What I'm about to relate is not an exercise in self congratulations nor a touting of my virtuous values. Sanctimonious piety sets my teeth on edge. Those who extol it upon themselves usually do so just before they condemn others for sins the first group once committed. I enjoy the illusion of having a touch of 'Bad Boy' in my character. Such coarse imagery separates me from the blandness of the supposedly righteous crowd. This time, though, I unconsciously did what was right and good... yet it still troubles me.

At the time, Connie was the manager of the convenience store/gas station at which I was a graveyard clerk. She offered me the position of assistant manager but I turned her down. Why?

1. Being allergic to tobacco smoke, I could not work in the convenience store during the day. One lit cigarette can trigger a violent reaction in me. At night, I could get away with putting up a 'No Smoking' sign but the home office will not allow one posted during daylight hours. Even that sign didn't work sometimes. Some smokers either don't see a 'No Smoking' sign or blatantly ignore it, puffing away on their cancer sticks dangling from their lower lips. "It's my God given right to smoke any place I damned well please!" was their feeble battle cry, disregarding proven health and safety issues. (Another reason why I learned to abhor working with the general public.) (All their new or remodeled convenience stores, however, are non-smoking but ours was so far down on the redo list that it still hadn't been touched by the time I quit.)

   

2. I would rather have red hot railroad spikes driven through my eyelids than ever become management of any convenience food store. On call 24 hours a day? Overrun with vendors who trash competitors' displays and products so they can put theirs up in more prominent areas? (Beer vendors are the worst of that breed.) No thank you. I got yelled at enough when I I.D.'ed customers for smokes and booze (which is a part of all clerks' jobs thanks to state & federal laws... and penalties). To be management so I could also get it in the neck from the home office? No way. I consider myself a writer and an artist first & foremost. Being a clerk was a temporary position that allowed me to pay my bills and kept me off welfare. Clerking is a job, not a career one aspires to. Period.

   

3. Back in the early 1970's, I was the manager of a kid's arcade & snack shop named (hackneyed enough) The Arcade in Las Vegas. How long ago was that? The hottest arcade machine then was the first video game, Pong. For those of you who think Super Mario Bros. is old, Pong was a computerized form of ping pong. Its monitor displayed a black screen with two white paddles (straight lines), a ball (one white square), a net line (another white line) and the score (white numbers). Yep, a B&W game with no shades of gray. Less than 50 lines of computer programming.

   What was supposed to be an alternative to the betting parlors turned into a dumping ground for the gamblers' kiddies... and I was the manager of that ulcer factory. On call 24 hours a day. Saddled with an eighteen year old concession stand manager. Pinball machines that ruptured if you looked at them funny. Constantly overrun with upset children. Hell on Earth.

   I was forced to lug around one of the first pagers, a monstrosity which was powered by 4 C-batteries. And, boy, was I paged! At least four times a day beyond my regular 10 hour shift. Problems ranged from the concession manager having sex in the back office with her stud du jour to Nevada social services looking for abandoned children.

   I was making $300 a week take-home after taxes (in 1972) but I was developing a drinking problem. No, I was not becoming an alcoholic. My nerves were so jangled that my hands constantly shook. I couldn't drink from a glass without spilling half of its contents. Everything had to be sipped through a straw. Eating was just as difficult. As for urinating, I had to do it seated because my aim was shot... and I was disgusted with having wet pants.

   After three months, unable to take it anymore, I resigned. My supervisor, in an effort to keep me on the job, raised my salary to $500 a week after taxes. Turning him down was one of the toughest decisions I ever made but I was right in hindsight. My replacement ended his managerial stint by placing a gun barrel in his mouth and pulling the trigger. In front of the boss.

Connie wisely never asked me that fool question ever again.

Connie also did something no manager at that store had ever done before. She hired a Black male clerk (who I will call Jeff). It had nothing to do with pressures from home office to hire a minority... or not. Rather, the store was in a predominately White area and one cannot hire minority workers if they don't apply in the first place.

Jeff, however, did apply. His employment application was nicely filled out. He passed the company's drug screening tests with flying colors. He had no criminal record. (In Missouri, you cannot sell or handle alcohol at your place of employment if you have ever been convicted of a felony.) He was the best applicant so Connie hired him.

