An FC classic: It Beez a Wunnerful Life - by Yermak

"It Beez A Wunnerful Life" ( by "Yermak")

Or. . .. . .."Da Brotha jus can't beat da street"

With apologies to Frank Capra

The opening scene takes place in what appears to be "heaven", and we see two angels with some authority and rank (both AAA, or African American Angels) , who are troubled about the life of a "brotha" still down on Earth who soon will be tormented with one of the trials of life.

(Up in The Heavenly firmament on high, we see.....)

Alphonso ( A "Boss" Angel) : " Brotha Nathan...sees dat man down der on earth? Well dat be George Haley.

Nathan ( an Angel 1st class) " Oh yeah? What's up wit da brotha?"

Alphonso: "Well......tonight George Haley be thinkin' about throwin' way da mos precious gift
a black man cans ever have.""

Nathan: "Oh No!.......His life?"

Alphonso: "Hell no. He gonna be wishin' dat he was born white. And tossin aside all da welfare, entitlements ,
grants, free cheese, food stamps, affirmative axchuns and other benefits befittin' a brotha or sista in dis here land.
He axchully.....could screw up da culture of dependency. . .. . .dat we has all comes to depends on."

Nathan: "God Damn! Well.....wutch we gonna do bout it? "

Alphonso: " I tinkin' o sendin' dat new angel down der ta set dat boy right. What beez his name again ?"

Nathan: "Oh....you talkin' bout Dushawn. He wuz a pimp back on earth. He got hizself shot by one o his hoes"

Alphonso: "Yeah. Dat be him. Dushawn. Go fetch da nigga fo me. "

Appearing almost instantly is Dushawn ( an angel dressed in typical pimp finery)
.........
Dushawn: ( an Angel 2nd class): "Yazzzzz sir. Youz call fo me, boss ?"

Alphonso: "Lissen Nigga. Der a man down on earth.....George Haley. And he needs our help, big time."

Dushawn: " Oh Sir......if Ize helps George Haley.....can I get ta add lights and other bling ta
mah halo ......and finally be an Angel 1st class? I bin waitin' a long time, and some o de
older angels be talkin' some shit bout me."

Alphonso: " Yeah, Yeah, nigga.......jus git yo pimp ass on da move. Git down der....and git ta work. Brotha
Nathan here will fills yo in on all da details."

Scene now shifts back to Earth, focusing on George Haley. George Haley is a lower level drug dealer who plays a little crooked three card monte on the side. For seven years now, George has been working for the biggest and meanest drug boss in the hood, Big Henry F. Rotter. Now.....one day George happened to be at Rotter's crib where he turned in his daily proceeds from this drug sales, and picked up his stash to sell for the next day.

While waiting, he overheard Rotter talking to one of the men that cut and packaged the "goods" that George sold, Mr.Winston Gower. Rotter and Gower were engaged in an animated discussion about the tightening supply of drugs from their South American connection.

Rotter: "Listen dude, We gots a problem. We ain't gittin enough smack, coke, or crack to meet da demand lately. Ya gots any ideas how to fix dis conumdrum fo me, mah nigga?"

Gower: : "Yea boss. I gots da perfikt solution. I got dis here rat poison supply dat I can use ta mix in wit da dope...so we kin have da bulk to meet da need, feed our greed, and do da deed. Heh Heh !"

Rotter: "Ain't dat gonna kill off our customers, muther fucka"?

Gower: "Maybe a few....but thems be da ones ready ta check out anyway, and day got no bread left anyhow. We pretty much sucked em dry. Mos customers will jus get sick......but thems will still keep comin' back fo mo wid cold cash in der paws. Haw Haw"

Rotter: (grinning)....."O.K. Nigga.....den make it so" he said, chuckling, while snapping his fingers to have one of his "ladies" bring over another bottle Moet champagne. A lusty Nubian sister with shellaced hair in a ludicrous Negroid style in a revealing dress came
over with a bottle and poured a glass of the bubbley for Henry.

