Chapter 4: Civil Rights

21 February 2015

I was at a bit of a loss. Did this start out as the best year of all time or the worst? Of course, celebrating the New Year with Alice was an incredible blast. We might have no real future together, but there was no question that we both loved each other. Two weeks later, she was gone. There was no chance that we’d see each other until summer. We were both agreed that she needed to focus on school and that required her to be in Montana.

I wandered around some, sort of following wherever Andy and Cassie led. I planned to be in Florida by the first of March so I could indulge in Spring Training games. And bikinis. I definitely have a weakness. It became apparent that my travel style was incompatible with Andy and Cassie. They picked goals: ‘We’re going here.’ Then they would drive non-stop until they got there, whether it was 20 miles or 500 miles. I max out at 200 miles. I don’t have a destination, just a general direction.

And I shouldn’t give you the impression I wasn’t writing anything. Some author, I don’t remember who now, had posted two or three incest stories a day in December and January. I’m a sucker for those stories, but the more I read of them the more they all sounded the same. Brother and sister look at each other one day, suddenly realize they are madly in love, fuck, get pregnant, and Mom and Dad reveal that they are brother and sister, too. I got to thinking that would just never be the way it would work. So, I decided to write a brother-sister incest story. I had a little experience with the genre since I wrote Blackfeather. But I let it rip in “My Brother Reads Incest Porn. zOMG! He Writes It!” In the story, I let the sister instruct her brother on the fact that it would never work that way with her and explain why. Gradually, she comes to realize that he really has a crush on her and eventually it is reciprocated. It was the first short story I’d written or even seen that scored above an 8.0.

Then I found out about the Valentine Story Contest. SOL has a strong bias toward long stories. It’s the way the site works. It is not a flaw. It’s what readers want to read. So, I decided that I would write a long short story for the contest. “100 Days” won the contest, albeit that it never quite broke an 8.0. That put a tank of gas in the truck.

While I was struggling with the plot and storyline of Living Next Door to Heaven, I was still managing to get other stories up. And I really had more ideas that I was plotting out than I could possibly write in the next five years.

Cassie and Andy wanted to go to the Grand Canyon. In January. I’d been there in October a year ago, and it was damned cold. I’d told them I’d meet them in Sedona where I was reasonably sure I wouldn’t be frozen out. They wanted to go to Winslow, so I crawled out of the canyon to Flagstaff along icy switchbacks. They wanted all of five minutes in Winslow to take a picture on the corner and go. I pressed them to join me in Canyon de Chelly for a couple days. From there it was a long haul to Albuquerque, New Mexico. They decided to ski in Taos. I remembered being caught in the snow there with Angie last year and chose to go south. We agreed to meet in El Paso in a week. They decided to go north to visit friends in Indiana before they headed back south, instead. I went across Texas.

I guess you can tell that even ‘traveling together’ we weren’t really in synch and I was alone most of the time. Texas is a big fucking state to cross. To give some idea of how big, if you were driving from San Diego, California to Jacksonville, Florida in three equal legs, both of your overnights would be in Texas. I headed Toward San Antonio, then Houston, and across Louisiana to Baton Rouge. The last time I’d been through this territory, I’d left Angie at the New Orleans airport and traveled along the Gulf Coast all the way to Fort Myers Beach. This time I cut north through Louisiana to get to a site I’d read about. Poverty Point National Historic Monument had recently been added to the UN register of World Heritage Sites. And, it was fascinating. It was hard to believe the scope of an entire civilization that predated most of what we would term Native Americans on this continent. You almost feel the old energy of this site. Someday I’ll write a story set in that time and place.

I headed east on Route 80 across Mississippi and into Alabama. Cassie and Andy had looped north into Indiana to see old friends and were supposed to meet me in Montgomery. They hadn’t left Indiana yet, but the way they drive, it’s only a day trip to Alabama down I-65. And so, five weeks after parting from Alice, I found myself standing on a bridge in Selma, Alabama.

A Long Time Ago: Marching to Montgomery

I wasn’t too young to remember. My teacher stood in front of the class with tears in her eyes and told us the president had been killed. We were being sent home and school would be closed for a few days.

