First They Came for the Watermelon Mayors, and I Did Nothing
Fiction.
Jimmy Bates had always wanted a job in politics. He was fairly wise for a 22 year-old, and knew that this was a necessary step toward loftier goals: Serving a barely-paid internship to the Mayor of Los Alamitos, a tiny Californian hamlet he had never even heard of two months ago.
But the last week had definitely been a crash course in PR policy. First came the jovial email sent by his boss, Mayor Grose: “No Easter Egg Hunt this Year!” Just to a few close colleagues — no harm done, right? But then came the response: A torrent of angry emails accusing the mayor of racism.
Jimmy didn’t even see the mayor’s email until it was reprinted in the Orange County Register: The White House lawn covered with watermelon patches. A black President — the nation’s first — sitting inside. The implications were obvious. Jimmy couldn’t believe it.
And of course, after that came Mayor Grose’s inevitable resignation.
Mayor Grose had always been a pleasant fellow. A good boss, Jimmy thought. So he felt sorry for the mayor during his last days in office — he was essentially a radioactive presence at city hall. People wouldn’t even look at him, let alone speak to him.
Jimmy watched the former Mayor Grose in the parking lot, struggling to heft cardboard boxes of his packed-up things into his station wagon. He felt a surge of pity for the man, and ran out to help him.
Grose gave Jimmy a heartbreaking smile as he accepted the young man’s gesture. They piled six boxes of books, trophies, accolades into the back of the station wagon. Jimmy looked at his watch — his lunch break was starting. “Why don’t I help you take these things back to your house, sir?” he asked.
The former Mayor Grose beamed. “Thanks son, I’d really appreciate that.”
On the ride home Jimmy didn’t want to ask about the obvious, but Grose brought it up: “Like I said, bottom line is, we laugh at things and I didn’t see this in the same light.” His eyes blinked, damp. Jimmy looked away. “I’m sorry,” Grose continued remorsefully, “I never wanted to offend anyone from the standpoint of the African-American race. I just… I just didn’t know.”
Jimmy strained to keep himself from asking the question — How could you not know? You live in America, sir. How can you be so blissfully unaware of history, of Jim Crow laws, of segregation, of the pain of memory that such imagery would bring up? You, the mayor of a town? How could you not know, sir?
But Jimmy had been raised to bite his tongue at such moments. Why kick a man when he was down?
They pulled up to Grose’s house. Grose popped the back of the station wagon, silently handed Jimmy a cardboard box.
They walked up to the front door. Grose unlocked it. And as Jimmy entered, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
The living room was filled with an enormous collection of ceramic watermelons. Watermelon ash trays. Watermelon piggy banks. Framed prints of fruit company advertisements from the 1920s, sprouting watermelons on the walls. The wallpaper was striped green and pink. The couch was covered with a watermelon throw, and puffy watermelon pillows sat neatly on its corners.
And at Jimmy’s feet: A watermelon-shaped doormat with jaunty, happy-faced little seeds.
Jimmy looked back at the former Mayor Grose, stunned. “I still don’t know why everyone’s so mad,” Grose said, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I’m just so happy that Barack Obama is our President now,” he said, “And I just really love watermelons.”
Question: Do Dogs Dream?
Answer: Yes. Also, they are capable of being totally embarrassed.
Finally, the Movie Adaptation of Monopoly is Coming to Fruition
Hollywood’s insidious plan to adapt Things That Many People Have Heard Of into movies continues. The video game Street Fighter has been adapted once again into a movie (sans JCVD) — Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li comes out tomorrow.
(If I had been in charge of making this movie, it would have been titled Street Fighter: The Legend of Chun-Li: The Shower Scenes: The Movie. In my title, “Shower Scenes” is a plural because there would be many of them in my movie. Also, colons are good in a movie title because they let people know where to place their dramatic pauses.)
But it’s not just video games they’re making into movies — we’re also talking board games:
“Transformer’s” Michael Bay has been linked to a Ouija movie, Verbinski to Clue, ” Hancock’s” Pete Berg to Battleship, “Enchanted’s” Kevin Lima to Candy Land and “Gladiator’s” Ridley Scott to — we kid you not — Monopoly.
Source: LA Times.
MONOPOLY MOVIE! Phillip Seymour Hoffman is in talks to play the Top Hat, while Hugh Jackman has already been locked in to play the Thimble.
I think he’ll make a great Thimble.
Does This Hat Make My Head Look Transparent?
Umm, it does a little, Barreleye Fish. But I still think it looks good on you.
Please Be Careful, My Dog Is Very Racist
I was walking home when I happened upon an elderly lady and her small, graying dog. Being a dog person, I knelt down and offered my hand.
“Please be careful,” the lady said, “My dog is very racist.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She motioned to me to come closer. “He really hates the smell of certain kinds of… People,” she stage whispered, “And if he gets a whiff of you, he might bite you.”
The dog sniffed my hand and licked it. “He seems friendly enough,” I said.
“No,” she said, “He’s a terror. He really hates chinks.”