George, upset upon hearing this, had an unsettling feeling. These were his customers. He had to look into their watery, bloodshot eyes, knowing that he was feeding them rat poison mixed in with their smack.
George thought "Dis don seem right somehow, man". The pangs of moral conscience stirred in George's psyche. He was in quite a quandary. He needed some good advice. "I knows.....I'll ask Dad wutch da do". The only problem was in locating his Dad. George's parentage on his fathers side was more vague rumor than fact. Although there were a number of prime suspects, the most likely candidate was Ol' Toothless Jack, an alcoholic who spent his days sitting on a broken lawn chair in a garbage strewn vacant lot with about 10 others like him, squandering their lives while sipping cheap, fortified wine from bottles in paper bags. George walked over to the lot, and found Ol Toothless Jack, hoping for some good counsel in regard to the problem at hand that George faced.

George walked over to the lot where Ol Toothless was flopped onto his chair, semi-comatose with a half dozen empty "fortys" lying about his feet. In his left hand, was a bottle of Four Roses Blended whiskey. In his right paw....a Kool cigarette. The small lot seemed to be carpeted with bits of broken glass. Even weeds didn't have the courage to plant themselves on this moonscape.

George: " Hi Dad......I wuz wonderin' if I could ask.......................
Upon hearing the word "Dad".... Ol Toothless Jack was jolted out of his snoring coma, and became instantly enraged.
He bolted straight up out of his rusted lawn chair and stood upright........something he rarely did. ( Jack preferred to crawl and slouch his way thru his drunken existence)

Toothless Jack: "WHO THE FUCK YO CALLIN' DAD !!!???" I neber seen yo in my life, bitch! Jez haul yo fancy ass outta here, and I neber wants ta sees yo again. Yo got no proof I beez yo daddy.......Move on out, ya little bastard."

George was surprised and hurt by this violent reaction from the most likely of suspects to be his Dad. Old Toothless' reaction to George may have had something to do with why George never was invited to any Father/Son Day picnics or social events at the Main Street Holy Assembly
Salvation Pentecostal Church. . ...Reverend Lucillus Ezekial Haskins presiding, who once spent eight years in prison for fraud, and various other grifts that he perpetrated. . ..mostly on his own idiot congregation. Most of the other possible "Dad" candidates were either dead from overdosing, or in the "stripey hole", doin' hard time.


Thinking hard, George decided to seek advice from his mother. George was 23 years old, and his mother was 37, so she was a worldly woman. George was her first born among a brood that now numbered nine children.

Working his way back to the modest hovel which George called home, he swung open the rusted screen door, a redundant portal of entry since the screen itself had disappeared eons ago. Most of his half brothers and sisters just stepped thru the rectangular aluminum opening. Inside, were various siblings sired by a host of fathers who came and went with the regularity of the Newtonian clockwork of planetary movement. The youngest were crawling about the dirty floor, encrusted in layers of filth.. Some were naked. Some in diapers unchanged for several days. The older ones were watching TV and eating bowls of Lucky Charms. (They're magically delicious !) The bear cave interior was dark and dank, lit only by the ever present glow of the 27" Color Magnavox TV that George's mama traded for some kind of favor she once provided. George's mom acquired the TV from an itinerant neighborhood TV salesman, who would carry a single TV from door to door balanced on the top of his head while he hawked and negotiated the sale . He took cash or some form of trade. Of course, no warranty was provided......and George could swear that their TV looked just like the one stolen from the Thompson's two blocks away. Two dogs and 7 cats ( and no litter box) imparted their own unique bouquet of ammonia scent on the home, which Georges Mom sought to stem, unsuccessfully, by burning jasmine incense almost 24/7.

George ( to the brood watching cartoons on TV) : " Hey.....where Mama be?"

Runny nose sibling No.5 : "Ahhhhhhhhhh. She beez at da hair dresser"

Mama ( real name, Laquisha Twanika Waterford) liked to have her hair done by the Korean lady down the street about four or five time per week. George withdrew from the home scene, and did his usual slow, lazy shuffle- walk down the street to the
"Exotic Hair Palace" about a block down the street. On entering, he braced himself against the potent smells of chemicals, lyes, costic solutions and other "poison gas" odors that were the ever present odiferous backdrop of the hair salon. Black hair care magazines were stacked almost to the ceiling. The Korean lady that ran the place kept it neat and tidy. . ..and had a clientele exclusively composed of mostly large black women who spent an inordinate amount of time fussing and caring over their hair. That day, Laquisha was having small cowrie shells added to her hair extensions by the Korean lady, and was holding her large , sinewy, muscular arms out in front of herself, admiring her new "electric blue" ( with silver glitter) nails that were attended to by another Korean woman. It was at that moment she saw her son George walk in, and she gave a disapproving, glowering look at this unwelcome interruption to her daily hair/nail ritual. Her mammoth bulk was squeezed into a swivel salon chair, and she was wearing a 5X size tee shirt with the words "STOP SNITCHIN'" emblazoned across the front with a cartoon figure of a snitch with a bullet hole through his head. Her massive legs and hulking torso were swaddled in fuschia colored spandex that was several sizes too small, causing Laquisha to look a little like a black "Michelin Man". . .from the tire ads.

