Chapter 2: A Slice of Americana

First, you might want to set up a "dummy" blog just to do your writing on, because this site doesn't seem to lose stuff these days. It auto-saves every few minutes, and every time you leave the page. Then you can cut and paste to this blog here.

You could also use Notepad.

How you count words, I dunno how you keep track. I'd find it hard to do, and would probably count out 100 or 50 word literal snippets of a print-out, then count those. People knowing how many words they've written impresses me because I don't know how you can count them other than manually counting them.-Alex in California

The dummy blog is an idea that I have tossed around.

I even thought that I might create a no holds barred blog where, under the cloak of anonymity, and even using the alias of the anti Daniel, I could talk about my relationships with any one of the 40 people (world-wide) who might read this blog at least a couple times a year.

I am seeing a trend whereby, in the future, people will have their whole lives compartmentalized on their devices, and whenever I post to the blog, anything from a hovering icon of my face on their screens, to perhaps an uptick by one to some tally of "unread" things will occur.

Using the "save as draft" feature basically accomplishes the same thing that starting another blog would.

What happened was that, I started cutting and pasting huge sections of the story, so that, for instance, it no longer started out with the wedding, and then jumped back a year, instead, it just makes mention of the wedding and then jumps back a year.
But, it jumps back a year and then forks into 2 storylines, the trailer park story line, and the Russian one.
So, without further ado:

When we last left off, I had bought a trailer from a man with a very wide ass, on a "rent to own" contractual agreement.
I pulled up to the place in the 1984 Corolla, which had been my home for about the prior year.
The driveway used to run right to the front door of trailer #60, before what looks like a handicap ramp (photo) was added.
I parked my Corolla, and went inside, to begin trailer park life.
It was my first time walking around the place without lard butt by my side, and my attention was immediately drawn to the fact that there was nothing in the place.
Except, ironically, the scrawny fold out table where I had inked my name to a lease agreement that was equally flimsy.

That was OK, because the refrigerator worked, and that was going to save me money over buying food one meal at a time, even though I had been pretty much living off of stuff that came in bottles out of GNC.
And, I was going to have a place to hang out at, so I wouldn't be riding around all day, stopping at places to spend money out of boredom.

Still, off I went in that Corolla, to put in almost 60 hours a week delivering pizza.

The agreement that I signed came with a lot of hidden costs (which didn't stay out of sight for long).

I had to pay for an annual inspection decal to be placed upon the unit, at a cost of $38.

I was responsible for keeping my lawn trimmed to within park specifications, so I had to buy a push mower and some other garden tools.
It was suggested to me by the park supervisor that, if I really wanted to have a decent lawn, I might have to bring in loads of loam, to build up the soil a bit; something the inhabitants before me had been negligent in, and it was further hinted to me that they didn't need any more residents like them. The creases in the bedroom ceiling flashed through my mind.

Withing the first couple weeks, I heard a loud pop come from under my place, and then discovered that I had no hot water.
I was crawling under the place the next day with a saw and a length of PVC pipe and a couple "sleeves" and a jar of the blue glue, all at my expense, and after having consulted a few people about the problem.

One such guy named Paul was a manager at the Dominos where I worked, and he had come out, after I had taken the place, to look at it, even though it was too late for me to have taken any advice he may have given me on whether or not the place was worth the money.

He showed up one afternoon with a mattress in the bed of his pickup, which he gave me. I had just been sleeping on the carpet in the bedroom. The better to hear popping noises...

Paul would have been a good person to talk to after I had initially met with lard butt, and had been convinced by him that I wasn't going to find a better deal in the rent-to-own trailer market.

The deal was conceived in the same spirit as those that the middle class families that I grew up around subscribed to when buying cars.

They would get a brand spanking new car, along with a 60 month amortization table, which would make the monthly payments seem reasonable (for such a brand new shiny car) but the principle balance would lag behind the book value of the car, which would have depreciated  about 30% as soon as the person drove it off the lot.

Then, at some point during about the 48th month of the loan, the person would be driving a car that was worth about 2 thousand bucks, which would be right around what the "payoff" amount of the loan would be.

