- Feb 3, 2024
- LitCoin
- 0
New blog post by Bloo
Identity Politics
Holy hell, this shower feels good. Pretty sure I’m using up the hot water, but any fucks I could give evaporate into steamy bliss.
After ten hours underground proving a new coal hauler design, I’m going to treat myself. And the company I work for is going to pay. There’s a Tennessee barbecue within walking distance of the hotel. Good thing, because I’ll be stumbling back later tonight. What goes better with a Tennessee barbecue than Tennessee whiskey?
I’m actually in Indiana. I’m also too tired and hungry to care.
I walk out of the hotel and across the parking lot. There’s a giant smiling pig over the entrance of the restaurant. I guess he didn’t know what was coming. You’d think the smell of smoky goodness would’ve been a heads-up.
The shift manager greets me as I enter the establishment. My New-England accent informs him that I’m no local. He says I can have a booth, or eat at the bar.
I choose the bar. It’s closer to the whiskey.
I walk past a display with glass jars of the house dry-rub for sale. There are also t-shirts and baseball caps – each with the restaurant name and a clueless piggy.
It’s not crowded this Wednesday evening, so the barkeep works alone. I ask for a good local whiskey and a menu, in that order. I get both, in that order. She knows a customer’s priorities.
I choose pulled pork and ribs, then head for the restroom to make room for more whiskey. I run into the manager on the way back.
“So, where you from?” he asks.
I tell him.
“Any good barbecue over there?”
I know he’s fishing for compliments, so I take the bait. Maybe I’ll comp a t-shirt if I kiss some ass.
“Nothing like this, I’m sure. My order’s not up yet, but the smoke outside already smells better than any barbecue I’ve ever eaten.” I’ll take a medium in navy blue, please.
“You’re in for a treat, friend. There’s nothing like a Tennessee barbecue. So what do you think about our little corner of Indiana?”
We’re near the middle of the state, yet I oblige. “I took in a nice sunset on the way back from my job. Really nice scenery, lots of wide-open.” I just remember an abandoned home I saw on the state highway. I’m sure it has a history, so I interrupt myself to inquire. “Oh, yeah…there’s a ramshackle house not far from here. I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s-”
I was going to finish with “that about?” before my host interrupts my interruption.
“Oh, you were in that Negro neighborhood. Those people don’t keep their houses nice. They can’t take care of anything, least of all themselves.”
Where the fuck did that come from? I was driving on a state highway – not in a neighborhood. The house I saw was clearly abandoned and uninhabitable.
His rant lasts maybe half a minute. My expression has to be a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Yet the manager’s head is too far up his ass to clock it. Smiley isn’t the only clueless pig around here.
I finally blurt out, “You’ve got the wrong house and the wrong guy.” The manager looks confused. I turn away before he can respond.
I walk back to the bar. I should keep walking, but take my seat. I’m tired and hungry and a bit ashamed.
The barkeep comes over and asks if I want another drink. I decline. She switches to small talk. “You’re not from around here. What brings you to Indiana?”
“I’m on a job.”
“Well…I hope you’ve had some time to get out. It’s pretty nice here.”
I find the voice I should’ve used a few minutes ago. “I’m not so sure. I thought it was nice – then I had a conversation with your manager, and-”
Her facial expression interrupts me before her words do. “And he’s a racist asshole.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I apologize. I thought you were going to to pick up where your boss left off.”
“So did I.” Her look softens. “My name is Sarah, and I’m not an asshole.”
“That’s good to know, Sarah. Wish I could say the same about myself.” I tell her my name. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Working through college. Never too late, right? I’m on my way to a nursing degree.”
We chat until my food comes. Then we chat some more. When she’s not serving other patrons or making drinks, Sarah comes over and dumps on me. It’s usually the barkeep on the receiving end. She works for an asshole, so I cut her some slack. Sarah makes sure I’m not driving, then reciprocates my attention with a series of long pours.
I’ve an early flight tomorrow, so I finish up and settle the check. Sarah deserves a bigger tip than I give her.
As I walk away, a black couple takes a booth next to the bar. They’re both dressed a lot better than I am, but the woman is a stunner. She’s in a blue dress, and wearing what looks like an engagement ring. They talk and laugh – simply living the moment. This is their night to shine.
I hope they order drinks. Sarah will give them service they deserve in an establishment that doesn’t deserve them. I’m sure they’ll tip better, too.
I stumble across the parking lot to the hotel and into my room. Sleep comes easily. Waking up the next morning doesn’t. I drive like an idiot to the airport, and barely make my flight.
Twelve years later, I’ve forgotten the name of the restaurant. Yet I’ve not forgotten the lesson.
“Identity Politics” is a bullshit term. It assumes I cannot hold common cause with those who don’t look like me, love like me – or are otherwise “different” than me. Sometimes, it assumes I’d agree with a racist asshole. What it never assumes is empathy.
I hope Sarah made it out of the bar. She would’ve been a good nurse.