What I remembered was that on Saturday morning, the one day of the week I was allowed to watch television, there were no cartoons. Every station on the television showed stuff about the murdered president. And my mother stood at the ironing board crying as she watched. Sunday night, Dad jumped up from the dinner table and shut off the TV that had just shown Jack Ruby killing Lee Harvey Oswald live.

Less than two years later, after riots and burnings, a march from Selma to Montgomery to demand voting rights for African Americans began. On Bloody Sunday, March 7, 1965, the marchers were beaten back by county sheriff’s ‘deputies’ who showed up en masse at the county line. On March 9, Dr. King led the marchers back into Selma, obeying a federal injunction. Finally, on March 21, protected by 3000 troops and Alabama National Guard, the marchers continued toward Montgomery. 8,000 people began the march. Through Lowndes County, where Highway 80 narrowed to two lanes, only 300 people were permitted to march. Lowndes County was 81% black, but there were no black registered voters. 2,240 whites were registered, which was 118% of the adult white population of the county.

When they left Lowndes County three days after entering it, the population of marchers swelled until, on March 25, 25,000 people gathered on the steps of the State Capitol building to listen to Dr. King.

How long? Not long, because ‘no lie can live forever.’

How long? Not long, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.

In school, I had never seen a black person. There had once been a Kenyan missionary student at summer camp. He was the only black person I had ever met. There was one student of color when I was a freshman in a school of 1,800 students. She was a Thai exchange student. When I moved from St. Joe Valley High School to the even more rural Tippecanoe Valley High School, the only person of color I met was a Haitian exchange student my senior year. We didn’t have black people in Indiana, so we never had any problems. Except in the big cities. Gary had black people. They came from Chicago and played basketball. Indianapolis had black people. I didn’t know where they came from. But they played basketball.

I didn’t understand what the big deal was with civil rights. All men are created equal. It says so right in the Declaration of Independence.

Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.

I just did not get it.

I still don’t.

Back to Selma

I didn’t walk the whole route. I walked out a mile from the bridge and saw the souvenir shops that were set up to market to the memorial march that was slated for just two weeks later. I didn’t stay for it. I drove from Selma to Montgomery and stopped at each of the campgrounds and at the memorial park half way between the two cities. I camped in Montgomery and spent two days just walking the route through town and looking at the shops and visiting the museums. I still didn’t understand why there was so much racial tension in our country.

Cassie and Andy bubbled into town two days later and stayed a night. Then we were off to Columbus, Georgia and Ezell’s.

A Long Time Ago: Sin City

There is nothing important about Columbus, Georgia that I know of, except that I did some training presentations on color production and the desktop. It was a good session and there were good people working at the print shop. It was a subsidiary of a big publisher in middle America that I had trained at for several months. They were highly skilled craftsmen and artists who photographed artwork and made color separations for printing on greeting cards.

After five grueling days, during which I was taught as much about color proofing and printing as my students were about desktop technology and manipulation, my six exhausted students and I went to Ezell’s for catfish. It was a time of cutting loose and celebrating the completion of the training. It was a time for teaching this Yankee about real Southern food: catfish and hush puppies. The table was covered with brown butcher’s paper and deep fried catfish, hush puppies, and fries were unceremoniously dumped on it. A huge bowl of cole slaw was served in the middle and we were each given plates. We ate until we couldn’t eat any more.

And that was where I met Marcie.

I mean in Columbus, not just at dinner. She was one of my students. And she was the blackest person I had ever met. I had taken pictures of all my students, hoping to remember some of them. Marcie had laughed at me.

“If I close my eyes and my mouth, it will look like you took a picture of a deep dark hole,” she said. She was right. I did not have an adequate camera to capture what I considered extraordinarily beautiful features. I was fascinated by her and all through the week I’d taken any opportunity to be in her presence. She was just the kind of woman I liked to be close to—witty, conversation, and beautiful.

We finished our dinner and paid the tab. No, I wasn’t springing for dinner for everyone. I was being paid to be here and their company was covering my expenses. Dinner for the company’s employees was not included.

