Tried to have a nice night out in DC. Wound up in Chinatown at a Legal Seafood’s. It was a tacky choice, but sometimes you have to suck it up and enjoy a meal at the sea food equivalent of TGI Friday’s. The food was expensive for me, cheap for someone who makes money and is a discerning consumer of shellfish. And it was delicious. Buttery and rich, an assortment of aquatic life baked, fried, soaked in sauces. Crab stuffed baked potato opulently ordered to round out the gut busting evening. I was so full it hurt to breathe, my eyelids became anchors, heavy stone sinking to the ocean floor. Whenever I eat a lavish meal, I become a child again, and imagine that I am some version of an extremely powerful and wealthy person, a banker, an ambassador, a tycoon, a conquering general. Eating Ethiopian makes me think I’ve just raided a caravan in the desolate North African desert. Taking off my dusty, ragged shawl, I descend upon the spoils of another victorious campaign. I gorge myself on spiced, oiled meats as the dying merchants and their guards stain the sand with blood.
Anyway, it was a decent evening. My girlfriend and I took the metro back to the Anacostia metro station, where the car was parked. Traveling in DC, which is only about 15 square miles, is a logistical grind. You have to take buses to subways, park cars at subway stations and then take the subway to a place where you can get on another bus, transfer subway lines to get on more buses, every day of your life like you brush your teeth and tie your shoes. It’s a never ending additional insult to the injury of living in an hellacious, satanically designed, egregiously segregated, pencil pushing, glad handing, status obsessed, shit pot of a city. You use public transportation because you don’t have money or a car, or even if you have a car, trying to find a parking spot in the heart of DC is a quest for the holy grail, a fruitless endeavor, a sanity straining escapade of failure and frustration. Using public transportation puts you in league with the weary, the overworked and underpaid, the dregs, the quasi homeless and burnt out. God awful rap music explodes out of headphones, droning and drowning out the ambience of the humming bus, the psychotic monologue of the bathrobe clad hispanic woman clutching stuffed animals, countdown to total freak out piss spraying meltdown and you just desperately hope your stop comes up before it happens.
On the way back to our house, driving down good hope road(not at all ironically titled), a car pulled out right in front of us, perpendicular, and stalled there until we honked and my girlfriend lost her temper and started shouting at the jackass. Of course this is how it works. My girlfriend yells at a clueless jackass in a part of town where people shoot each other recreationally, where it’s 97 percent black, mostly impoverished, with racial tension constantly on the rise. Yes, white girl, yell at a black man in a car so your white boyfriend, the only one in a two mile radius, can get shot or beaten by a PCP powered gang of miscreants, sullen and vengeful, aching to take a shot at what, to them, seems to be the establishment, white power, even though I have no money, my ancestors never owned slaves, I didn’t participate in the red lining, lynching, Jim Crow, subprime lending, hollywood blacklisting, academy awards voting, your water fountain is over there by the outhouse, back of the bus system. I didn’t tell my daughter she couldn’t marry a black man, or get angry and petition the high school where my son lost his starting quarterback position to a colored boy, living in the early 1960’s in Virginia with my houndstooth hat and goddamn it my boy don’t ride the pine while that animal jukes and jives around the field.
But I’m still white so I’m a symbol of systemic, institutional racism. I have privilege in need of checking and I commit microaggressions. I don’t sycophantically agree with every inane thing a black a person says about politics and race. I don’t support Black Lives Matter and I think Ta-Nehisi Coates is a complete charlatan goon. I’m not a race and gender cuckold lapping up the aids infused ejaculate leaking out of the left’s encrusted asshole. So I deserve to be beaten with lead pipes and monkey wrenches, kicked with untied wolverine boots, left to die on the shit stained streets of southeast dc, my lifeless body the trophy of a troglodytic uprising.
The man who almost got us all killed had a few choice words for us, thoughtfully delivered at the red light we both pulled up to about a hundred yards down the road. And that was it. My ultimate fate was postponed for at least another day.