But, now the car is 4 years old and is starting to cost almost as much at the mechanic's shop as it does at the bank.

And, so the person trades in the 4 year old car at the same dealership, that the family has been loyal to for years, and the dealer gives them the good news that if you trade in the 4 year old car ("towards" a new one) they will pay off the balance of the loan on it, to the bank, and so the person won't have to carry over anything that they still owe on their old clunker, that was probably going to need a new transmission.

This might make the person think that he is having a whole year's worth of payments made, in exchange for the car, when actually it is just the principle that the dealership is writing a check for. You don't really owe another 2 grand on the thing, when you look at it that way, probably more like $1,300.

But, on paper, it looks like a couple thousand had been knocked off the price of this year's model (with the electric aerial, so you don't have to step out at the car wash to push it down) when, in fact, the full MSRP of the newest model had been extracted from the person, using the outstanding balance on the clunker as a ploy.

And, it always seems like the person who has to borrow money from a bank, and who still owes on a car that is beginning to fall apart, who is over a barrel.
Not the dealer, who sells cars that start to fall apart after 48 months, and not the banks.

This is why, when I was a kid who worked as a caddie at a country club, I noticed that the members of that exclusive club were mostly "doctor" this or "doctor" that, or their last names were familiar from the sides of oil tankers, or insurance companies.

But, there was a generous smattering of "that guy owns the biggest Cadillac dealership in Florida," or "That's Rick Starr.....Rick Starr Toyota?!? Yeah, that Rick Starr..." to be heard.

Of course, no pun intended, there were golfers out there who were high school teachers, one of whom was named Bernie DePasquale, and he showed his appreciation for having somehow gotten to play golf at Oak Hill Country club on a less than six figure salary, and spread his love of the game, by beating every other member a couple years in a row, to take possession of the club championship trophy.

There were priests who teed it up, quite a few, actually.
What kind of salary were they pulling in?
The priests had designated times that they had to play, though, in exchange for whatever holy voucher they had been provided.

Priests Playing Golf

And, I know this is a story about 1996, and that I have been trying to get to the point that lard ass seemed to me to have country club written all over him; but...I can't resist.
Priests playing golf...I have to include this, and then back to the story...

These guys were playing golf, and they had a nun in their foursome.
One guy missed a putt, and yelled: "Shit, I missed!!"
The nun admonished him and warned him that God would punish him for using such language.
A few holes later he missed another shot, and again he yelled: "Shit, I missed!"
The nun, once again, warned him.
Then, they got to the 18th green, which sat atop a hill and, by then, the wind had picked up and dark clouds were blowing in overhead.
Thunder could be heard in the distance...
The guy missed yet another putt, and, snapping his putter over his knee, yelled: "Shit, I missed!!"
Then, there was an enormously loud snap, as a bolt of lightning came down from the sky; and hit the nun, killing her.
As the thunder pealed off, a deep booming voice came down from the sky:
"Shit, I missed!"

Back To The Serial Novel...

OK, so lard butt fancied himself as being on the side of the bread which is buttered.
That is the side that the people who have capital are on.
It is the person who is flipping through a newspaper and coming across a "Trailer in a nice westside park, $375/mo. rent to own" ad who thinks: "Hey, I can afford that; I can have a roof over my head tonight!" who is analogous to the person (back in '58) about to buy a brand new Impala on a 60 month bank note.

I guess, if I had to do it all again, I would have looked around the park, and I would have spotted the Goetzinger's trailer -a double-wide, with all the tell tale signs that the occupants had been there a while, to wit, vines that were on about their third lap around the base of the dwelling, children's toys that looked as if their better days had been outgrown, yet were still in the yard, maybe because Mrs. Goetzinger had five children already, at the age of about 28, and why get rid of a Big Wheel that still works, only is spattered with mud from the last rainstorm?

I would have seen the tell tale signs that Mr. Goetzinger had a trade. To wit, the van in the driveway, with the name of a (was it plumbing?) business on it.
I would have noticed that, from a certain angle, the satellite dish seemed to adorn the van like a bow.

