Celebrating Black History Month As A Sellout
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Short Stories
I was black before Barack (re)made it cool, but now I’m distant from my race. My main black man problem: removing wine stains from my LL Cool J soupcoolers. I live in a suburb a few miles from the U.S.-Mexico border and go weeks without seeing a single black person in my part of town. An area where the small number of racists are too busy hating on the Mexicans to worry about a couple-few black guys in the area, provided that couple-few remains a couple-few.
I live with my lady, who’s black in ass but white overall, and our six-month-old son who has yet to realize the discomfort that comes with “What are you?” The few black friends I have here operate as I do, without the constraints of being black. The phrases I heard in my hometown of Cleveland don’t apply: “Man, real ni66as don’t ____.” Fill in the blank with: go camping, fall in love with white women (smanging is OK), listen to Radiohead, travel outside a three mile radius of racial comfort, sit right next to their homeboy in the movie theater, drink a beer without grabbing it by the neck, give high fives…
But we’re still very much black, and proud. I cringe when our ignorant 10 percent equates black with “ghetto.” I hate logging on to WorldStarHipHop.com, but rubberneck at our mess when temptation proves too heavy. I watch UFC and hope the brotha knocks the white dude out…sorry. I listen to “Watch The Throne” and see it as a celebration of modern “black excellence.” I want hot sauce on everything I eat, it’s actually crusted on my computer’s keypad as I write.
But I also thought O.J. was guilty, from the start. And my in-group politics mesh more with Bill Cosby’s than Al Sharpton’s.
Still, I can have an opinion on black love without getting the side-eye, even if my version of black love includes a white woman. I can criticize and compliment us and feel my opinion is just as valid as someone who’s really “down.”
Jesse’s struggle was different than Barack’s. Baldwin’s issues might not have meshed with Malcolm’s. Dubois didn’t see eye-to-eye with Booker T Washington. What K’naan went through is probably completely foreign to other black hip-hop artists. And Rerun from “What’s Happening” probably didn’t understand the trouble Lamar from “Revenge of the Nerds” faced while becoming the greatest dancer of his generation.
But the breadth and depth of the black experience is great. Let’s appreciate the diversity within the black community. Even Herman Cain.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Chances Are You’re Like Me, Just Average…And That’s OK
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Babies, Short Stories
You can do anything you want as long as you can accept being average at it. In elementary school I believed in the fallacy of hard work and spent hours and hours trying to perfect my chess game. The school tournament came around and I lost in the first round in less than two minutes to Fat Terry, who had been taught a secret Hindu chess move from the school genius, Munir. To make matters worse my dad scolded me with, “How the hell you lose to Terry’s fat ass?” Because I was just an average chess player, Dad!
The disappointment continued in middle school. I practiced basketball for hours, even in the snow, and still got cut from the team. Luckily a Jheri-curled teacher, Mr. Hinesmiller, also believed in the fallacy of hard work and added me to the “C Team” with other kids who lacked natural athletic talent. We played our first and only game against Solomon Schechter, a school for Jewish kids whose parents didn’t want them interacting with black children, and lost by two points. Two points that I gave them by shooting the ball in the wrong hoop.
High school was a little better. I made the freshman basketball team and scored a couple points my first season. I practiced eight hours a day the following summer and believed I had a chance to be a star. But my sophomore year I got cut from junior varsity and cried like I’m doing now as I reminisce. The next year I transferred to a school in the hood, after my family moved three blocks away from the hood. I learned to play spades in class and took my first trip to the projects. I also made the varsity basketball team and sat the bench. More importantly, I got a handy (not from a teammate). That was great, but the look in the girl’s eyes made me think I was average in the meat department.
In college I got average grades in the easy major. Same for grad school. I then got a mid-level management job at a clinic, where I did just enough work to get my average pay. I left to pursue a writing career and released a book that based on the sales, was average. I traveled a bit and then got another job, but like any ol’ average brotha I was the last-one-hired-first-one-fired. Now I’m working various hustles to avoid being your average worker bee.