Laquisha: "What yo be doin' here? Can't yo see dat I is buzy."

George: " Listen Mama, .I gots me a problem."

Without waiting for permission to speak,
George told his mammie about the rat poison in the drugs that Big Henry Rotter, his employer expected him to peddle to his neighbors. George even brought up the idea of going to the authorities for help to prevent his friends and neighbors from being killed or hurt. He could see his mama's eyes unfocus as she did a slow burn. As George went on with the story, he could see she her rage had increased to full boil. Finally, she lifted her water buffalo like 6 foot tall, 390 lb jiggley black body from the confines of the salon chair, and rose up in a screaming furious rage. Her arms were swinging wildly at empty air, her head bobbing back and forth, then side to side, in pulsating savage anger. But to George's surprise, her wrath wasn't directed against Big Henry the drug king,.........but against himself,. . ... George, her own son. ! Her yellow bloodshot eyes narrowed and she hauled back and struck poor George full in the chest with a fist the size of a ham.

George: (while reeling and coughing from the assault by his mama) "But Mama......what fo you gittin' mad at me?"

Laquisha: "Yo UNGRATEFUL little peez o shit, Yo !!!!!! Yo bastard pile of piss. I birthed you.......and helped yo to git dis here job. Now....you wants to turn on Big Henry. Yo question him!!!! Gahd Damn, Boy. I'll beat da livin' tar outta yo hide, yo little nigga". Why you gots ta fuck things up!!!!!?

Her iron-oxidized rust colored hair, glistening with rare oils , and reeking of pungent aromas, George's mammie moved her massive frame forward, grabbed the broom the Korean lady kept in the corner to sweep the Negroid wool she clipped....and stuck George full force, catching him with a nasty whack in the head.

George: "Please Mama.......don't be hittin' on me. Please"

But Laquisha's wrath couldn't be tempered. Blow after blow rained down on her first-born, as she raised and lowered the broom on her offspring's coconut like noggin. But finally George was able to struggle to the door of the hair salon and crawled away, leaving a trail of blood from the lacerations caused by the maternal broom beating.

As he looked back, he could see his mammie, cell phone in hand, making a call. Still bellowing in a wild rage, she took a threatening step toward George, who finally ran down the street to escape his mamas' unbridled murderous fury.

George: ( to himself) "God damn, man. I didn't speckt dat kind o re-ak-shun" "I be fucked now. My mammie callin' Big Henry his self . Soon....Big Henry gonna be sickin' his dogs on mah ass.

George was now moving at a quick pace down the road, making furtive glances over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. He had no destination, but he was still sorting out in his mind the frightening succession of recent events in his now bruised brain. As he was navigating down the potholed ghetto road that was liberally strewn with trash and garbage , suddenly, a form materialized next to him, the physical form of the angel, Dushawn who had been sent from Heaven.

George: ( as nervous as a gnu with hungry lions out on the savanna said) "Damn.....who da fuck is you, and why iz you sneakin' up on me like dat?"

Dushawn: "Oh Hi George...........I'm Dushawn, yo Guardian Angel. "

George: "Fuck You!"

Dushawn: "No man......I beez tellin da trut. Iz swear I beez you guardian angel. I knows eberyting bouts you."

George: "Like I said man, fuck you. Der ain't no such thing as a Guardian Angel, unless yo talkin' about dem guys dat interfere wit da muggings on da subways an such. Damn buzybodies"

Dushawn: (looking up, and addressing the Angel Alphonso): "Boss....., dis ain't gonna be easy"

George: "Look fool........don be messin' wid me. I got problems; serious problems. I don't need some crazy ol bastard poppin' off with weird shit and all.

Dushawn: "I knows youze got problems. Dat's why I be here."