The whole idea of a trailer is to be able to surround it with stuff which is worth way more than the dwelling itself. A Jacuzzi in the back would cover that in one fell swoop. 

The Goetzingers were the upper class of the park.

They were practicing Catholics, as was the park superintendent.

But, they had also mastered the art of living pretty well in a trailer park; but I just couldn't read all the signs.

I probably could have knocked on the door of his trailer, or caught him coming outside to grab his lighter out of his van, or something, and told him that I was thinking about renting the trailer on lot #60, and then showed him the newspaper ad, even.
  
...sure, and then Mr. G. would have shaken his head, removed a straw he was chewing on from his mouth, and advised: "I wouldn't. That's one of lard butt's ads. I can tell because it's a beaches number....Hell, no!
He's not going to tell you about all the pipes that are ready to bust as soon as you go to take a hot bath; that you either fix yourself or, God help you if you call his fat ass...for 'driving all the way from the beach' I think he soaked the last guy something like an extra fifty bucks, cause he 'had to drive all the way over here,' on a Saturday when the Gators were playing.
But, when the hot water heater goes out, which it will, in about 9 months, then he will insist upon doing the installation of a replacement, citing some bullshit about him not being liable if you go out and find a refurbished water heater or something out of a junk yard and you install it wrong; (and it explodes like the boiler on a steam locomotive and maims residents children playing hide and seek)
No, this ad is for suckers, pure and simple...look, you have a job and a steady income?
I know this dude, right over there in that park across the way; I'll even take you over there and show you the place; it's nice; he's selling his trailer cause he's into remodeling houses now and he's gonna use the money to start his business, and...

Boom! That's how social engineering could have worked, even back in 1996, in the heyday of the BET thing.

That was fun; let's imagine that Mr. Goetzinger is on his third Old Milwaukee and has to wait to turn the ribs anyways, and so he goes on:

And lard butt ain't gonna tell you that he has his own key and is likely to just walk in your place sometime, even if you're not there, and claim that he had to look at the specs on the water heater, so he'll know which one to order, but, of course when he barges in again on a Saturday morning, he'll have some dusty used heater with spots of rust on it.
Then, he's gonna tell you that he is adding the cost of the 'new' heater onto the end of your lease, at whatever value he pulled out of his fat ass!
Man, I know a lot of people who fell for one of his ads and just signed away like a damned fool; ended up paying like $13,000 for a trailer that might be worth $4,000.
Oh, and after he's disturbed your sleep on a Saturday morning that you were up until almost 5 AM recording music, or whatever you do, I know I just met you for the first time when I stepped outside to get my lighter, but you seem like the music recording type....well, after disturbing your sleep, he's gonna probably pause and look at the carpet, then flippantly say: 'You need to keep this carpet clean.'
That's going to be his veiled way of saying that you're never going to own the trailer; it's always going to be some bullshit that he'll add on to the end of the loan...

But, of course, we never had that discussion.

But, our paths would cross soon enough.

The first time would be over a jar of coins.

I was outside, on probably a May afternoon, cleaning out and vacuuming my car in the driveway; attached to a cord that the front door was opened to accommodate.

Naturally, this attracted the attention of a group of 3 boys, a couple 14 year olds and a kid of about 12, who turned out to be Brett Goetzinger, the middle child of the 5.

In a park already curious about the new guy with the white Corolla, it took only the vacuuming out of my car to get them to stop, with one of the older boys posing the question: "You live here now?"

Then it took only the sight of one of my guitars through the open door to spawn further conversation.

One of the older boys was named Royce.

I believe that Royce had the misfortune of living with two "parents," neither of which was a blood relation to him.

His mother had met some guy who already had Royce from a previous relationship, and then, I guess after raising him along with his dad, wound up still with him, through trailer park science that is beyond the scope of this post.
The mother, at that trailer diagonal from me, was a late twenties, blond haired, fair skinned and more stout than skinny, stripper.

It was kept a secret around the park just where she stripped, I guess for them not wanting guys from the park to embarrass her by going there, then making hoots and catcalls at her when she is just going out to sun herself on an aluminum recliner in her driveway.

There was a middle child, named Allie.

