I Like The Black Girls

November 24, 2009 at 3:56 PM | Posted in Journal | Leave a comment
  Okay, I’m surrounded.  At work, I’m surrounded by all chicks.  But in my Mega-cube, my section of the pit, I had one then two and now three black women.  Stacy is one of them, and she gave me a ride home Friday.  She’s nice, but Lordy is she a talker.  They are all nice, and in fact the only one that is ghetto is Debra, and she got fired a month or so ago.
  I liked her. but seriously, she was not that bright.  She opened her mouth and ghetto nonsense came out.  I feel bad for her though; she had been here five years, I think.  Her daughter was the one whom I helped change the tire, if you recall.
  So, you know, I’m not as much of a racist as I thought I was, I guess.  And I think they are the same way.  I’ve had black people work for me, and I’ve worked for them.  We both start out with a distance, but as we get to know each other and work with each other, we grow to like each other.  Just like anyone else, I guess, but there is that extra barrier that we have to work past.
  I don’t know how Detroit does it–it comes to her easily.  Despite the fact that she’s been a bitch to me lately, I have to hand it to her–normally she can get along and can talk with anyone.  I guess I can too.  I like to see her go, and watch her interact with other people.
  There’s another black girl in this set of cubes but not near me; she’s in the front near the reception.  Her name is Felicia or something else ridiculous like that.  Anyway, she is nice, and pretty, and young.  How young?
  Her and Serena were talking in the lunchroom about how long they had been with whoever the hell they had been with.  Serena was married for 10 to 14 years, I think.  I didn’t really pay attention because I’m over her.  When we first met she was just splitting up with her husband, and I had a thing for Asian chicks, and I could have gone for it, but I was chicken, so we became friends instead.  And now, I can’t imagine being with her.  Christ, the hoops I’d have to jump through for sex?  Fuck that.  It’s hard enough the way it is, with a more or less normal woman.
  I was going to interject into their conversation about how I had been married for 19 years…but I’m over it.  It’s become a war story at this point, where I lift my shirt and show everyone the psychological scar tissue and brag about "The Big One."  But what stopped me cold was how Felicia mentioned that she had just been with someone for ten years.  I just looked at her.  "Are you even old enough?"
  She looked at me, indignant.  "I’m thirty-four years old!"
  "Bullshit."
  "How old did you think I was?"
  Truthfully, about 18.  "Twenty-two, maybe, or twenty-three."
  "Oh, well, thank you.  That’s very sweet."
  At thirty-four she could probably have a twenty-year old kid.  But it’s this whole thing, you know?  I used to look younger than I am, even with the bald spot, if I kept my head shaved down.  But the crow’s feet and various wrinkles are starting to creep in.
  But black people always seem to look younger than they are.  A Felicia is 34 but looks 20.  A woman Detroit worked with looked to be my age but was actually sixty.  One woman here in the cube, Janet, seems to be about 50 to 55, so she’s probably 102.
  Maybe it’s not just them.  This tiny little thing next to me, Heather–a white chick–looks young.  She said she’s 28 or 29.  Am I *that* old now that all these "adults" look like children to me?
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