In this I’ve learned there’s one area in which I can exceed average-dome: fatherhood. With a little hard work, luck (i.e. not dying) and if only because my son has no one to compare me to, I can be a great father. He knows I’m the guy who grabs him from the crib at 2:15 a.m. and connects him with Mom’s titty, and the guy who plays with him a few hours later, and the guy whose bony shoulder he rests on at noon. So to him I’m great, and therefore, for the first time in my life, un-average.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Walmart’s Security Will Kick Your Ass
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Walmart is an interesting place to shop, and not just because they hire silent greeters. Their stores are great for people watching, second only to an inner city Greyhound station on a Saturday afternoon. Plus they have an extraordinary amount of ass walking through their aisles at the oddest hours; they’re pretty much a 24 hour nightclub. But they also have a dark side. And I’m not just talking about its sweatshops in rice-cooking countries. Walmart has a secret security force that’s retail’s version of the Mossad.
My brother and I were driving from Cleveland to Columbus, Ohio when we stopped at a Walmart in small town Macedonia to exchange a broken CD player (Fuck yo’ i-Pod). We approached the cashier with the replacement and she looked at us like we were criminals, though we hadn’t even stolen anything…yet. The cashier rudely explained that without a receipt she could not exchange the broken CD player. We pointed out that Walmart’s policy, as described on a sign directly behind her, said exchanges would be given without a receipt. Still, she didn’t budge. So my brother did what any mature adult would do, slam the broken CD player on the counter and walk out with the new one.
The cashier began yelling, “He’s stealing; he’s stealing!” An employee near the store’s exit momentarily tried to block his path, but simply moved out the way as my brother got near. (I guess being big and black is good for more than just having sex with white women in college.) I followed my brother out the store and yelled, “Man, what are you doing!” It was too late.
A plain clothes security guard grabbed my brother in the parking lot and tried to wrestle him to the ground. Another grabbed me, but quickly let my scrawny bones go when he saw his colleague needed a second body. The first guard was nearly riding my brother’s back. The second leaped for his legs and tried to bring him to the ground.
My brother, with the spirit of Kunta Kinte running through his veins, kept trudging his way towards our car. Then one of the security guards did the unthinkable; he squeezed the shit out my brother’s balls.
My big brother yelped in pain. I hadn’t heard him scream like that since my dad whooped his ass for losing a fight in school. I was nearly 10 feet away and felt the pain in MY stomach. Those big balls, which were flashed to me when they first grew hair, were crushed.
I tried to pull one of the guards off my brother, but he was strong and tired and unmovable. Within seconds police cars arrived. A goofy looking cop with a classic redneck haircut, sideburns shaved to the top of his earflaps, threw me against his car and cuffed me. For good measure he whispered, “You try to run, I’ll knock your fuckin’ head off.”
They pulled my brother off the ground and quickly cuffed him. We were taken to the station and interrogated separately. I was let go after the officers determined 1) I was not at fault and 2) My Air Jordan sneakers were not stolen.
My brother spent the weekend in jail where a bigger muthafucka took his grilled cheese, though he did leave his balloon knot intact. I vowed never again to shop at Walmart. I kept my word for awhile, until I needed a new CD player.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Guest Blog: If I Only Stopped At Sloppy Kisses
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
This is the tale of my very worst sexual partner. For his own sake I won’t reveal his name so let’s just call him Shit*y McShitterson. I met Shit*y the same way a lot of us girls meet guys like him; while drunk at a bar.
Shit*y ended up coming back to my place. We do the whole foreplay thing, and holy sh*t he is the worst kisser I have ever had the misfortune of kissing. It was as if he learned how to kiss by practicing on a St Bernard. Just all slobber. For some reason dumbass me did not take this as a huge sign for how horrible him going down on me was going to be. As soon as he put his mouth down there my vagina felt like one of the passengers on the Titanic drowning in an ocean of despair. Now you guys want to hear the best part? Shit*y goes down on me for about two excruciating minutes, then quickly feels my vagina and gets up to get a condom. I ask, “What are you doing?” and he says, “We should f*ck now. You’re really wet.”