Allie resembled the mother, except that she was a much browner skinned version of her. I don't know if they are avid bowlers, or if they had conceived the girl in an Alley, but she was at least half related to some of the family.

And, there was a little girl named Courtney, who was the offspring of the stripper AND her current live-in boyfriend, who was also fair of skin and hair.
Courtney was doted upon.

Royce, not so much.

And the other 14 year old kid, who was skinny and white and wore glasses, insisted upon bringing a wooden club as a potential weapon with him after I did let them inside to check out the guitar and amp.

After we were back outside, Brett, who had been holding a cup, asked me if he could go back inside to get a glass of water.

Thinking that I (sadly) had nothing to steal in there, at least nothing that he could conceal upon himself, I let him.

In the room at the far north end, I had a huge glass bottle that I used to chunk my change into at the end of my pizza delivery shifts.

Often, it was all I had to show at the end of a month.

It sat next to my IBM 386 computer, which had its memory expanded to 1 megabyte to help me keep track of how much should be in the jar.

There had been somewhere around 82 bucks in the jar when I came home that same night, after the afternoon that I vacuumed out the car, to find that the jar had vanished out of the computer laboratory!

And, the funny thing is; I might still be wondering to this day whatever happened to it had not the thieves given themselves away.

The first part of their plan was almost ingenious.

When Brett went inside to get a glass of water, he quickly undid the latches on a certain window which opened upon the alley behind my trailer. He had chosen it for this reason, and because it was one of the few windows in my place that had any kind of curtain hanging from it, so the undone latches would be hidden from view.

Also, in the amount of time that it typically takes to get a glass of water from a sink, his choices would have been limited to that, or one more similarly curtained window.

Where they really messed up was by not re-locking the window that they had come in through.

This told me how the trailer's security was breached, and narrowed it down to the only person, other than myself, who had access to that window lock.

The other snag in their operation was that the window that Brett unlocked was quite a small one, maybe even intended to house an air conditioner, but it was small enough so that none of the older boys could fit through it, and so they had to enlist the help of 9 year old Britney (Goetzinger; second from youngest of 5) who was able to fit through the window (but who might have been slipshod in not re-latching the window) but, who was also reported seen around the park, attempting to trade change for paper dollars.

The gossip grapevine cannot hold such a juicy item.

She also caved in during interrogation after I had mentioned it to her mom, during one of my jogs around the park when I encountered her.

The next evening, there was a knock at my door, which I opened to see Mr. Goetzinger, standing next to a very contrite looking Brett, and an equally ashamed Britney.

"I understand that you had a jar of coins stolen from your place, and that the evidence points towards these kids..." began Mr. G.

He asked me how much I thought had been in the jar, as one of his oil-stained, well calloused hands reached for his wallet.

I had already told the Mrs. that I was pretty sure that there was "a little over 80 dollars in the jar." I stopped short of telling her that I knew the amount to the penny because I logged all my pizza delivery data at the end of the night, into a Lotus spreadsheet, along with my expenses -that sounds too much like part of the profile of a serial killer, or something- best to just say "a little over 80 bucks."

I took pity upon the kids, but then again, it was good to see them being disciplined. I'm was pretty sure I wasn't going to be visited by a contrite Royce, who, at the prodding of his stripper mom whom he isn't related to, would gush an apology.

He's the one who put up the younger Brett to do the unlatching of the window, and then the even younger Britney, to crawl through it.

And, the other kid, whom I would only go on to encounter a couple times more over the next year, would he and his father figure stop over, both wielding clubs, to apologize for the lads lapse in judgement?

But, the Goetzingers were trying to raise good kids, but, like I said, this was the Age of BET (black entertainment television).

While Mr. Goetzinger was plying his trade on the other side of the river, where flags flew in front of houses and off the sides of SUVs, his oldest daughter, Shauna had also been taken advantage of, for her innocence.

She had fallen into the company of a group of black kids from another park nearby, who were a couple years older than her.

They basically went through the tired prole of introducing her to crack; giving her a steady stream of it until she became addicted, and then cutting off the supply to her and letting her suffer withdrawals, and then offering her more crack in exchange for her having sex with all 4 of them.

