back”.
As Mike made his way back down the stairs he heard the bedroom door open,
“Don’t forget the,” Mike cut him off,
“I know, extra garlic bread, and marinara on the side.”
“I don’t know why you brought my briefcase in, I’m not going back to work.”
“I know baby, we’ll talk about it when I get back.”
Mike walked out the door, jumped into the car and went to Manarola. James, already undressed, took a shower and put on his spaghetti sauce shirt, an old t-shirt he could eat in comfortably without fear of staining it with this sauce or that, and a pair of sweats with pockets, he would control the remote tonight.
End.
Posted by Rashid on September 3, 2006 11:05 AM