I was so pissed off at this point, and in my drunken stupor could not stop laughing. No I’m not fu*king wet you asshole. I’m just covered in your gross saliva and being reminded of the movie Beethoven not getting horny. At that point every bone in my body was telling me I was going to regret it if I had sex with this guy, but when I’m drunk I don’t listen to my bones. I listen to my dumb head that reminds me I haven’t fu*ked since my boyfriend and I broke up.
Well he gets it in there, and immediately the phrase “jack-hammer” comes to mind. He was going so fast that I could hear the sound of his stomach and leg fat loudly banging onto my body. I was thinking that it was a good thing I didn’t have one of those “clap on clap off” lights in my room or else it would have been going on the fritz at that moment—it would have looked like we were fu*king in a rave.
Then the dirty talk happened. He kept going, “Yeah, you like that don’t you?” Seriously, how can this guy be so stupid? There was nothing about my body language that even came close to implying I “liked that”. Yeah dude, I like it so much that I can barely look you in the face without laughing. I like it so much that I have to tell you to slow down every ten seconds, and stop breathing so hard. By the time he finished I was so pissed off and disappointed that when he tried to cuddle I told him to leave. He asked me why and I said, “That sex was so bad that there is no amount of post-coital cuddling or cutesy pillow talk in the world that can make up for it.”
This incident happened around a year ago and luckily I’ve been better at choosing partners. This guy just couldn’t face the fact that his fucking was so bad. Honestly, if I had to choose between having sex with him again and being forced to watch Justin Beiber music videos for five hours straight. I would go with Beiber. It was that bad.
Note to the fellas: being good at sex does not necessarily come naturally. These things take time and it’s different from woman to woman. A real good sexual partner is someone who will be open-minded, and will invest in the other person’s feelings as much as their own. A good sexual partner needs to have humility, and learn from mistakes. Not deny them to the point of delusion. Obviously, I never spoke to this guy again and if you’ve ever hooked up with a girl thinking she’d call you back…maybe this is the reason why she hasn’t.
-Alison S.
I Lived With A Hooker
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
Unlike Snoop, I do love them hos. I admire their craftiness and ability to continually work despite serious occupational hazards, like throat herpes, which can leave its victims with a permanent T-Pain auto-tune voice. Unfortunately, most people hold negative stereotypes of prostitutes as drug-addicted heathens who will suck one’s balls off for the price of a Slurpee. Truth is a lot of hookers are sober and generally good, though money-hungry, people. I know, I lived with a prostitute.
I found my roommate “Autumn” on Craigslist. She was looking for a quiet, reliable housemate who would agree to leave the condo during client hours (weekdays from 9 A.M. to 5 P.M. and by appointment). In exchange, I would receive ultra-cheap rent in a prime San Diego neighborhood. I moved in within three weeks.
Autumn claimed to be a masseuse; at first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. There was a massage table in the living room and oils on the counters. Besides, she didn’t fit the image of hookers I’d seen on television or during drunken nights (and Sunday afternoons) in Tijuana. She was articulate and drug-free.
In due time, however, her story started to come apart. The condo was old and damp, and the shag carpet was stained. It was reasonable to imagine a client coming over for head but not a high priced massage. Also, there was a mobile stripper pole in the living room for clients who “want to learn pole dancing to improve their flexibility.” Next to the pole were strategically placed baby wipes, perfect for removing residue from snatch juice and Victoria’s Secret Strawberries and Champagne lotion. Autumn also told me she did “loin bedazzling” for clients who wanted bling around their privates. She claimed to make good money providing this service to strippers, male and female. I saw pictures of her work on her laptop and admittedly she had skills. I suggested she market her artistic talents to the hip-hop community. Who couldn’t imagine rappers yelling, “NIGGA, YO’ BALLS AIN’T SHININ’ LIKE MINE!”?
A couple months passed, and Autumn and I developed a cordial relationship. She was older, probably in her early 40s, and talked to me like a wise aunt would, but I knew very little of her personal life. I wasn’t even sure I knew her real name, as most of her mail was addressed to another name. Still, I minded my business and we were fine until the day I arrived home a few minutes earlier than usual.