This had gotten Shauna "so" grounded after it had come to light somehow, that she had been restricted to the confines of Americana park.

She spent a lot of time babysitting at the stripper's house.

She had a boyfriend named Jose, who was 18 that summer, and that would have made him 16 when he had been with the boys who had abused her, with him being the only one of the 5 who didn't want to participate. 

With the black kids, though, the practice found more acceptance. Jose might have believed that a beautiful young lady shouldn't  be abused such.

But this was 1996, and what had happened by then was...

From the perspective of a musician, I will say that the multi-million dollar success of Michael Jackson in the early 80's created a perception that there was gold in them thar hills, and that, perhaps white people had a greater appetite for "colored" music than Michael and Stevie Wonder alone could provide.
If Madonna was coke, than Michael Jackson was Pepsi.

If black artists were topping the charts, then why not promote the truly talented Stevie Wonder.

Miles Davis would hit it big in 1986 with his Tutu album.

But, then, along would come Public Enemy, and soon N.W.A., and by the early 1990's just about the coolest thing an 8 year old kid could hope to grow up to be would be a rapper.

Black kids could be seen walking around in public with their lips moving, as they practiced their rhymes.

Suddenly there was hope for those who couldn't dribble a basketball, or break dance.

Then, somehow, the illusion got turned inward upon itself.

Videos came on BET which had been staged with the artists, wearing rented clothing, rolling down the street in a rented pimped out car, alongside paid models wearing rented jewelry and clothes, flashing bling and stacks of hundred dollar bills that one can only surmise had been rented, and cutting to shots of the artists rapping on stage in front of a couple hundred people who had been basically hired as extras, and told that the more enthusiasm they showed, the better their chances of seeing themselves in a real video; on BET.

In a case of great irony, one such video, full of such illusions that glorified materialism, contained the refrain: "Don't believe the hype!"

Unless it's their hype; then, believe it.

By 1996, when I delivered pizza in the Arlington section of Jacksonville, close to half of the customers who came to the door were young white girls and, visible over their shoulders, as if intentionally posed, would be a black guy, reclined on a couch with a remote in his hand, perhaps, calling the shots, pressing the buttons. Waiting for his girlfriend to fetch the pizza and bring it to him.

To me, it had the feeling of a fad, such as when, in 7th grade, one kid showed up at school with a unicycle.

We all tried to ride the thing, but only Vinnie Brennan could, at first.

As other kids started to get the hang of it, they were soon down at Gamache's Cycles, ordering themselves unicycles. They got the money from wherever upper middle class kids do.

Vinnie Brennan eventually went back to Gamache's when he needed a part for his own unicycle.

Upon learning who he was, Mr. Gamache shook his hand, and told him: "Because of you, I've sold almost 25 unicycles in the past year!"
He gave him his part for free, plus a new seat, I think.

But, the point was that, once we caught the fever, we all had to have unicycles.
I thought this was just due to our adolescence, the same way that every kid in the school had had to have the "Destroyer" album by the band Kiss.

To know that you were the only kid home on a Saturday night not cranking up "Shout It Out Loud," was unbearable.

But, we outgrew such things, and learned how to think more autonomously; maybe less like a posse.

But, there is a dynamic that I sensed back then, and even more so into the early 2000's, that having a black boyfriend had become like the unicycle of the modern day white girl. All their friends are doing it.

And, I think the Arlington area statistics were skewed by the fact that, it seemed like a lot of such couples ordered pizza, just so the usually white driver will become a witness to their love. The black guy always being in sight when the door opens -you never would seem to catch him during a bathroom run- seemed peculiar.

At the Arlington store, a new manager had taken over, because of floundering sales.

It was a guy named John Abel, whom I had worked for at the upper middle class Mandarin store.

He was a no nonsense type of manager, who had a system, which he had successfully applied at other stores, effectively doubling their sales within a year and a half.

He resembled Adolf Hitler (he was even of German descent) and ran the store like a dictator, barking orders that he expected to be obeyed without hesitation.
He would just fire anyone who lagged.

