White Neighbors, Part 2

My daughter pointed at our White neighbor down the street. “What is he doing, meditating?”

I shook my head. “No, baby, he’s barbecuing.”

Our neighbors, Robert and Lacy, had moved in about four months ago. They were nice and all, and we were glad they had bought the house, because it meant an instant 20% jump in our property values.

White folks have their uses, y’know.

The only bad thing about him is that he would do strange things in his front yard. Like, for instance, water his lawn. I asked him about it one time, when he was standing in his front lawn with the garden hose, just sprinkling away. I says, “Hiya, Robert, what’s up?”

He turned, and quickly shut off his hose. “Nothing, nothing,” he said, wiping off his hands and extending a clenched fist. “Fist bump,” he said.

“Huh?” I answered, puzzled.

“Fist bump,” he repeated.

“Oh!” I answered, extending my fist to quickly tap his, not wanting to be rude. I heard someone laughing and turned. It was my daughter and her friend Shooney. “Go ahead, Daddy, fist bump!” she exclaimed, and they both bent over, laughing their fool heads off. I’d fix her later.

A minute later, Robert finished bumping my fist, first one way, then the other. All we needed were a couple of Afros and some bell bottoms and we could be Starsky and Hutch. He looked up with a big grin. “How’s that, Bro?” he asked, proud of his new skill.

“Been watching Flip Wilson reruns again?” I asked, with a deep sigh.

“Yeah, but I didn’t know Flip had a twin sister named Geraldine. She’s funny!”

I decided to let that go for now, and pointed to his still-dripping hose. “What’cha doing?” I asked.

“Watering my yard. Today’s Tuesday.”

I shook my head, confused. “What does Tuesday have to do with it?” I asked.

“You didn’t hear? Fire Marshal declared a drought, odd-numbered houses can only water on Monday, Wednesday, and Fridays, even-numbered houses on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturdays, nobody on Sundays.” He nodded his head vigorously, happy to impart some new information my way. “He catch you watering your lawn on the wrong day, he’ll write you a ticket!”

I nodded blankly. Fire Marshal?

Who the Hell was the Fire Marshal?

When we voted for him?

White people got a bad habit of holding them little back-door elections they don’t tell us about.

Like Dog Catcher!

You ever voted on him?

Hell, no!

It’s probably the Mayor’s little cousin in Special Ed they done give a job to. He slow, but he can grab them dogs lickety-split. Probably cut him a deal with the Chinese restaurant, so he can make some extra money on the side. Plus, if he stay catchin’ dogs for 20 years, he can collect a pension.

White people always got a way to take care of their own.

Bastards…

“He can’t be barbecuing,” my daughter said, shaking her head. “Where’s the smoke?”

I looked at her. “White people don’t barbecue with smoke,” I replied. “See?”

Robert had picked up the lid and began poking inside. A half-opened can of Beanie Weenies, and 2 pink chicken legs lay on the grill. He held his hand over the grill, and held it there.

2, 3, 4, 5 seconds..then 6, 7, 8, before nodding his head like he was satisfied.

“Is it cooking?” my daughter asked.

“You lookin’ at it, just like I am,” I responded, “so you tell me.”

She looked at me with the same look her mother had when I told her it was her turn to mow the lawn. Don’t start me on that.

“I’m going see,” my daughter said, walking toward Robert and his pit. I stood where I was. This would be a good lesson for her, teach her some gratitude about Black men. When we say BBQ (in BlackSpeak, barbecuing is called “‘cuing.” You know us, we shorten everything.), we mean heat and smoke, with a bottle of water on the side for flare-ups. When a Black man ‘cues, he’s putting in some work, with jars of BBQ sauce and baste, with either a brush or a short mop to slap it on with. We need a radio blasting, and an ice chest full of cold ones, ’cause barbecuing is hard work, yes indeed!

I watched my daughter talk to Robert for a moment, then kept my face straight as he raised the lid. She put her hand over the grill and held it, then looked at Robert. I couldn’t hear him, but I could tell he was explaining something to her, ’cause she was shaking her head, kinda like her mother did when I explained something to her.

Black women are real experts when it comes to shaking their heads. Every shake got a different meaning. All them years in the cotton fields, y’know?

You have the Shake #1, called the I Aint Hearin’ Schit You Say, you got the #5–What Did That Heifer Just Say to Me?

(That’s a good one. When you see it, go get a tall glass of Red Kool-Aid, ’cause you’re about to watch a catfight. Just don’t make the mistake of trying to separate your wife when she’s fighting.

Bad, bad idea, on a lot of levels…

I aint got time today, but remind me to tell you when I pulled my wife off of a woman who tried to snatch the last pair of size 7 shoes out of her hand. They’re called “stilettos” for a reason.)

She patted Robert on the shoulder and walked back to the house, looking a bit dejected.

“What’s wrong, Baby?” I asked.

“Aint no heat,” she said. “Aint no smoke, aint no fire!” She looked at me. “Aint no coals, he usin’ gas! “Gas and rocks!” She shook her head. “Not even wood! And his meat…don’t have no seasoning! I was trying to be polite, and not dig in his business, but I had to ask him….and you know what he said?”