I blinked, baffled. I thought I had misunderstood her. “I’m sorry,” I said, “I think I misunderstood you. Did you just say -”
“Chinks,” she said cheerfully, “He really hates chinks.” The dog wagged his tail as he nuzzled my hand with his nose. “He really hates the fact that you lot are all terrible drivers. He can never understand what you’re saying. Also he thinks that the line is always way too long at Panda Express.”
“Now wait just a minute – “
“And he hates the fact that you control all of the banks.”
“That’s the Jews,” I said.
“Whatever,” she said, “He doesn’t like it one bit. I wish I could get him to be more tolerant, but he’s pretty set in his ways.” She rubbed the scruff of his neck. “Aren’t you, you old scamp?” she cooed.
The dog put his paw on my shin, rested his head upon my knee. He looked up at me, begging to be petted.
“I’m… Gonna go now,” I said. I stood up and began to walk away.
She gave me a friendly wave goodbye. “Bye bye, you goddamned chink!” she called out.
I Keep Finding Cool Stuff In This Knot-Hole
Usually I run by the old Radley place as fast I can, not stopping until I reach the safety of our front porch. But one afternoon as I raced by, I saw something that caught my eye in a strange way: From one of the Radleys’ trees, something was glinting in a knot-hole just above my eye level, winking at me in the afternoon sun.
I hastily reached into the knot-hole and withdrew a can of Diet Coke. It was still frozen-cold, its surface dew dropped with condensation.
My first impulse was to drink it as quickly as possible, but I remembered where I was. The old Radley lot was a haunted place, and everything in it and around it was cursed in a poisonous way.
I ran home and examined my loot. I turned the can around looking for pinholes and poisonous injections. I popped it, sniffed the fizz. It smelled all right. I licked it and waited for a while, and when I didn’t die I drank the whole thing in one long, adams apple-bouncing gulp.
The next week I was running past the Radley place as usual when I spotted something else in the knot-hole: A copy of Saints Row 2 for the Xbox 360, still in its shrink-wrap.
Now I began to figure that this was some kid’s hiding place; he was hiding things from the bigger folks. So I went home. But on the second day the game was still there, and on the third day too. So I pocketed it.
A few days later I was trotting by in my orbit when something in the knot-hole stopped me again: Something plastic, bubble-wrapped. Two gigabytes of ram for a Macbook.
This was funny because my Macbook needed a ram upgrade. I had often stared at it by my open window, muttering aloud about how it was fixing for an upgrade. This was too true to be mere dumb luck. The ram was there for a reason. Someone had put it there for me.
Every week the knot-hole yielded a different prize: A box of “This Apple Walks Into a Bar” fruit bars from Trader Joes. A gift card for J. Crew. A slightly-used but almost new pair of Etymotic earbuds.
Now I was beginning to feel pretty guilty. Whoever was leaving me these things clearly knew me pretty well, and I had done nothing in return. So I sat down with a pad and composed a letter:
“Dear Mister, I appreciate the — no, I appreciate everything you have put into the tree for me. Yours very truly, Michael Steven Golamco.”
Next morning I ran ahead and stopped by the tree to stuff my note into the knot-hole… But I went stark white.
Someone had filled my knot-hole with cement.
I waited for hours on our front porch until I saw him walking by: “Mr. Radley,” I said. Mr. Radley turned around. “Mr. Radley, ah… Did you put cement in that tree down yonder?”
“Yes,” he said, “I filled it up.”
“Why’d you do it, sir?”
“Tree’s dying. You plug ‘em with cement when they’re sick. You ought to know that.”
He left me on the porch. I leaned against a pillar, rubbing my shoulder against it. I stood there until nightfall; when I finally went to bed, my face was still dirty in the right places, but anyone could see that I had been crying.
Are You Sure I Should Marry This Dog?
“You should definitely marry this dog,” he said.
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I mean, I’m only asking for the sixth time just to be sure.”
“Definitely-definitely,” he said. “That growth you’ve got on your gum? That little extra snaggletooth? It means that there’s a tiger out there gunning for you.“
I felt a cold sweat forming on my face. “Really?”
“Yes really. In fact I saw one hanging out by the outskirts of the village. Looked at me like death. He was checking out my gums. For real.”
He looked at me like death too, clicking his tongue. “I wish there was another way around it,” he said. “I really do.”
“Okay,” I said, “But what if I want to get married later on to like, a human?”
He shook his head in pity. “I’m sorry. That just won’t be possible. It’s either the dog forever or you get eaten by a tiger. Like tonight.“
I paused over this. “Well, with the dog, do I have to…”
His expression leaped into disgust. “Oh god, no, man! No, of course not! Are you nuts?.. You just have to take him for a walk twice a day and bathe him once a week -”
“Him? It’s got to be a male dog?”
He shrugged; his face softened. “It’s tradition,” he said.
My Work in Print
Year Zero
Available from Samuel French and Amazon.com
Cowboy Versus Samurai
Available from Samuel French and Amazon.comFor a complete list of books containing my work, please click here.
