Poke Chop
Poke Chop is doing the
Watusi; this is my best guess. It's also entirely possible that he is
shaking his sorry-ass groove thang to the Mashed Potato. There are two
statements that can be made with relative certainty. First, at this point in
his inebriation, Poke Chop has no discernable sense of rhythm. Second, and
more importantly, Poke Chop may not be long for this world.
"Take ya look, yall,
look at ole Poke Chop. Poke Chop is doin it man, whooo yeah he doin it.
Ain't nobody gawna slow ole Poke Chop down, nobody. Whatchu lookin at, fool?
Yeahhh… You lookin at Poke Chop, aintcha? Poke Chop the best."
Poke Chop has wandered
into a place where he absolutely should not be. Folks are looking at him in
amazement. No way he wasn’t already been blind drunk when he first walked
in, else he would have instinctively known better. The joint is borderline
redneck, absolutely working class, a narrow sea of blue jeans and white
faces. The men all have facial hair and hats, the women all have tank tops,
and everyone has at least one tattoo.
Poke Chop is not just a
black man. While that would be somewhat of a problem, it would not be an
insurmountable one. Sure, some of the more racist patrons glare at anyone of
color who walks into their bar, muttering rude asides to their buddies. Or
if they have no buddies, they curse into their beers. But times have changed
here in the big city, and at least inside this public space, most everyone
adheres to the doctrine of tolerance. They know that’s an attitude they
ought to have. Julios, niggers, fags and punks, they all put in the
occasional appearance, and if they behave themselves, there’s usually no
trouble. You can have a patron launch into an ‘I hate niggers’ rant at the
top of his lungs, but he’ll shut up the moment a couple of blacks walk in.
You might even see the same gentleman shooting the shit with a black man;
once he’s a known quantity, he’s no longer a nigger.
Trouble is, Poke Chop
is the stereotype incarnate, a walking cartoon. Bad hygiene, clothes half
falling off his lanky frame, indeterminate age, and a ludicrous minstrel
accent. For God’s sake, the boy calls himself Poke Chop.
“Poke Chop take care of
you girls good,” he shouts lasciviously, grabbing a hefty blonde on her
return from the ladies room. “Poke Chop be the best you ever had,” he
assures her. The girl whirls away, spitting out a quick “asshole” as she
rushes back to her table. There’s a hush in the room. “What you call Poke
Chop, ya ole bitch? Poke Chop gonna give it to you good. Poke Chop be the
best you ever had.” Poke Chop is doing a little dance around his stool as he
shouts this, holding onto the edge of the bar for stability. George Jones is
playing on the jukebox.
All eyes are on Poke
Chop about now. A barrage of shouts and derisions are hurled his way. Oddly,
none of the obscenities make reference to his race. Checking the room for
body language, there appear to be at least two dozen fists cocked and ready
to commence wailing on his hide. Poke Chop is somehow able to pick up on
these visual cues, and he plops wearily down on his stool, immediately
knocking over his beer. This is the final straw for his neighbor, who grabs
him by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. He glares hard, ready to strike,
but Poke Chop goes all limp on him, head down and limbs lifeless. He gets
yet another reprieve.
And now, it’s melancholy time. “Hey, hey,” he says dispiritedly, as he waves
his hand in the air, aiming to snag the bartender’s attention. As if he
really needed to try. “Nutha,” he says softly.
Melissa is a big strong
girl who has only a limited amount of patience. “How you gonna pay for it,”
she demands, her face inches away from the drunk. Poke Chop sticks his hand
deeply into the pocket of his beer soaked pants, eventually digging out a
couple of crumpled bills and an unknown quantity of change. Melissa takes
the bills and counts out another dollar in change, leaving only nickels and
pennies on the bar. “You don’t have enough here to get another,” she tells
him.
Poke Chop is crushed.
His face goes through a passion play before he finally blurts out, “I spilt
it. I spilt it.” These are the saddest words in the world, and they take
seed in the heart of a grizzled old man in a blue Home Depot hat who nods at
Melissa and points to himself. Melissa grimaces at the elderly bastard, and
pulls another Bud. In Poke Chop’s mind, this beer has simply materialized
because he wants it so bad.
It’s the miracle of the
Budweiser. Poke Chop is re-energized now, walking the length of the bar and
speaking to anyone who will look his way. “Gimmee cigarette,” he says,
demanding, not pleading. “Get the fuck out of here.” “Gimmee cigarette.” No
reply from patron 2, just a gentle shove. “Gimmee cigarette,” he continues
up the line.
Someone throws a smoke
from across the bar and it bounces off his sunken chest. Poke Chop happily
picks it up off the floor, strut-staggering back to his seat.
I turn on my stool to
face the man sitting beside me, a burly fellow with the name Fred printed on
his plumbing service shirt. “Dude is about five minutes away from dying,” I
observe. Fred looks at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “Crazy
nigger,” is all he has to say.
It
is the miracle of the Budweiser. Not only does Poke Chop avoid death
today, he also manages to con a couple of Spanish speaking migrant workers
into buying him another beer before his forced exit.
Faith
is the world’s culture; wisdom is America’s. Forget the intellectuals - we
are some crafty bastards, and for all our lip service to the gods of good
and evil, we are a pragmatic lot. Love us or hate us, it really doesn’t
matter. We finish strong, just like a good beer. We try to avoid beating our
weak, although it often takes a supreme act of will power. And we always –
no matter how sorry you are – will give you a cigarette.
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