It was only a little after 5 P.M., so technically I was abiding by our agreement. Something told me to leave and come back an hour later, but the urge to watchJudge Judy, whom I had missed for months, was too much. I slowly opened the door and walked towards the living room. Autumn yelled “Dammit! Hold on!” I stood there frozen, like that time my dad caught me having sex and gave me the following advice: “Boy, you ain’t done a woman right unless she leave some hairs between yo’ teeth!”
Autumn emerged from behind a makeshift curtain used to cover the massage table, which was actually a blanket attached to ceiling hooks. Her hair was unkempt. Her thick thighs spilled out of the boy shorts she wore. The underwear was crooked and pulled low. I could see a line where her shaved pubic hair would have started. She was not bedazzled.
She yelled, “I told you 5 o’clock!”
I answered, “My bad… but it’s already after 5.”
Just then I caught a glimpse of a bare-ass man hurrying towards the bathroom. My bathroom.
“What’s he doing?!” I yelled.
“Oh…he just needs to use the bathroom real fast…. Look, we’re gonna have to do something about this. I have clients! I didn’t mean exactly 5 o’clock. My clients need time!” I walked away without another word. I went into my room and shut the door. I sat there helpless as some man in need of a fix used my shower and probably rubbed one off.
Days later, Autumn said, “We need to talk.” She looked like a seasoned boss about to fire her employee. “I like having you has a roommate and everything but you’re kind of messing up my money. I need to work more than just 9 to 5–”
I cut her off: “Look, whatever you do is your business. I’m in my room keeping to myself. If you need to work, go ahead and work. I don’t judge.”
“I run a legitimate business,” she said. She had fallen in love with her lies. “But if I have to fuck to pay the bills, then so be it. But I need to be flexible for my clients.” Then she said it, “I’ll need you to be out the place by the 10th. Even without your rent, I can do better by having more hours for my people.”
I was being macked by a hooker, but my understanding wouldn’t allow me to be angry. Autumn was about making money, and I was in the way. I moved two weeks later.
Slick bitch never returned my security deposit.
This story also ran on StreetBonersAndTVCarnage. I’m contributing there bi-monthly until they get tired of me. Stay Black.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Scooter Riders of America
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
I am a black American man who rides a scooter. Neighbors shout “Euro-Negro!” as I cruise through the hood on this un-American vehicle wearing slim-fit slacks and a cardigan made of cloned lamb’s wool available only from a top-secret facility in South Korea, and Urban Outfitters. Passing motorists laugh as I lean forward on the fragile machine and struggle to maintain a steady speed while riding up a steep hill. Worst of all, so-called friends mock my boasts of spending four dollars a week on gas with a simple but biting comeback, “You can’t put a price on your manhood.” But before you judge, let me tell you why I ride a scooter.
First things first: Women. Women love the scoot. Though they giggle as I ride past, it is a giggle of “Damn, who’s that guy weaving through traffic and playing by his own rules. Look at how his bony hand twists the throttle. It’s like he’s saying… fuck a Hummer.”
For example, I once pulled over on a side street to use my cell phone when I heard the erotic chuckle of young women sitting in an open garage. I looked over and stared at them through my fake designer shades. One of the young women said “What is that?” So I rode in the garage to give a closer look. As I was explaining a giant SUV came up the driveway and began beeping its horn. I turned around and noticed a middle-age female driver waving me aside. I asked the young women “How old are y’all?” Shouts of “I’m 16! I’m 17!” echoed in the garage. I scooted away, completely unscathed of potential statutory rape charges.
Or how about this other time: I was about to ride to the grocery store and stuff two days of groceries into my tiny scooter trunk when I received a call from a friend. She said “I’m off early. Is it cool if I stop by and say hi?” I answered, “Yeah. I’m about to grab some food and cook. Come by.”
She came over, hopped on the back of my scooter and received the most exciting ride of her life. Although the only physical contact came courtesy of our helmets banging, it was a joyful experience nonetheless. Well maybe a bit more joyful for me since I didn’t hear back from her again.