“Hey, I need a ride to my hotel. Anyone headed my direction?”

“I’ll take care of you,” Marcie said. “Over here.” She led me to a newer model Chrysler New Yorker. What a monster of a car! Burgundy with black trim, including that leather-look wrap on the back quarter of the square-back roof. I whistled.

Inside, the car was clean and smelled almost new.

“You smoke? Not in the car,” she commanded. I occasionally smoked a pipe, but seldom had one with me when I went to work. “Are you done for the evening or would you like to go for a drink?” she asked.

“I could stand a drink,” I said. Ezell’s doesn’t serve liquor and I was willing to do about anything to stay around Marcie for a while.

“Jazz, rock, or cowboy?” she said. It took a second to figure out she was talking about a kind of bar.

“Jazz or rock. Either is fine. I have to be in exactly the right mood for a cowboy bar,” I said.

“Smart. I don’t think you want to be face-to-face with a six-foot-six black dude in a Stetson,” she laughed. “We’ll stop by my place and I’ll change.”

We zipped across the bridge and in ten minutes we were in front of a brownstone apartment building in Phenix City, Alabama. “My momma got a divorce from my daddy when I was ten. We just up and moved out of the shithole where he lived and left. I asked her where we were going and she answered, ‘We’re goin’ ta hell, baby.’ She meant Phenix City.” She looked at me critically as I started to open the door. “You’re staying here,” she said, laying a hand on my arm. I closed the door. “Slouch down in the seat and pull your hat down over your face. Do not look around or get out of the car. I don’t want to have to replace a window because some nigga wanted to cut yo’ ass.”

Oh, shit! I figured my best bet right now was to do as directed. I’d close my eyes and shut my mouth and just be a big black hole in the car. I was thankful for my hat. I’d started wearing fedoras back in college and seldom ever went anywhere without a hat. I dozed off while I was waiting.

I heard the driver’s door open and Marcie slid into the seat. She started the car and put it in gear.

“You can look now,” she said. I straightened up as we pulled out of the neighborhood onto a main street. I glanced over at her and did a double take. I’d been with this woman in training sessions for a week and never thought twice about her figure. She wore standard business attire, including slacks, conservative blouses, and usually a boxy jacket that covered her butt. The woman next to me was hot!

“I ... uh ... Wow, Marcie! You changed,” I gasped.

“Can’t go to a club dressed for the office.” She looked over at me in my suit. “Keep the hat on. You’ll be fine,” she said. I couldn’t help but glance down at the miniskirt. Not actually at the miniskirt, but at the mile of very shapely leg it exposed. The top she’d chosen didn’t quite meet the skirt and exposed a very tiny waist.

“You look like a million bucks,” I said. “I feel way underdressed.”

“A million bucks is what I tell them I charge,” she said. “Look, I’m taking you to my kind of place tonight. I can take you because people know they can’t fuck with me—as long as you don’t make an ass of yourself. They look at my car and know they don’t have a car they can entice me for a ride in. They look at my body and know they can’t afford me. Can you dance?”

“Yeah. I’m not bad,” I said. I thought back to my wild dance with Cynthia a few years ago. Of course, I was a little out of practice.

“Right. White men can’t dance. Just try not to trip over me.” For a couple of minutes we drove in silence. I was thrown by her attitude. Then I realized she was putting on her club persona. She’d just explained it to me. I breathed deeply as she pulled up into a parking lot.

“So are you supposed to be my sweetheart or my bitch,” I growled. She snapped her face toward me and smiled.

“They’d challenge you right away if they thought I was your bitch. Better be your sweetheart. It will give us a couple of hours,” she nodded. I smiled back at her.

“Darling, wait right there while I come to open your door,” I said. “And try not to step on my toes.”

It was all kinds of fun. I wasn’t the only white face in the club. I’d had visions of the lesbian bar I’d visited years ago and didn’t think being an honorary black man would fly. It didn’t have to. Marcie took my offered hand and never let go. We had a drink and danced to some great music. They had a DJ who kept a variety of music going, ranging from hard jazz to soft rock with a little swing tossed in for good measure. About midnight, we called it quits and got a few waves as we left the club.