George, still walking down the street with his guardian angel in tow, Dushawn the angel pimp at his side soon found himself in front of " Little LeRoy's Bar". George decided he needed a stiff drink to calm his nerves, and Little LeRoy's was just the spot for him to think thru his dilemma.

George: (to Dushawn the angel) "Listen Man,.......I needs a drink. Yo can come in....but try not to bug me, 'ol man. And don't go poppin' off about no angel shit!"

Dushawn: "Sho nuff, George. OK"

George's eyes took a while to adjust to the dank, dark surroundings inside of this grim environment. On stools, sitting comatose in alcoholic fueled stupors, were a variety of old drunks and bar flys. Grizzled losers and seasoned alcoholics.......sitting grimly, unsmiling...... more like mute statues from a wax museum. The only light came from the TV and a few neon beer signs. Only the TV tuned to BET provided any background noise. On the tube was an old Richard Pryor movie. A surly bartender moved slowly toward them. No pleasantries from this guy. He looked like an ex-prize fighter, bald and built like Mike Tyson.... and his only greeting was " Yeah!!!! What yo want,?"

Dushawn: "Man....it's been a long time since I wuz in a place like this. Let's see now. I thinks.......I thinks.....I thinks.....dat I'll have a Harvey Wallbanger. Yeah. One Harvey Wallbanger.....heavy on da vodka, light on da Galliano, fresh OJ if you will. . .and don't bother with da parasol....... now be off wid ya mah good man, and be quick about it.

Bartender: ( Now enraged at Dushawn's order as well as Dushawn himself) " You fuckin' wid me, man? I kin crush yo skull wid mah hands."

George: ( to bartender. . .intervening to prevent violence) " Hey Hey !!! Listen bro... ...don't mind him. He a simple ass. Just give us each a "forty" an a shot, OK?" Make da shot Ol' Crow....or Bankers Club. What eber yo got. OK man???!!" The bartender snarled. . ..and backed away to grab the order.

Dushawn: "George.......do you think a forty will wash aways yo troubles wid Big Henry Rotter?

George: "Now....how ya knows bout dat? Huh? Whut duz you know?"

Dushawn: I knows eberyting bouts ya George . Like I said.....I beez yo guardian angel. I seen you grow from a little niglet to da fine young drug dealin' man yo be today. I knows all about you. "

George: ( to himself) "Jes mah luck....I gets a pimp for an angel"

The order arrived, and Goerge and Dushawn drank several rounds. Not a single conversation passed among the other patrons. . .most of whom just sat like condemned men who accepted without argument their lot in life.

Having sucked back enough beer to give himself a buzz, George paid the bartender, who just glared at him, and after a half hour of guzzling the shots and suds, they both left the dank watering hole. Once outside, the sunlight caused him to wince like a bug that is exposed when you turn the rock over from which it was hiding At that point.....from around the corner, a Chrysler 300 ( full rims and blinged out to the max...with exotic chrome 'nigstras') bore down the street toward them.
George and Dushawn, in an alcoholic haze were oblivious to the pending danger rolling ever closer toward them. Even with the ominous appearance of black metal barrels protruding from the Chrysler, they were still ignorant that death on wheels was bearing down on them. The car drew up and stopped. Then guns fired, blazing flames, and bullets sprayed everywhere. It was fortunate that the killers took more interest in the "style" of how they looked firing their guns, than in their own marksmanship. Actually using gun sights was alien to this band of killers.
Although less then 30 feet away, George was unharmed. Every bullet passed over, under or around him. And Dushawn......being an angel couldn't be harmed by flying lead. (Unfortunately bullets flew thru the block glass at the bar they just left...killing two of the stewed wax museum patrons inside. A Laotian woman a mile away lost some laundry that was hanging out to dry with bullet holes, and an old lady down the block was nicked by some flying brick from a ricochet.....but nothing serious) Out of ammo, the Chrysler sped
off and disappeared....bouncing from one pothole to the next...giving the car the look of a spastic mombo dancer as it lurched down the road.

George: ( now instantly alert and sober from the spray of bullet fire just missing him). " God Damn. I be in trouble now.
I iz in da shits, man. " I got Big Henry Rotter's boyz tryin' to off me. Then, George inexplicably and hysterically shouted something that he never even thought before: "Shit........none a dis would be happen' ta me if I wuz white. If only I was born white. Lord.....hear me. I am in trouble Lawd. Please. Please.....why couldn't you have made me white?" I wouldn't be in dis here pickle if I wuz white.