Next up: What’s it like to ride a scooter everyday? It’s cold, man. Riding in any temperature less than 70 degrees is guaranteed to chill your nipples. But there are ways around that. You can simply ride close behind a large bus and bask in its warm but mildly noxious fumes. You can also keep a flask of whiskey in the scooter’s ever-so-convenient pouch located near the handlebars. Taking a swig at a stoplight warms your whole respiratory system and helps you focus while driving.
Lastly, how does one maintain his masculinity while riding such a tiny and seemingly effeminate vehicle? I find this really interesting. In much of the world, scooters are the primary mode of personal transportation. But in hyper-masculine America, with its numerous phallic symbols and action stars that never retire, scooters are frowned upon—especially by young, overly aggressive males.
A few weeks ago I was on the side of the street attempting to start my scooter when a shabby car full of three young men drove by and threw a rock that hit me in my collarbone.
A white-hot anger filled my chest cavity and I went into fight or flight mode, which means I broke out in a forehead sweat and my balls ascended. In fact, I hadn’t felt that angry since my ex-girlfriend punched me in the nose, at which point I responded by giving her a throat massage.
Anyway, I thought “My dear scooter, if there’s a time when I really need you to start, that time is now.” And you know what? She started right up.
I sped down the street going at least 80 miles per hour, or maybe 45. I looked to my right and saw that the car used for the drive-by was parked outside the 7/11 and the three offenders were still inside the piece of shit ride. I went up to the passenger window and said things I had learned from watching John Singleton movies, like, “Get your bitch ass out the car.”
I then added “You like throwing shit! Throw something at me now!” The young man, not older than 20, sat in frozen fear. He said only “We didn’t throw anything, wasn’t us.” I responded, “Man, I saw you throw it!”
The driver stepped out the car. I thought “Damn he’s big… uh-oh.” I removed my helmet and quickly wrapped the strap around my hand. He looked and thought better of facing off with a lunatic skinny man holding a lethal weapon and walked into the store.
The situation defused; I had successfully defended Scooter Riders of America. I drove off, glancing from right to left at the sidewalks, hoping to find a female pedestrian lucky enough to ride on my powerful, manly moped. I didn’t see a worthy woman.
I also didn’t see the massive pothole in my path. My front tire rammed into the concrete ditch, nearly cracking the scooter’s frame in half. I fell to the ground and the scooter lay next to me. Traffic screeched to a halt but no one offered to help. They simply stared as I limped over to the sidewalk, full of embarrassment and pain and struggling to pull the wrecked motorbike from the street. I finally reached the sidewalk and lowered the bike to the ground. There it rested, battered and mangled with about four dollars in gas seeping out of the tank.
This is a re-post of a piece that was published on this blog and in Defenestration Magazine. Reasons for re-posting include: new blog subscribers (presumably from my story on Street Boners & TV Carnage), my search for a new scooter on Craigslist, feelings of self-doubt this morning (which I refer to as male menses) and trouble staying focused due to a baby that grunts like Master P at the oddest hours.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
The Interrogation That Comes With Being Unmarried Parents
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Babies, Humor, Short Stories
When people learn I have a child they assume I’m either married or a deadbeat dad. Thanks to a generation that’s lived through The Cosby Show and Maury there’s no happy medium for a young black man. Truth is, I’m in a domestic partnership. Though it sounds like something gays fought for when they strutted on Washington with great posture it’s actually for straight people like me too. In short, you get many of the benefits of marriage without making the relationship official in front of God, who’s much too busy working on Governor Rick Perry’s prayer for rain.
But not being officially married leaves me open to all sorts of questions and silliness. The most obvious being, “When are you two getting married?” I don’t have a firm answer so I’ll usually reply “It’ll happen.” Though inside I’m thinking “None ya business. You plan on playing some wedding bills up in this muthaf***a.” Then there’s the second most popular question, “How many more kids y’all gonna have?” My typical answer is “Maybe two or three more, hopefully adopt one too.” But again, inside I’m thinking “As many as the pull-out method blesses us with.”