Marcie drove me back to my hotel—a good quality business hotel, but not one that would rate four stars. While she drove, she reached over and took my hand again. She didn’t pull up to the door of the hotel, but into the parking lot. She turned to me and pushed the center armrests up out of our way as she unbuckled.

“Tell me, Ari. Have you ever gone black?” she asked as she scooted toward me slightly.

“I’m afraid I’ve always been as pale as you see me here,” I sighed.

“The white girls say that once you’ve gone black you never go back,” she whispered as she leaned in for a kiss. As our lips touched, I realized what she meant. Oh! “Want to risk it?”

“I think I’m up for that risk,” I said as I pressed the kiss back to her. “You might be risking being stuck on white guys, though.”

“You’re hung bigger than a brother?” she laughed.

“No. But I’ve heard brothers don’t go down.”

Marcie pulled away from me and looked me in the eye.

“No shit,” she sighed. She opened her door and grabbed an overnight bag out of the backseat. “Well? Are you coming?”

We rushed to my room, ignoring the desk clerk’s stare and as soon as we were inside we started in on the kiss again. I had gone to some really popular movie a couple years ago where the two leads were just all over each other and trying to rip their clothes off to fuck on the kitchen counter. That scene was okay, but the movie was so disgusting I walked out. I’d never been in a situation where clothes actually got torn in the hurry to get naked. That changed in my hotel room. Buttons from my shirt flew all over the room.

Marcie was ‘properly’ dressed, meaning she had underwear on. The blouse was a pullover, but I managed to get it and her bra off without tearing anything. I found the zipper on her skirt and shucked it off her round ass with the thong. I glanced down to see she was still in her strappy high heels and decided that I liked the porn look on this woman. She was stroking my cock with my pants around my knees, but I wasn’t going to move straight to fucking. I’d promised this woman eating and I planned to make good on the promise.

I lifted her and literally tossed her on the bed so I could finish stripping out of my pants. She looked at me hungrily, but she wasn’t focused on my cock. She was looking to see if I was serious. I was. I pushed her legs back and apart and went straight to the center.

I’d never seen anything quite like this. Oh, I’d seen shaved pussies by this stage of my life, but I’d never seen a bright pink gash surrounded by nearly coal black labia. I don’t know what I expected to find. I just was mesmerized by the contrast and wanted to look and enjoy for a minute before I dove in.

“Aren’t you going to?” she asked plaintively.

“Oh, yes. I’m going to really enjoy this,” I said. I swiped up through her pussy and she gasped. That gasp was accompanied by a flood of fragrant juices and I set to work trying to make this experience one we’d both remember for a long time to come.

She was a little bristly. I don’t think that when she went to work in the morning she planned on having an up-close and personal genital exam in the evening. Or maybe her hair just grew that fast. It didn’t detract from my enjoyment of her hot pussy, and from the squeals that started about five minutes later, I don’t think it affected her enjoyment either. I didn’t let up, but continued to press her after her first orgasm when she thought I’d quit. I think I would have seen how many I could give her in a row, but my cock was beginning to ache.

I stood between her legs and pushed into her.

“Oh fuck! Yeah!” she screamed.

Once I was in, I slowed down. Marcie was panting and welcomed a moment’s respite while I looked at the woman below me. Her breasts weren’t too big, but since she was small, they seemed to stand up on her chest. The areolae and nipples were scarcely a shade darker than the surrounding flesh and I leaned forward to kiss each. I loved the way her ass cushioned my thrust. But what was truly remarkable was the tiny waist. I could almost put my hands around it and have the fingers meet.

Marcie’s eyes opened and looked at me. My smile was met by hers.

“I’ve never seen such a tiny waist,” I said. “I’m afraid I’ll break you.”

“I know. I eat, but I’ve never gotten big there. I don’t break, though. Grab hold and show me what you’ve got!”