One of his strategies was to bring in a large number of drivers and to give them each one pizza at a time to deliver.

This pissed off many drivers, who couldn't understand why they shouldn't be allowed to let one pizza sit for ten minutes on the warming rack while it waits for a second one that just went in the oven, but was going to the same neighborhood.

Those drivers thought that, to make good money, they needed to leave the store with 4 or 5 orders, drop them off as fast as possible, then return for more.

But, they would be returning for less and less as time went on, after those customers who had gotten the 5th order that someone dropped off, luke-warm, and about 45 minutes after they had ordered, migrated to another pizza company.

After just a couple of months of everybody getting their pizza in an average of 17 minutes after they ordered, sales would be up to the point that drivers could start taking more than one order because they would be coming out of the oven so fast that they wouldn't have to wait as long for two in the same neighborhood to be ready.

John had taken over the Arlington store and, during the first week had fired every black employee except 2.

That meant that he then had little more than 2 employees.

"They'd be leaning up against the wall, and I'd tell them to grab a broom or something and get busy, and they would stare back at me and not move."

And, so, I told John that I would go up there to work for him.

John's replacement in Mandarin was a black guy named T.C.

T.C. was in his mid, to late, 40's and so he was "old school," and thus shunned a bit by the white girls who seemed otherwise to be ga-ga over the younger blacks and the BET lifestyle that they promised.

But, perhaps as a sign of the times, T.C. had been recommended for the job through John, because T.C. was technically John's stepfather.

Yes, John's German mother had married an old school black man. It was 1996, after all.

"Your Old School Brother Is Home!"

T.C. was constantly hocking up phlegm and spitting it into a trash can that he kept nearby him.

He was also a slow worker, and the delivery times, and hence the sales began to slump shortly after his arrival. He would drift off into a daydream for a while sometimes before coming out of it with a start: "Oh, I have to make that pizza!"

Yes, T.C., you kinda had to make it about 11 minutes ago.

T.C. was constantly preparing pizza, wings and cinnamon twisty sticks ҫ and trading said product for everything it seemed he could get his hands on from the little strip mall where the Dominos was situated.

It was not far from a little liquor store, which was run by some very nice Asian people, who would, twelve years later give me the bus fare so I could go downtown and busk outside the Florida/Georgia game, but for now, it was -in with a couple dozen wings (retail value $15.87) out with a six pack of beer.

"I know how us managers do it," said T.C. one time when I just about ran into him as I was hustling back to the store with an energy drink I had gotten from nearby Health Source, and he was coming out of the Blockbuster Video place, which is further down from the liquor store (with nobody technically watching the store during the overlap) holding a stack of at least a half dozen movies.
Poor T.C. was going to have to pace his beer consumption and only crack one open whenever the lion roars at the beginning of the next feature.

And, since T.C. knew so well how us managers do it, there were the lovely young ladies at the Flowerama place next to Dominos on the other side.

I basically forgot about them until Valentines Day rolled around each year.


Then, I would make a killing, using my memorization of the map over the entire area along with those of other stores that I had worked out of, like the even more affluent Julington Creek area (where a pizza deliveryman has no right living, but more on that in the upcoming "Russian" sections).

I would be able to take a couple dozen floral arrangements; arrange them in my car in an order ordained by the map in my head, and deliver them all (all you had to do was leave them at the front door, wouldn't have to ring) at $5 per delivery, and $10 if you had to go all the way downtown, which was 16 miles from Flowerama, but only 3 more miles past the point of my last delivery, as per the way I would have set them up.

So, on February 14th, with visions of $120/hour in my head, I thought about the lovely young ladies at Flowerama.

But, the lovely ladies of Flowerama were in T.C.'s thoughts and were soon delighting in the greasy pleasures of pepperoni cal-zones and garlic bread, in exchange for a few loose flowers in a real glass vase.

So, that, when T.C. got home to his German wife, he could make a grand entrance and shout "Your old school brother is home, with movies and beer, and flowers for you, my dear!"

And the owner of the franchise probably only had to shell out about 12 bucks (food cost) to make it happen. Maybe that is how us managers do it...