And then there’s the third and silliest question: “Are your parents married?” Apparently if unmarried and in a happy relationship that includes a child I must have grown up in a broken household and dreamed of having parents like James and Florida Evans from Good Times. However, my stunted emotional growth brought on by Dad’s absence (except for the time he showed up at school to f**k my kindergarten teacher) makes traditional marriage seem unrealistic to me. No, n*gga! My parents are together and enjoying the comfortable boredom of marriage.
Worse yet are the people who don’t know how to refer to my domestic partner/girlfriend/lady. So they say “baby mama,” which insinuates I’m a deadbeat dad living away from my son and his mother. The type of guy who posts pictures of his children on Facebook in hopes of scoring cute-points with chicks. Pictures that include captions like “I can put one up in you too” and “Fatherhood is easy now that my BM accepts credit cards.” Even worse, the term “baby mama” makes my girl sound like a woman with 5-7 destitute chillun’ whose only toy is the shopping cart Mom stole from Big Lots. Come on, man! Her name, Amber, though somewhat common and surprisingly un-Negro-centric for a woman dating a guy with a black ass name like Dewan, works fine.
Damn! This is aggravating! But I’m sure I’ll have it together before my son is old enough to ask me, “Dad, when you gonna marry Mom?” Leaving me with no choice but to answer, “It’ll happen…when your broke ass gets a job to help pay for a wedding.”
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Locked Up! My Day In (A Women’s) Prison
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories, Social Comm
I’ve always wondered about prison. Mainly how dudes in the joint get their hair braided. I’m sure most convicts aren’t too keen on sitting between Fleece Johnson’s legs for hours on end. But women’s prisons are even more fascinating. Though some of this fascination is due to a mind corrupted by soft porn on Skinemax, most of it stems from a curiosity of how humanity’s nurturers survive in a place that’s so damn brutal. Well, not too long ago I had the opportunity to find out firsthand.
I went to women’s prison in San Diego called “Los Colinas.” Though it sounds like a bar on the brown side of town that serves micheladas, it’s actually a 750 bed detention facility that holds violent and non-violent offenders. Think of it as a camp for a whole lot of women, most of whom could beat you’re a*s.
I was there as part of my former job, HNIC (Head Negro in Charge) of the health promotion department at a community clinic; one of my duties was to evaluate staff that provided HIV prevention education to the incarcerated. In short, I was looking for an excuse to get my lazy a*s out the office.
Upon entering the prison I was searched from head to toe. Thankfully my bunghole was unmolested; guess I didn’t look like someone who would “boof” drugs or weapons. Though maybe I would for the right price and the right weed. I was then forced to relinquish all valuables, including the wallet that held my Magnum Junior Condom for the Thin and Sleek. So much for that Skinemax fantasy…
To get to the classroom I was led past the glass-enclosed cells. Two women per cell shared a toilet and a space half the size of a gay man’s closet. I hate to make the comparison, but have you been to a zoo and seen an animal that was quarantined in a tiny cage for being himself and going for the throat of a zookeeper? That’s what it was like. Seriously, there are reptiles at your local zoo that have a larger habitat than these incarcerated women. And it was loud. Imagine the annoying, aggravating sound of your girlfriend’s voice multiplied by hundreds. Hopefully we’ll see more Asian women in prison to reduce the noise level.
I finally got to the classroom filled with women. Well, wo-men is a more descriptive term. These chicks were hard. I’m not talking about cute lesbian chicks like my fashion idol Ellen DeGeneres; these were hardcore butch chicks that will swing on you for looking at their women. Don’t get me wrong, there were a few “normal” looking ladies. But many of them looked wise beyond their years, probably due to meth.
The class started and the instructor noted that I was visiting the class to evaluate. The ladies turned around and stared with admiration. I had not had that much attention since I went to an “after-party” in Tijuana where all the ladies smelled like cheap strawberry lotion and introduced themselves by grabbing my schlong. But in the class (and for that matter, the brothel) I got nervous and didn’t know what to say so I just smiled and said to the students, “Thanks for having me.”
The class began and everything ran smoothly, for the most part. A large number of students were like bad kids in an elementary classroom: speaking out of turn, sitting with their legs wide open to air out their monkeys, laughing too damn loud at sex related terms, acting up as a way to cope with a touch-feely uncle who’s scarred them for life, etc. Basically, if you’ve ever wondered where the bad kid from fifth grade is now, and you can’t find him on Facebook—he’s probably in prison doing the same silly s**t.