Dushawn: "So......you'd rather be white, eh brotha?" ( Dushawn.....looking upward, conferring with his superiors back in Heaven) "Oh.....I think dat might work. OK. OK. I trys dat. )

Dushawn: (to George now). OK. George. So ya thinks ya be better off if you'z was a white man, huh?"

George: " Well......I dunno. I guess I would be. Yez.......I got a bum deal in life. I shoudda been borns white."

Dushawn: " Den.....Ya gots yo wish. Yo is white" (At that same moment,....a gust of wind passes down the street, carrying litter and effluvia in a flash garbage storm past George and his Guardian Angel) .

George: "Sure I am. Sure. Yo fuckin' wit me again?."

But then, passing in front of a Pawn Shop, George caught his reflection in the glass.

George: " WHAT !!!!!! Holy crap!!! LOOK !! I'm WHITE" Look at me. I'm white. White I tell ya."

Dushawn: "Yes George, yo is white. You not even look white.....you even talks white now"

True enough. George took a moment to gather in the full import of the reflected image before him. He looked like he could have been carrying a passport from Norway, or Sweden. He was blond. He didn't just look like he was "passin"....or was a "high yellow"....he was as white as white could be. Genuine, lily white.

George: "Wow. I thought you were just another screwball on the street. But you really came through for me. How about that."

Dushawn: "Well George.....ya got's yo wish."

George: "I can hardly believe it"

Just then, some local toughs were coming down the sidewalk, murmuring and gesturing in a threatening manner, and giving George the " fish eye" George gathered that he was the object of their interest.

Thug kid No. 1: "Hey white boy.....youz lost?
Thug No. 2: "Yeah man....we kin kick yo white ass outta our hood, mothur-fukkar!"
Thug No. 5: " How much money you gots on you?"

George: "Hey...calm down brothers, I'm one of you.."

Thug No.3 " Don't ya call us brotherz, white boy. You know what's good fo yo, you be haulin' ass bout now.

George: "Hey Niggahs. Chill out. "

All the thugs ( now 12 in number)...."What the fuck you call us, cracka??? !!!!. Did you call us "niggars??" We'll kill you man....or at least get a lawyer to sue you cracka ass. We got Kramer ta pay !
George: " Listen.....I think we may have a problem in communications. Peace brotherz""

Thug 5: " White boy.....we goon settle this now. " (He menacingly pulled out a knife)

George, seeing that negotiations have come to a standstill, bolts and runs,, with an angry Negro mob hard on his heels. Block after block...pounding his legs, keeping just a step ahead of his pursuers.
Finally, .....the mob falls behind, and George, slows, then stops, still confused and astounded at the recent turn of fortune and events.

Dushawn ( who disappeared during the hostilities by becoming invisible) materialized next to George.

George: " Hey......what's with those guys. Why did they treat me like that. Don't they know I'm one of them?"

Dushawn: "George. You keep forgettin'. Yo not black no more. Yo not a brother now. Yo is as white as Pat Boone. "

George: "Oh...yeah. I guess you are right. I only been white for ten minutes, and I'm already starting to hate niggers. Maybe I should be getting on home."

Dushawn: "What home? You don't have a home in the ghetto no more. Mrs. Waterford ain't yo mammie....and Ol Toothless Jack not yo Daddy."

George: " What?..... Yeah.......I guess you are right. But where do I go?

Dushawn instructed George to look in his wallet which George withdrew from his pocket. Checking inside, he found an ID, and an address that was far out in white suburbia. At a bus stop, George got on a bus headed out of the city, and took a seat. It was populated entirely by big, beefy black women, who stared at him with contempt, suspicion, and curiosity as to why this "white boy" would be on a bus in the midst of their ghetto neighborhood.

Gradually, the bus moved on out of the ghetto. The buildings that looked like bombed out war zones gave may to more well maintained dwellings and manicured lawns. The neighborhoods became greener. The Negro women got off the bus, mostly in Jewish neighborhoods where they were employed as maids or nursing home aids. George transferred to another bus where the neighborhoods were neat, tidy homes with manicured lawns and hedges, and after an hour, Dushawn told him that this was his stop.
Walking down a country lane, there was a beautiful home in the suburbs with the same address he saw in his wallet.
With some fear and trepidation, George walked up to the door. He was about to knock when.....