“No, Baby,” I answered, lying through my teeth.

“He said this is healthy cooking, and you should BBQ like that! No smoke, ’cause smoke is carcinogenic, no salt, because salt is hypertensive, no fire, because fire burns the ozone layer….Daddy, what do White people eat?”

“Let’s go in the house,” I answered, “I’ll explain it to you…”

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White Neighbors!

Yesterday, my wife and I were sitting on the front porch, enjoying the cool of the evening, while observing our new White neighbors…

Yes, new White neighbors!

We get them by times in our middle-class neighborhood, and it’s actually a good thing. For one, it means your property values are about to go up, unless, of course, it’s one of those trailer-park refugees that hit it big on a scratch ticket. Then, you got problems. As the old saying goes, “You can take a White woman out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the White woman.”

But, fortunately, our new neighbor didn’t come from a double-wide, no sir. They kept the lawn clean, put up the kids’ toys at the end of the day, mowed their grass once a week, I mean good, quality White folks, the kind you proudly introduce to your kinfolks and friends.

As a matter of fact, that’s what Miz Lacy was doing, mowing her lawn…

Speaking of that, when was the last time you saw a Black woman cutting grass? You see sweaty White women all the time, wearing too-tight Farah Fawcett shorts, pasty white thighs straining, trying to push a lawn mower. But Black women? No, indeed not!

(Well, I saw a Black Lesbian cutting grass, one time, but she was trying to prove a point. As if I cared, y’know? When you finish with your grass, Butch, come do mine! Ha!)

“See?” I said to my wife, trying to give her a gentle hint, “Look at Miz Lacy, takin’ care of bitness!”

“Are you crazy?” my wife replied, “It’s too dang hot to be out here, clowning with a lawnmower!”

“Well, Baby, whaddya think? It’s June, it’s supposed to be hot! That’s when the grass grows, when it’s hot!”

“And…what does that have to do with me? That aint my job to cut the grass, it’s yours!” She was indignant, like I had asked her to dance on a pole or something.

“Look at ol’ Lacy,” I responded coolly, knowing I was right. “She’s pushing her lawn mower right now. She pushing hard, too.”

“That heifer need to push two lawn mowers,” she answered, laughing. “Take a look at the thighs on that White woman! Look like two big hams! Two big flat hams! Haaa!” She laughed, then her face changed. “Why you lookin’ at that heifer’s thighs?”

“Nice,” I said admiringly, shading my eyes for a better view.

“Say what?” She raised up in her chair, ready for battle.

“Commercial high wheel, extended deck mulching lawn mower with 5 hp Briggs & Stratton engine,” I said, ignoring her hand tightly gripping her glass of iced tea, “Nice!” I looked at her with Expression #3, Innocent Straight Face. “What did you say?”

“Never mind,” she answered, still suspicious, but unable to prove anything. Don’t ask me what annoys women more, the idea of her husband looking at another woman, or not being to catch him at it. All I know is, both of them feel good to men, trust me.

Lacy’s mower suddenly stopped. She pulled the starter cord several times, but nothing. She pulled it another time, real hard, making everything jiggle. She bent over, and I thought about saying “Nice” again, but I changed my mind. No use being greedy.

“Humph,” my wife said, trying to look like she wasn’t trying to see if I was looking, but she wasn’t fooling me any. Women just can’t help themselves.

Lacy turned, saw us, and waved. “Hey, there, neighbors!” she yelled.

“Aw, hell,” my wife muttered, smiling and waving back. “I hope she stay put—dang!”

Lacy walked across the street toward us, pulling her Briggs & Stratton along behind her. “I know she don’t think I’m gonna help her with that,” my wife mumbling under her breath again, switching to Expression 94B—Cheerful Curiosity. “Need some help?” my wife chirped.

I looked at her, but kept quiet. Sometimes it’s just best to let things play themselves out. You have to be careful when your wife gets chirpy on you. Nothing good ever comes out of chirpy, trust me.

“Oh, yes,” Lacy said. “This is my mother-in-law’s lawn mower, and it’s just as cranky and ill-tempered as she is. It can be so annoying, you know what I mean?”

“Lord, yes,” my wife answered. I turned, and shot her Expression 12—We’ll Discuss This Later. She shot me a quick Whatever, and asked Lacy,” Would you like a glass of tea while my husband takes a look at it? Go get your tools, baby.”

So, there it was, neatly played. Check, and mate. No need to argue, just get up with your dignity intact.

I stood, taking a deep breath. Where in the hell was her husband, and why didn’t he get first crack at it? What the heck, I was already drafted for mechanic duty, so asking the question wouldn’t hurt. “Where’s Robert?” I ignored my wife’s # 63 Mind Your Business, and smiled expectantly at Lacy.

“Oh, he’s in the house, somewhere,” she answered with a dismissive wave of the hand, “You know how he is…”

Yes, I did. Robert was strange.

Real strange.

For example…..