A few of the women were genuinely interested in the material, or perhaps afraid that the guy who said “Come on baby…just let me put the tip in” could have given them a life-threatening illness. I suspected that these were the prisoners who would easily readjust to society until they find a felony conviction precludes them from getting almost any job on the outside.
Class ended and I waved goodbye to the prisoners. I regained my slim fit Magnum holding wallet and soon left feeling a bit more thankful for my freedom. Weeks later I would hear some of the prisoners wanted me to return. I thought more about them too, especially when I read most where incarcerated for drugs and/or assisting their boyfriends with crimes. Even more had been victims of sexual abuse, prior to prison and by guards while incarcerated. I imagine most of them are still in there; and it ain’t like a Skinemax movie.
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
I Burned My Kitchen Down While Cooking Gizzards
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories
My parents weren’t into paying for college. Spring quarter freshman year I asked Dad for new t-shirts and he told me to cut the sleeves off my sweaters. Next year I needed money for books; Mom told me to borrow them from the teacher. And any money they did send was actually a loan under Dad’s “six months no-interest, no a*s kicking” plan–payment due by the end of summer. So in short, if there was something I needed in college I went without unless it was covered by financial aid or my part-time job(s).
This included food. But while most of my peers settled for Ramen noodles or microwave burritos, I wanted more. So I fried the hell out some gizzards. In case you’re unaware gizzards are a part of a chicken’s digestive system. They’re compact and chewy when cooked, imagine power pellets for a ghetto superhero. Plus they’re cheap. A pound of gizzards and chicken hearts will run you about $0.99. Basically you can feed a family for the price of a Newport loosy.
So one evening after class I started to fry up a pound. I seasoned them real good, just like Mama used to. Then I heated the cooking oil in a frying pan and went back to my room to use the computer. But these were the days of dial-up internet. Downloading music or an instructional video featuring Sinnamon Love, Obsession and Mr. Marcus could take hours.
After 15 or so minutes on the computer, having forgotten about the cooking oil, I heard a crash in the kitchen. My roommate Mike came out of his room holding a pair of scissors–thinking that someone was breaking in to steal our big 19 inch TV. He walked to the living room in search of the culprit. I followed behind, hoping the intruder would kill him first so I could safely run away and later release an “I Miss My Homies” rap song like “Gangsta Lean” by DRS.
We got to the living room and saw the kitchen ablaze. Fire was everywhere, like the London riots–without the free electronics and groceries–in an area the size of a telemarketer’s cubicle. Mike said, “Oh s**t!” and grabbed a towel to swing at the fire. Didn’t help at all. I did the same. We swung wildly as if we were in a girl fight, on the losing end of course. The flames grew larger and reached from the stove top to the ceiling. The smoke was thick and black, like the women in the instructional videos I mentioned above. We retreated and called 911.
The firemen arrived, sirens loud as hell; neighbors were coming out their places wondering what was going on–all this over some gizzards. The firemen were able to extinguish the blaze within 10 minute. We explained how the fire started and from the “what the hell” expressions on their faces I knew we would be the talk of the fire station. I could imagine the conversation, “These nig…black guys, sorry…burned up their apartment tryin’ to fry some gizzards. By the way, what are gizzards?”
We returned to our apartment the next day. The kitchen was almost completely burned and ruined with smoke damage. All black everything. A representative from the company who owned the complex came over to inspect. He asked, “Do you have renter’s insurance to pay for this?” We didn’t. He then asked, “Do your parents have insurance to cover this?”
I called Dad for advice. He said, “Nope. I ain’t paying for s**t.”
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
Doctor Said I Needed An HIV Test, I Freaked The Hell Out
Posted by Dewan Gibson | Filed under Humor, Short Stories, Social Comm
Some illnesses are hilarious—for example, monkeypox. As we saw during the outbreak of 2003 it’s like chickenpox except it makes people do crazy s**t, like throw feces and bite their handlers. Rickets…even funnier. Nothing more hilarious than seeing old bowlegged men. Step your vitamin D game up, son! But HIV is not so funny. Like other diseases that are known by acronyms (BBS: Bashful Bladder Syndrome); HIV is a very serious matter.