So, meanwhile, T.C.'s white, Hitler-looking stepson had fired all but two black employees, up in Arlington.

Well, all but 2 and a half.

He kept Kimberly, whose mother was white, and whose father, had been black. Well, he's still probably black, but he was long gone before Kimberly was born, hence the past tense...

Kimberly identified with her black half exclusively.

Every once in a while, one of us drivers would deliver to a motel room and Kimberly's mother would come to the door to get the pizza and there (as if posing, again) would be some random black guy, shirtless, perhaps, on the bed, waiting to be fed.

So, even if it was at the guy's insistence that the pizza be ordered so the white man could see him in his glory, why order from the place where her 17 year old daughter works?

It became common knowledge that Kimberly's mom would "trick" occasionally, and, good for her, I guess. She got pizza out of it, apparently.

But, I will never forget the one night, after I had been working at that store a few months and had been living in my trailer not much longer.

After the sales had indeed doubled from an average of 9 thousand something to a record week of almost 18 thousand (the Jacksonville University students had arrived for the fall) John had relaxed a bit and was willing to allow Kimberly to flip the channel of the TV that was almost always showing football related stuff, to BET.

Kimberly had pleaded for this because there was to be a memorial service broadcast on BET that night to celebrate the life of the rapper, Notorious B.I.G. who had been murdered by another artist, I believe it was.

I will admit that, if I had to be marooned (excuse the pun) on an island with only a rap album at my disposal, if I wanted to listen to music.

Then, I would probably select the Notorious B.I.G. album, the one depicting him as an infant on the front cover. An infant who weighed half as much as I do today, but I digress.

So, I appreciated the artist.

But, this was like poor Kimberly's J.F.K. funeral, whose eyes were glued to the screen as she, perhaps, fought back tears.

The stage was full of people of color. It was the R&B band, 112. A symphonic sound arose and the people, whom I guess had all been close to the slain rapper all began to sing.

Then, it was P. Diddy (who lived in the Ponte Vedra Beach Dominos area and ordered sometimes) who sang "I'll Be Missing You," which is based upon "Every Breath You Take," the very well known song by the band The Police.

The lyrics had been modified to be more of a tribute to a slain rapper than the "I'll Be Watching You" ruminations of the stalker that Sting of The Police was alluding to.

And so, Kimberly was allowed to have the moment to commiserate with Puff Daddy, and I was about to return to my broom or something, when I noticed that the producers of the memorial tribute had done something kind of unique and interesting.

For, suddenly, at the start of the next verse the cameras panned to, not Puff Daddy, but lily white Sting, the guy who had composed the song, looking extra white after having seen Puff Daddy's face zoomed in on, like when you stare at a yellow object for a while then look at a white wall, you will the the inverse (gray) color, as an after image.

That is how extra white Sting looked when they surprised the viewer with his appearance.

Kimberly immediately clucked in disgust and groaned: "What is that white guy doing there?!?"

What's that white guy doing there?!?

For the sake of Janis, who was one of the 2 black employees who had been retained after the Great Dismissal, and who seemed to like me, I only said:
Because that white guy is the musical talent who composed that song because he can read and write and understand music.
And it's his song that the black guy stole, oh, I'm sorry, "sampled."
I stopped short of adding:
"And he is now trying to cash in monetarily on the death of someone, because blacks have little regard for life."

But, Kimberly wasn't having any part of her white half. 

And, so I would drive back from that scene to my trailer over a different bridge coming from the Arlington store, than the one I would take to and from Mandarin, both of them divide the haves from the have nots; just to differing degrees.

I would do my computer stuff, updating the tally of the change in the big jar, eat, probably record some music, all arranged around the nightly viewing of the Late Night with David Letterman show on my 5 inch screen black and white TV; which kicked off with a joint being lit at the onset of the opening theme.

The TV had been a gift from one of the Russian guys that I worked at, at the Mandarin store. It was a harbinger of other things to come from Russia, with love.

I would eventually drift off to sleep at some time around 2 AM, and so I would have just attained the magic number of 8 hours of it, at such a point when I would hear a knock at my back door.

It would be Shauna.

To be continued  
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