Jeff was not the most cheerful person in the world but, next to me (the store's Grinch), he was friendly enough. He would say, "Oh, hi," when customers entered the store and "Please" & "Thank you" whenever necessary. His low-key calmness was appreciated by the customers, especially when he worked my nights off. Trust me. The last thing truck drivers want at 3 A.M. is some bubbly happy fellow spouting, "Have a nice day," when they would rather still be in bed but are settling for a hot cup of coffee instead. Jeff stocked shelves, mopped floors, swept the parking lot, worked in the cooler and did his own closing paperwork. His cash drawer at the end of his shift was rarely more than a buck off either way. He didn't make hour-long phone calls to his girl friends nor did his buddies hang out visiting him at the store. In short, Jeff was a hardworking employee that you didn't mind following because he didn't leave chores undone that could booby trap you later on your shift.

Dear God, I wish all workers were like Jeff. By doing his job, he took pressure off of the rest of us.

Naturally, it didn't last. Five months later, the local Coca-Cola bottler/distributor enticed Jeff away with more pay, better hours and real benefits, like hospitalization. (Wish I could have been so lucky.) Jeff, true to form, gave the store two weeks notice so we could find a suitable replacement. (Frankly, the store never did get anyone who could hold a candle to Jeff.)

Up until now, this is a most unremarkable tale about a conscientious worker who did his job well. The fact that he was Black should be of no importance... and wasn't... until his final day.

Jeff came in to pick up his final paycheck and turn in his ghastly green shirts the company forced us to wear. He then deliberately went out of his way to thank Connie and I, even shaking our hands. At first, we didn't understand. Jeff had to explain it to us poor dumb White folk. You see, we treated him like a fellow employee... NOT the Black employee. We didn't pussyfoot around his race, trying not to offend, nor did we hit him with slurs like Darkie or Nigger. No burying him with chores we wouldn't do ourselves nor lightening his load in an effort to 'do the right thing.' We treated him like he was one of us, just another overworked clerk.

That didn't seem like a big deal to Connie or I. Treating Jeff any differently never occurred to either one of us. Jeff told us it was an honor working with us for we never dumped our racial/emotional baggage onto him. Connie explained that we didn't have any to dump in the first place. Smiling one of his infrequent smiles, Jeff said that he knew that. That's what made us special. Then he left for his new job.

At first, Connie and I were overly pleased with ourselves, puffing up like old bullfrogs. We had done the politically correct thing without even trying. Then the truth dawned on us... and deflated our spirits as well. If our viewing Jeff as an equal was so rare that he intentionally went out of his way to thank us, then what was it like for him in the Redneck Ozarks the rest of the time?

Being a crusty old geek and an opinionated nerd with a bitter edge, I thought I knew everything about being an outsider. Jeff taught me otherwise. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be a child ostracized by my neighbors simply because my skin tone wasn't light enough. Decades of averted glances and poorly hidden sneers starting at an age before you can comprehend what was going on. I thought we as a nation and a people were beyond that all that racial crap. I was wrong.

I cannot apologize for the entire White race. Nor would I want to. We've got some real assholes in my color spectrum that I avoid like the plague. A message to others of different tints: Avoid White supremacist jerks at all cost. You cannot reason with them, convert them or show them the error of their ways. They have a level of stupidity that cannot be altered. Hopefully, education and compassion will prevent new bigots from developing while death eliminates the existing aging monsters. (When I first saw Stephen King's THE STAND, I thought it was a comedy. Killing off 99.99% of the Earth's population? An outstanding idea to me!)

I do not advocate murdering White supremacists, however. You don't want them angry, coming after you like a swarm of killer bees. Supremacists belong to militias and have more firepower than most Third World countries. Luckily, they are continually practicing maneuvers and have a tendency to accidentally bump themselves off with 'unloaded' weapons.

Racial issues frequently pop up in my tales, mostly so I can use the bigots as villains. I also employ such concepts to show that, when good people try to sidestep such topics, they can stumble into worst trouble than they had in the beginning. The best defenses against such intolerance? Humor, knowledge and forgiveness. And maybe a lick of revenge. Noble, I'm not.

I despise anything that puts others in higher social positions, be it wealth, military rank, political power, religion, gender or race. And I do not puncture those pomposities with the prick of a well-placed pin. No surgical strikes for me. I attack with a Medieval lance that can gut such scoundrels like tethered goats with the first blow. I am messy, vulgar and have been know to dance in the eviscerated bowels & blood of my slaughtered foes... at least, in my tales.

If I find a reason to hate you, it is because of something you did or how you behaved, not because of the color of your shell. Why? Because there are people like Jeff out there who don't deserve to be crapped on. Maybe I can never comprehend the nuances of being treated like he was but I will be damned if I'm going to add to the problem.

Of course, people like Jeff might not want a jackass like me on their side but, hey, nobody said this was a perfect world.