A few years back I went to the campus clinic because my face was turning white. I thought to ride it out and do whites only things like hitchhike or become a contestant on “The Bachelorette,” but I didn’t want to lose the ability to say “n**ga” while rapping along to all the hits from Cash Money Records. My doctor, a monotone and seemingly bored man, diagnosed me with tinea versicolor (TV). He said TV is a yeast-based fungal infection that changes your pigment production. In short, I pretty much had a yeast infection on my face. That’s hot.
But then the doctor started making cryptic statements. He said, “I’ve never seen tinea cover someone’s entire face.” He added, “We need to see why your immune system is not fighting off the fungus. I’ll have to run a test of your white blood count.”
I got a little nervous, but considering I live by the mantra of “I don’t get sick, I get even” I wasn’t too worried. Plus I’m a friggin’ stud emotionally and figured I can deal with whatever comes my way, except for dealing with the self-anguish that results from my inability to whistle.
The doctor called about a week later and said “Your white blood cell count is extremely low.” And then he hit me with the killer “You should come in for a confidential HIV test.”
That hit me hard. First thought: “This punk ass doctor really just told me this on the phone. HIV is fighting words!” I mean, come on. Tell me to get an HIV test to my face…so I can have someone to hug when I get week in the knees. Then I tried to respond coherently, but the devastation made me speak in slave talk, “Do yous o’fen see this here illness on campus” or something like that. He replied, “Around one percent of the people we test at the clinic are positive.” S**t. I agreed to come in for a test.
But first I needed someone to talk to. My girlfriend at the time, who suffered from an illness called celibacy, was out the question for the time being. So I called my best friend, who said “Don’t worry, man.” But he didn’t give me a reason not to worry. So I worried more. Hours later I called my dad. He remained levelheaded and said “Worse case you just have to take the meds and deal with it. Magic Johnson’s doing fine.” But then he threw some HIV humor, “You just gotta get that Magic Johnson money!” Damn, Dad.
Since I had beef with my campus doctor I decided to go to a community clinic for the test. These were the days before the 20 minute confidential HIV test was popular, so I had to wait five days for the results. I waited longer than five days, went to Cleveland for Christmas vacation and could not bring myself to get the results when I returned to San Diego.
But I was unable stop thinking about HIV. I spent hours online reading up on the disease and freaked out when I discovered black men have the highest HIV infection rate of any group. I thought to myself “I wonder if my chances are lower ‘cause I’m light skin-ded.” Nah, bruh. Then I read about high-risk behaviors like butt sex, IV drug use and unprotected vaginal sex. I figured, “Well, I’m kind of metrosexual and one of my goals in life is to be sexy like Rod Stewart, but I’ve never engaged in any homosexual acts, or hetero anal (woah!). And you can’t inject marijuana. As for participating in unprotected vaginal sex…oops, but for most of my adult life I did tend to wear condoms on weekdays.”
All the thinking drove me crazy. I was stressed out and unable to eat much. An ex-flame even joked, “You got skinny, Dewan. Better get that AIDS test.” I thought to myself, “Laugh now, cry later b***h.”
I finally gave in and went to a different clinic that offered the 20 minutes of hell test. The HIV counselor, a flamboyant and hefty gay dude, asked questions about my sexual history. Then he put the thing in my mouth. No Amaechi. I mean he put the swab in my mouth and then placed it in a bag and took it away. He returned and told me the results. NEGATIVE.
I was pumped as hell and wanted to hug the guy. But at the time I was foolishly uncomfortable around gays and thought he might want my anal virginity. So I shook his hand, a really strong manly shake too, and left. Then I called my people when I got back into the car and bragged like I just got a new job. “Negative! I knew I was fine!”
I drove off and thought to myself, “All this stress is crazy. I need to go out and have some sex.”
Dewan Gibson: The Imperfect Blog
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