I slipped my arms under her legs and reached forward to take hold of her waist. It did provide a good grip. This position also brought her high-heeled feet up to where I could turn my head and nibble on those ankles. Having taken a little time once I was in to catch our breath, I bounced against her round ass for a while without reaching the point of no return. The position also gave less direct stimulation to her clit, so Marcie settled in for the ride as well.

“Do me from behind, Ari,” she said. We didn’t even try to stay connected as we moved to a new position. I got fully up on the bed as she knelt on all fours. This position is a nice change, but isn’t one that I usually prefer because I can’t see my lover. But with Marcie, sinking into her from behind was a real treat. Not only was she hot and tight, but I could slide my hands forward to cup her breasts and then back to circle her little waist. And once she was sure I had a good grip there, she took over slamming back into me over and over, bouncing her phat ass against my stomach. I slid a hand around her stomach and found her clit just in time to send her over the edge as I started pumping. Fuck!

I didn’t get much sleep that night. Marcie was surprised when I ate her again, even after I’d come in her. She went ballistic over it and then returned the favor with a long, sensuous blowjob.

I managed to check out before noon on Saturday and Marcie took me to the airport.

“I might consider dating a white guy again,” she sighed as she kissed me at the curb. “Do y’all have tongues like that?”

I kissed her again and we tried to see exactly how long that tongue was.

Back to Ezell’s

Cassie and Andy liked the catfish and hushpuppies. What’s not to like? Deep fried grease and breadcrumbs pretending to be fish. And the jalapenos in the hushpuppies liven them up.

The RV park we’d located was decent and we sat outside with a drink while I smoked a cigar after dinner.

“What are you working on?” Cassie asked as I tapped at my laptop.

“Wrapping up the contest entry for my new Erotic Paranormal Western Romance Adventure,” I said. After Jay sent me back the Blackfeather manuscript, I completely tore the story apart and rewrote it. Completely. I’d even gone so far as to outline the entire story using the twelve stages of ‘the hero’s journey’. Now I was about to hit send and enter it in a contest as a ‘romance.’ Cassie leaned over my shoulder to read the synopsis.

“Incest doesn’t seem like a big thing?” she exclaimed when she read the last line. “Are you crazy? If I read that in the synopsis, I wouldn’t read any further. I don’t care if they did go back in time and become their own ancestors.”

“But Redtail did better in the Clitorides as an incest story than as a western!” I defended myself.

“Is this a Clitorides entry form?”

“No. It’s for a literary competition.”

“You need to find out who your audience is. If you and Andy are the judges, I’m sure you’d win. If Sarah and I were judging, you’d never be considered,” she declared.

I should have listened to her.

We were on the road again and I tried to follow Cassie and Andy in their big rig. Hopeless. The closer we got to Florida, the less the speed limit seemed to matter to anyone. They hit Interstate 75 at Tifton and were like two old horses headed for the barn. They planned to be home in Orlando by the end of the day. I told them I’d catch up again before I left the state in April and headed down U.S. 41. It would take me the rest of the week to get to my reserved spot in Fort Myers Beach. I’d already printed my ticket for the first game of the Twins vs. University of Minnesota. I’d probably spend the 28th of February parked at Walmart overnight so I could pull into the RV park early enough in the day on the first that I could be set up and out to the stadium in time for the first pitch of spring training.

I’ve never been that much of a sports lover. In high school, I tried playing football, but got into non-violence and turned my back on the game. I was never coordinated enough to play anything more than intramural basketball. When I travel and people see my Washington license plates, I’m often asked if I’m a big Seahawks fan. My standard response is, “I don’t really follow hockey.” Usually ends any sports discussions.

But baseball—especially the Twins—has a special place in my heart.

A Long Time Ago: First Kiss

Treasure and I had been dating for a few weeks. It had taken our tealeaf reading to get us to admit we were dating. I might not have mentioned that Belle bankrupted me before she left. I had my house on the market and was two months behind in my mortgage payments. The bank was working with me because they really didn’t want a foreclosure. I was earning enough money in my new job to make the current payments.