---
Identity Politics
Holy hell, this shower feels good. Pretty sure I’m using up the hot water, but any fucks I could give evaporate into steamy bliss.
After ten hours underground proving a new coal hauler design, I’m going to treat myself. And the company I work for is going to pay. There’s a Tennessee barbecue within walking distance of the hotel. Good thing, because I’ll be stumbling back later tonight. What goes better with a Tennessee barbecue than Tennessee whiskey?
I’m actually in Indiana. I’m also too tired and hungry to care.
I walk out of the hotel and across the parking lot. There’s a giant smiling pig over the entrance of the restaurant. I guess he didn’t know what was coming. You’d think the smell of smoky goodness would’ve been a heads-up.
The shift manager greets me as I enter the establishment. My New-England accent informs him that I’m no local. He says I can have a booth, or eat at the bar.
I choose the bar. It’s closer to the whiskey.
I walk past a display with glass jars of the house dry-rub for sale. There are also t-shirts and baseball caps – each with the restaurant name and a clueless piggy.
It’s not crowded this Wednesday evening, so the barkeep works alone. I ask for a good local whiskey and a menu, in that order. I get both, in that order. She knows a customer’s priorities.
I choose pulled pork and ribs, then head for the restroom to make room for more whiskey. I run into the manager on the way back.
“So, where you from?” he asks.
I tell him.
“Any good barbecue over there?”
I know he’s fishing for compliments, so I take the bait. Maybe I’ll comp a t-shirt if I kiss some ass.
“Nothing like this, I’m sure. My order’s not up yet, but the smoke outside already smells better than any barbecue I’ve ever eaten.” I’ll take a medium in navy blue, please.
“You’re in for a treat, friend. There’s nothing like a Tennessee barbecue. So what do you think about our little corner of Indiana?”
We’re near the middle of the state, yet I oblige. “I took in a nice sunset on the way back from my job. Really nice scenery, lots of wide-open.” I just remember an abandoned home I saw on the state highway. I’m sure it has a history, so I interrupt myself to inquire. “Oh, yeah…there’s a ramshackle house not far from here. I’ve never seen anything like it. What’s-”
I was going to finish with “that about?” before my host interrupts my interruption.
“Oh, you were in that Negro neighborhood. Those people don’t keep their houses nice. They can’t take care of anything, least of all themselves.”
Where the fuck did that come from? I was driving on a state highway – not in a neighborhood. The house I saw was clearly abandoned and uninhabitable.
His rant lasts maybe half a minute. My expression has to be a mixture of disbelief and disgust. Yet the manager’s head is too far up his ass to clock it. Smiley isn’t the only clueless pig around here.
I finally blurt out, “You’ve got the wrong house and the wrong guy.” The manager looks confused. I turn away before he can respond.
I walk back to the bar. I should keep walking, but take my seat. I’m tired and hungry and a bit ashamed.
The barkeep comes over and asks if I want another drink. I decline. She switches to small talk. “You’re not from around here. What brings you to Indiana?”
“I’m on a job.”
“Well…I hope you’ve had some time to get out. It’s pretty nice here.”
I find the voice I should’ve used a few minutes ago. “I’m not so sure. I thought it was nice – then I had a conversation with your manager, and-”
Her facial expression interrupts me before her words do. “And he’s a racist asshole.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I apologize. I thought you were going to to pick up where your boss left off.”
“So did I.” Her look softens. “My name is Sarah, and I’m not an asshole.”
“That’s good to know, Sarah. Wish I could say the same about myself.” I tell her my name. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
“Working through college. Never too late, right? I’m on my way to a nursing degree.”
We chat until my food comes. Then we chat some more. When she’s not serving other patrons or making drinks, Sarah comes over and dumps on me. It’s usually the barkeep on the receiving end. She works for an asshole, so I cut her some slack. Sarah makes sure I’m not driving, then reciprocates my attention with a series of long pours.
I’ve an early flight tomorrow, so I finish up and settle the check. Sarah deserves a bigger tip than I give her.
As I walk away, a black couple takes a booth next to the bar. They’re both dressed a lot better than I am, but the woman is a stunner. She’s in a blue dress, and wearing what looks like an engagement ring. They talk and laugh – simply living the moment. This is their night to shine.
I hope they order drinks. Sarah will give them service they deserve in an establishment that doesn’t deserve them. I’m sure they’ll tip better, too.
I stumble across the parking lot to the hotel and into my room. Sleep comes easily. Waking up the next morning doesn’t. I drive like an idiot to the airport, and barely make my flight.
Twelve years later, I’ve forgotten the name of the restaurant. Yet I’ve not forgotten the lesson.
“Identity Politics” is a bullshit term. It assumes I cannot hold common cause with those who don’t look like me, love like me – or are otherwise “different” than me. Sometimes, it assumes I’d agree with a racist asshole. What it never assumes is empathy.
I hope Sarah made it out of the bar. She would’ve been a good nurse.
---
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