Dushawn: ( alarmed and shouting) " Don't knock on the door, man !!!!!. Ya lives here....remember?."

George: "Oh yeah.....I keep forgetting. How do I look?"

Dushawn: "White. Now git yo white ass inside and try to remember you is a white man."

George slowly opened the door, ready to turn and run if needs be. The home was immaculate inside. Persian rugs. Antique furniture. Paintings...even a pool out back. Around the entrance there was a showplace kitchen. Spotless. No animal smells or filth odors from babies that hadn't been changed in four days either. This was the jackpot and lifestyle that George had aspired to all of his life. Now....it was all his. Yeah man.

Proceeding further inside, still somewhat nervous and fearful......he almost jumped out of his skin when a voice barked out. :

Wife: "OH....there you are. I've been waiting for you to get back from work." What took you so damn long? "And what are you doing dressed in those ridiculous clothes? You look like an idiot"

George forgot that he was still wearing his ghetto drug dealing uniform of oversized white tee shirt, baggy pants almost falling off his ass......and the best athletic shoes money could buy. His hat which he normally wore sideways on his head was lost in the in the melee of the chase when the ghetto youth tore after him..

Wife: "You look like some kind of circus clown. What's wrong with you lately???!!!" "Can't you act your age?"

George: (assuming correctly that the female was his wife)......"Ah......Hi honey. I'm home" ( George only knew of this form of greeting from years of watching TV on that 27" stolen set")

Wife: "Cut the crap. You've been slacking off with some of your duties and responsibilities around here.....and we're going to discuss this now. Do you understand?" " And I want to do this before Karen, Kimberly and Katrina come back from school.........are you listening to me?"

George; "Uh-huh" What kind of buzz saw did George walk into? This was unexpected. Now his " white wife" in appearance, looked sort of like a younger, only slightly less offensive and hairy version of Rosie O'Donnell...if you can imagine that but she had the demeanor and pleasantness of a Marine Drill Sergeant with halitosis. And who were Karen, Kimberly and Katrina??? His kids? Hey......this was getting in a bit deep for George. He didn't realize that there would be a "cost" involved to this whiteness. And responsibility, something he had eschewed his entire life,....was now being forced down his throat with a funnel and a ramrod. . .. . ..something George avoided like the plague all of his life.

Wife: " Go sit down at the dining room table. I want to go over your family itinerary with you for the next few weeks." Every command from the wife was accompanied by a sharp movement of her hand, pointing or making a karate like chopping motion, as though George was a dog in need of visual command cues.

George: "my Itinnnaaaerry..... what???"

Wife: "Your schedule, Stupid!!!!! Now sit !!!

Well. For the next 30 minutes, George's wife laid out a complex schedule that consisted of PTA meetings, shuttling the girls to violin lessons and soccer games and karate school......, painting the basement, taking the dog to the vet, visiting his mother-in law at the old folks home, shopping for groceries, mowing the lawn ( huh?.....never done that) .....raking and bagging leaves, .........attending the meeting at the local Elks Club for the initiation of new members, and doing volunteer work for the Church. Oh........and she later remembered that several doors in the house were not closing properly, and needed to be rehung.
All of this was plotted out on a calendar for poor George. This woman meant business, and he saw he wasn't going to be able to sluff off these tasks. George was even frightened of this looming and threatening female. . .even more than by his mother who pummeled him so soundly. In between announcing future work assignments, this Rosie O'Donnell like wife would take the time to hurl more abuse at him for a variety of reasons.

George' s head was spinning. As a typical black man who got through life by selling drugs in the ghetto, none of this stuff was demanded of him. He looked around for Dushawn to rescue him, but he wasn't there. All of a sudden, the three girls came home from school, lugging their backpacks filled with textbooks. Chatting away, and giggling ,they came over to George and started in with their own set of abuse and demands.

Kimberly: "Daddy, I need help with an American History assignment on Manifest Destiny?
Karen: "Daddy.......I have a paper to write on Erasmus.....can you help me?"
Katrina: "Daddy..........I need help with an English grammar lesson on gerunds. I need your help.

To George......these kids were speaking in a foreign language. What the hell was a gerund, he wondered? And this Erasmus......was he a dealer he owed money to? Danger lurked everywhere.

All three girls were mocking his attire: " Daddy.....you look like a wigger !"

