Рот Уайт - 400 Days of Oppression

“Did he ever tell you about the first white woman he ever fell in love with? What he did to her family?”

I shook my head. I didn’t think I wanted to hear this.

“She told him she couldn’t see him because her parents were prejudice, so Kenyatta took a knife, went to her house, and killed them both. He stabbed the girl’s mother about twenty times and her father more than fifty. He slit the man’s throat so deep he almost decapitated him. He was only fourteen so he was tried as a juvenile and declared insane. They put him in a mental institution until he was an adult. On his twenty-first birthday, he was released and his juvenile record was sealed. He killed two people and walked out of there with a clean record.”

My hands shook as I stood up and began clearing the breakfast dishes. I didn’t know what to think. How could Kenyatta have killed someone? It didn’t make sense. But the real problem was that it made too much sense. It answered too many questions.

I slammed the dishes down in the sink, shattering them.

“Why the fuck are you telling me this now? Why didn’t you say something before?”

Angela stood up and tried to put her arms around me. I pushed her away.

“Why now? Answer me!”

“Because you might make it. I never thought you would before, but you might make it. And marrying him would be the biggest mistake of your life. Kenyatta doesn’t love you. He doesn’t know how to love anyone. All he’s got inside him is hate. He wants everyone, every white person, to feel the pain he felt when he was rejected at fourteen. That’s what he’s in this for, and it won’t stop when this is over. It won’t stop when you get a ring on your finger. You need to think about this, girl.”

And I did. I thought about it while I walked to the bus stop. I thought about it as I rode the bus to the BART train. I thought about it as I took BART to Market Street and even while I walked up Market to my first job interview. It was all I could think about. Had all this been for nothing? Was Angela just saying all that because she wanted him to herself? But that didn’t make sense. Angela was a lesbian. That could have been bullshit though. She was definitely bi, but just because she liked pussy didn’t mean she didn’t also love dick.

The interview was for a job as a waitress at a diner on Market and Church Street. I tilted my head back, lifted my chin, and marched in. The diner was designed to look like the dining car of an old train. Being in San Francisco, there was every possibility that it had once been. It was green and black with little green shades on the windows with gold tassels. Every seat was filled and the waitresses looked harried but competent as they hurried up and down the aisles taking and delivering food orders. I could easily imagine myself among them. It would actually be a relief to have a job, for once, that ended when you clocked out. No tests or papers to grade or assignments to plan. No stressing over some complicated lesson plan or student issue. Just take the order and bring the food. No thought involved. It would be a relief.

I walked up to the cash register and put on my brightest smile.

“Hi. I’m here to apply for the waitress position.”

The woman behind the counter had thick blonde curls and bright red lipstick. She dressed in a tight cream-colored cashmere sweater and a black poodle skirt with a red kitten on it, like she stepped off the set of Happy Days . But she was much too young to have ever seen the show, except perhaps in reruns. There was some odd combination of smile and frown on her face that was supposed to be sexy, judging from the way she stood with one hand on her hip, breasts thrust out prominently, twirling her gum around her finger and winking at customers as they walked in.

“Um, okay. Have you ever waitressed before?” she said, glancing my way only long enough to pass me an application before she resumed smiling and winking at customers. She even flirted with the gay couples.

“No...um...not really.”

She turned and looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time.

“Is that permanent?” she said, gesturing toward my face, with a dismissive flip of the wrist. I wanted to grab her by the hair and slam her face into the cash register. Instead, I willed myself to hold that fake smile on my face like it was chained to me.

“No. It only lasts two or three weeks.”

She looked me up and down then turned to blow a kiss at an old man I assumed was a regular. He returned the gesture, beaming from ear to ear.

“We might still be hiring in three weeks,” she said, without ever turning back to look at me. I stood there for nearly a full minute, during which she never looked at me again. Finally, I walked out of the little diner, refusing to cry, determined not to give up. I caught a bus to Haight Street and walked down to the Lower Haight district where there were quirky little shops and bars that were used to people with odd tattoos and piercings.

There was a bar called The Mad Wolf that had advertised for a cocktail waitress. It was right in the middle of the block. The kind of bar with saloon doors, pool tables, dart boards, and a sparse smattering of lonely drunks, having their first drink of the day when most people were still digesting their Froot Loops.

I walked up to the bar. The guy behind it was a big, six-foot, urban redneck/punk in a black cowboy hat, a black Sex Pistols t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, black jeans, and black combat boots with spurs on them. He had gray hair and crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and lips. He was old enough to have seen Sid Vicious live.

“What’s up?”

“I’m here about the cocktail waitress job?”

“What’s the tattoo for?”

“It’s a long story.”

He leaned over the bar and locked eyes with me.

“If you want to work here, I think I need to hear it.”

“Basically, my boyfriend wanted me to see if I could get a job looking like this.”

His eyes remained fixed on me, and his expression was deadpan. I felt so uncomfortable under his gaze that I almost turned and left.

“Ever worked in a bar before?” he said finally.

“No. I was a schoolteacher. I taught seventh grade English.”

“But you couldn’t teach kids with ‘Slut’ and ‘Liar’ tattooed on your face, so you’re slumming at a bar, hoping my standards are low enough to hire you?”

I smiled and nodded.

“I guess so.”

“Well. You’re in luck. My standards are just that low. Welcome to the Mad Wolf!”

He spread his arms wide and gestured around the nearly empty bar.

“Thanks!” I said, a little too energetically.

“It pays nine dollars plus tips. Most girls make a hundred a night in tips. Two hundred on the busy nights. That okay?”

“That sounds perfect.”

I reached across the bar and shook his hand then turned to leave, but he didn’t let go.

“You in a hurry? Let me show you around the bar.”

He stroked my arm with his other hand and I quickly snatched my hand away.

“I...um...I—”

He smiled a wide predatory smile.

“Let me show you where we keep all the kegs and the cases of beer.” He leaned close enough for me to smell the marijuana and beer on his breath. “We’ve got a bed back there.”

“No. I don’t think so,” I said.

“Come on. Why not? I told you I’d hire you.”

“So I’m supposed to fuck you for a job?”

He sneered at me.

“You’re the whore with ‘Slut’ tattooed on your forehead,” he said.

“Fuck you!” I yelled. My voice echoed in the near empty bar. A few of the drunks laughed. The others barely looked up from their drinks.

“Fucking asshole!” I flipped him the bird over my shoulder as I stormed out.