Bet Your Bottom Dollar
The Days of Their Lives
It's been about three weeks since I was last in this space to “write something” or tell some kind of story I thought might be interesting to someone else. Life has intervened, and I guess that's better than being bored or dead. So here we go, the “oh, woe is me” confession about “all the shit on my plate.” That's just a whine about having a bunch of interesting projects taking up my time, interfering with the lazy “life watch” I prefer which is often followed by writing a poem. When that little world shifts, I'm all a flutter, manic as “a chicken with its head cut off” which really meant something to those rural folks like my mother and aunt who had the detail of killing chickens periodically on the farm.
My mania should happen to everyone. A first world problem. A middle class struggle, reminding me of an old lumping buddy of mine and what he told me when we were at a motel the morning after unloading a full van-load of furniture and shuttling it to the residence then carrying everything up thirty stairs to get to the main floor of a three story house. The delivery lasted into the night, so we couldn't drive till the next day. Before we left for breakfast he was watching soap operas on TV. I asked him if he liked watching that shit. He was a guy who grew up without a mother, raised by his older brothers when his dad was in jail. He lived in the slums of a few west coast cities with all the rest of the poor folk. He was a California boy who sounded like he was from Oklahoma, someone who'd been labeled “white-trash” more than once. At heart he was a good guy and a hell of a worker, one of those guys who dealt with people as he encountered them. He was a friend, never false to your face.
His response to my question about why he watched soap operas was, “I just get a kick out of listening to all these rich people whine about their problems.” He giggled with delight, slapped his knee, and said, “I wish I could live just one day with all their problems!” This is a guy who “hated” blacks (whom he referred to as “you know whats”) which prompted me to ask him why. “You ain't growed up with 'em,” he said. It was true that I had no idea of where or how he grew up in the inner cities, and I told him that. I also told him I didn't understand how anyone could make that generalization about any group or demographic of people. “Oh, no! You ain't run into them. They'd just as soon cut you as look at you.”
Well Fed, Well Intended
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And who am I to pretend
a season of pain?
And who am I to explain
what I can't comprehend?
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What if you caught me
pedaling dope for a sexy song?
If I promised not to string you along,
would you show me the scars on your limbs,
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or would that gaffe offend
like another poisoned brother?
Could I ever become your midnight lover?
Would you be willing to pretend,
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forgive my clumsy privilege?
I'm spoiled and used to it,
watching you swim a river of shit.
My heart is good, I want to be a bridge,
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but how could I wear your shoes
or walk into-through your blood?
I've never slept in your neighborhood,
known the heartache beneath your blues.
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When will I learn the proof
scalds the pudding you never ate,
tastes the bone-deep electricity of hate,
and cheats all comfort blind to truth?
Some time after that conversation, a van driver showed up at our warehouse with a shipment of household goods he needed to unload into storage. The van driver was black, and van drivers paid their help to unload in cash, a good gig. It was just me and my pal there to help the driver, so I wondered what this was going to be like, him working for a black driver. I went to the office to grab paperwork and prepare to off load the shipment, and when I returned, it was like my partner and this driver were long-lost brothers, laughing, slapping hands, a couple of jive-talking boys from the hood. We had fun off-loading that furniture and visiting with that driver who paid us well. My pal thanked the driver with a brother handshake and true pleasure in his eyes, wished him a good trip, then walked him to his tractor, thanking and waving goodbye.
So after the van pulled away, I had to say, “So you got along pretty good with that black fella. I thought you hated those guys?” He looked surprised, then smiled, “Oh, he's a good old boy! I get along with “them” one on one, but you don't want to run into a group of 'em. Their totally different in a group.” And I let him have it because it was his and had been all his life. He'd learned to survive with that approach, and who was I to try to tell him different. He was never going to vote or pay much attention to the news or politics or social issues. He knew the basic thing all poor people know: life is about survival day to day, it's about getting along and getting by until tomorrow. As ignorant as he was and sounded to all of us educated folk, his way of existence was honest. He understood that “class” and “money” were the real issues even though he might not articulate that. He wasn't hiding anything. He had nothing to lose except his life. And that fear, that instinct, kept him going, working, struggling to enjoy the day, hoping tomorrow would be better than today.
Money
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That's money
Money for nothing
Lay your money down
Put your money on the line
Funny money
Money honey
Put it where the sun don't shine
Where your mouth is
All the time money
Changes everything but
Money won't fix it
Money talks and bullshit walks
Money matters sonny
Money makes the world go round
It's a gas
It's a pass
Money can save you
It can sink your ass
If I ever grow up
Cut my hair and get a job
It's gotta be good money
Money in the bank
A money-back guarantee
Serious money seriously
Follow the money trail
Launder your money daily
Dirty money spends the same
As minty-fresh bills until
Money changers beware
Old Money-Bags doesn't care
There's no money in it
No monopoly game
The root of evil
Is the poor man's claim
Give me money
And I'll sing you a song
You can play along pretend
Nothing's wrong
Like we own hotels
On Boardwalk and invest
In diamond mines
Confess like Mothers
Frank's twisted sisters
Those bedazzled bitches
Only in it for the money
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Mark Gibbons