"Female giggles, cackles and derisive laughter from all the women.......but with a decided mocking quality from his wife.

George: (feebly trying to give an explanation about the recent events) "Ah.....look........you don't understand. I ah.......

Wife: "Look...you have a lot to do. Stop shirking your duties as a father and husband. Get moving. Now !!"

George: "I uh....ah. . ..I just need to go to the bathroom"

George could feel himself sliding into a kind of paralysis....no doubt from the shock accompanied by the unexpected lifestyle and the demands he now was expected to undertake as a white family man. His heart started palpitating, and his hands sweated and itched...and his mouth went dry. He actually thought he might collapse and die at any moment. The walls were closing in on him. It was like finding yourself standing naked on 2nd base on opening day at Yankee Stadium. He was as lost and alone as a man would feel if he materialized on the planet Neptune.

Wife: "Hurry up. And don't leave the seat up. And it better not smell in there where you're done, or you'll answer to me !!!)

George entered the powder room, a totally alien environment. The toilets he was used to were befouled, smelly, stained places....barely capable of functioning. But here..... there were little soaps in decorative wrappers, or soaps designed to look like fruit, or little bundles of artificial flowers, aromatic devices used to mask the reality of human odors, and candles of various sizes. There was wall paper with giant floral patterns and fluffy towels on wooden towel holders. He never saw anything like this setup in any bathroom before.

When he unzipped to urinate, he noticed that he was suddenly circumcised . But that wasn't what bothered him. He had no idea of the rules and responsibilities incumbent on the average white man in America. He had stepped into a living nightmare. Demanding children asking him homework questions......a horror show of a wife......soccer games, violin lessons......the whole thing. It was just beyond him.

In the tiny powder room, George squatted on that toilet like a woman. With clasped hands, he prayed and prayed like he never prayed before.

George: "Dear God. Please. Please. . ... Make me black again. I'll do anything. I just want to go home to the ghetto. Please God........hear me. Make me a Negro again. Please God. Let me be black. Just let me be black"

At that.......An amazing thing happened. . .and while there was no wind in the miracle that changed George from black to white as before, an inexplicable whirlpool formed in the toilet beneath George. It swirled up and around him encompassing his total being, and all he could hear was the great rush of water around him as he sat in the vortex of this great swirling wetness that formed a curtain around him.
George felt that he was in the center of a great unknown tornado like power.....and then, he blacked out.

When he came to, George found himself sprawled on the broken, dirty sidewalk of some commercial street in the ghetto. Dollar stores, pawn shops, hair salons, pornography stores, giant billboards showing attractive Negro's smoking Kools's and Newports.....or fun loving black folk downing malt beverages. Just a few feet away, an elderly black ghetto mamma of immense proportions was squatting on an orange crate up against a fruit market . She shifted her great bulk upward, shuffled over to the curb, spread apart the old shift she was wearing, and squatted over the sidewalk. She emitted a groan indicating relief, and George saw a stream of urine flow from where she squatted, that meandered like some babbling brook toward the gutter.
Nervous anticipation surged through every pore of George's body. He reached up.....hesitating a bit, to touch his hair. Instead of the blonde locks he recently sported, he felt his more familiar tightly curled 'wool" that was his natural state when he wasn't coiffed in his "dreds." His hands were a chocolate brown. His lips ample and generous...like two chamber pot lids. " DAMN!!!!!! I is back, baby, I is back!"

George: "Oh thank you God. Thank You. Thank You , and Thank You." Thank you for making me black again. "

George started laughing. First slightly....then almost hysterically. Some of the mama sows and other ghetto folk looked at him like he was crazy.....but they didn't know the journey George had just taken.

At that moment.....the Chrysler 300 carrying Henry Rotter's hit men tore around the corner, guns blazing . George sprang to his feet, bullets dancing around his prized Nike's, one ricochet slightly wounding one of the listless mama sows squatting on a nearby stoop.

George: "I'll work dis out somehow wid Big Henry. I don't know how....but I will. I is jus so happy to be back wid my homeys" "And I know now. . ..dat I never wants ta be white again. I is find jus da way I is."


And from above, Dushawn was taking all this in. He got his new halo with the bling, and chrome and lights, making him a Negro Angel First Class. And every time you listen, and hear a Glock ring out in the ghetto.......you know another angel just got his bling.

End.