That job was something else. Toby Moore, the owner of the company had come to my rescue. All I needed to do was bring him my clients and he would take them over and hire me to service them. Talk about being a paid whore. He made it sound like I’d be spending time in a breeding stall with my editing and publishing clients. I’d convinced Dan to take the job of GM for the company so I wouldn’t have to deal with Toby. I got a little tipsy one night when a bunch of us were out after work and someone decided it would be fun to play “Three Words on Your Tombstone.” What would they be?

The game ended when I said, “Fuck you, too.”

But it was October now and Treasure and I had agreed that we were dating. Things were looking up. And the Twins were in the World Series. My Uptown house was a good five miles from the Humphrey Dome, but the cheers of the crowd there could be heard from my front steps. Treasure had agreed to watch the game with me.

I had a small TV that I’d picked up at the Salvation Army. The sofa had been one of the pieces of furniture too heavy for Belle to remove from the house. But Treasure and I chose to sit on the floor and lean against it so we were closer to the little TV. When we saw something exciting in the game and cheered, about two seconds later we could hear the cheer from the stadium.

Then it was time for the seventh inning stretch. We both stretched and turned toward each other. It was a good evening. Our team was ahead. Our lips were sort of right there next to each other and kind of touched. And then stayed touched.

Through most of the bottom half of the inning.

The Twins scored again before the inning ended.

I did, too.

Oh, that doesn’t mean we were fucking on the floor. Just that during that first kiss, I’d decided this woman was going to be with me for the rest of my life. Just under a year later, we were married.

Back to Florida

All I can say about the first game of spring training was that Minnesota won. I’m not sure if it was the Twins or the Gophers. I didn’t score.

In fact, as much as I’d enjoyed my time last year, I wasn’t sure I’d spend much time on the beach while the college kids were there. At least, not until my daughter joined me the last week of the month. Becky the Reckless had been a little overwhelming last year.

Still, the lure of the beach ‘bums’ drew me and Tuesday afternoon I found myself planted in my chair, just under the shade as I looked out at the college beauties and their hunky, if slightly tipsy boyfriends. I’d decided that since I was following the hero’s journey in my writing, I should reread Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth. It was one of the books I read back when I was first collecting reference work on mythology for Behind the Ivory Veil.

I was lost in the interview between Campbell and Bill Moyers (the book is an edited transcript of 24 hours of interviews) and was even a little drowsy when a shadow passed over me and a young woman spread a large towel on the sand next to my chair in the shade.

“Where’s your bitches?” she asked. I glanced down automatically. At first I’d thought she said my ‘britches’ and I had a momentary panic that I’d forgotten them. I had my swimming trunks on. I turned to look at the very shapely form of a young brunette in a very small bikini.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

“The girls who were fawning all over you last year. Haven’t got a new one yet?”

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“Would it help if I fell on top of you and shoved my tit into your hand?”

“Oh! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. I don’t think we were ever properly introduced. I’m Ari.” I held out a hand and she looked at it as if to decide if she was going to shake it or shove her tit into it. She took it in her hand.

“Ella. So where is the hardbody who was with you last year?” she asked.

“I haven’t talked to her for a couple months. She graduated last spring and got a job. We aren’t really a couple,” I said.

“Just a convenient piece of ass,” she said disgustedly. I did not need to put up with the snipes of a little bitch I didn’t know. Just as I was about to tell her to get lost, she continued. “Sorry. I’m not having any fun this year. Didn’t mean to take it out on you. I never should have come down here.”

Women can twist me around a little finger faster than putting a tie in their hair. In a few words, she changed from a target for disdain to a damsel in distress. Story of my life. Let me lie down so you can walk all over me.

“What’s the problem? Why aren’t you out there playing in the sun and having a drink?” I asked. “If I recall correctly, you were used to three margaritas for lunch.”

“Bloody Marys. That was the problem.”

“What?”

“Last year I came to the beach for spring break and fun. I got drunk, sunburned, and pregnant. I’m staying sober and in the shade this year. With my knees clamped together.” Fuck!

“I’m sorry,” I said. I don’t know what I was apologizing for. “With that kind of past, I don’t think I’d have returned.”