The Other Side of 50

Because of the maze-like parking lost, escalators jammed with teenagers and mindless mothers with runaway toddlers, it is with great trepidation that I subject myself to shopping malls. Therefore, I carefully plan any such excursion to coincide with the dinner hour, when the teenage noise level is at its lowest decibel and the traffic of little children underfoot is least.

My favorite book supermarket seemed deserted with only four other customers besides me browsing the shelves. While I perused the travel section I heard the young man at the cash register intermittently ask each customer, “Would you like to join our book club? The membership fee is only $25 annually and you’ll be eligible for a discount on all our books.”
Then, came my turn. I expected the book club pitch but it never came. When my transaction was complete I asked, “Is the book club open to everyone?"

“Yes, of course,” the young man replied.

“Then why didn’t you offer me a membership?”

“Because you’re going to Rome.”

“Going to Rome?” I didn’t get it.

“Yes. You bought a travel book on Rome?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to Rome.” The book was a gift for a friend who was planning a trip. But that was none of his business.

He continued, “Plus, the book club is $25 a year to join.”

Maybe I looked destitute. But if I am destitute how can I afford a trip to Rome? If I can afford a trip to Rome, how can I not afford the $ 25 membership fee? So, I repeated my question. “Why wasn’t I offered a membership in the book club?"

His response was the same, “Because you’re going to Rome.”

Either this guy is incredibly stupid or I looked like a newborn fool. Attempting to determine which, I queried further. “If I had purchased ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ would you have assumed I was on my way to Iowa?”

He face was perplexed. But I didn’t let up.

“Plus, if I’m going to Rome, which I am not, when am I leaving, how long am I staying, and when will I return? Obviously, you know something about me that I don’t.”

For a moment he was pensive. “You don’t this is racial, do you?” he asked earnestly. “Look at me.”

Somehow the young Asian American thought his immunity to discrimination was carried on chromosomes like the pigmentation of his skin or the epicanthic fold of his eyelid. There was no need to respond. His question was his answer. From the time I entered the store I had been and was the only black person in sight.

The incident culminated in a dream that night. I was in a fish market surrounded by Asians. The guy behind the counter told me I could only buy catfish and refused to sell me the orange roughy that I had pointed out. Ignited by rage, I jumped the counter, grabbed a catfish, and started beating the hell out of him. All the while I flailed his head I was yelling, “Don’t make me hate you. It’s wrong to hate you. It’s wrong! It’s wrong!”

No one is immune to racism. If left unchecked, this insidious toxin transforms its victims into perpetrators. However, I refuse to be victim or perpetrator. On the other hand, it’s against my nature to play dead.

Boycotts still work. Combining an old tactics with new technology, I now send e-mails to CEO’s explaining why I will no longer patronize their business or utilize their services. Reference to the “D” word --- discrimination --- is obsolete with conglomerates whose social conscious is green and never rises above the bottom line. Expecting a corporate officer to be a civil libertarian and sensitive to my personal issues, or to read my letters are naïve assumptions in 2006. Realistically, a customer service representative will peruse my complaint. Therefore, I focus on the reprehensible treatment to which I was subjected, including the names of the individuals involved. (Always get names!).

From experience, I know that a rational customer complaint is factored into sales revenue --- the corporate social conscious. Sometimes I even get a follow-up correspondence that is not a form letter. But it doesn’t matter because discrimination works both ways. And, over the years I have become increasingly discriminating as to where I spend my money. For sure it won’t be in that store again!

The Dog Won't Die!

What do you do when the dog won’t die? That’s the dilemma facing my friend Tyrone Washington, who had looked forward to being home alone on the other side of fifty.

Tyrone’s sons were only two and four years old when he was granted sole custody in the divorce settlement. Luckily, Tyrone’s mother didn’t believe in gender specific chores for her children, which made single-parenting less challenging for him than most men raising toddlers alone. He seemed to take the joys and tribulations of single parenting in stride until the boys hit puberty. That’s when he began verbalizing his empty-the-nest fantasies to me.

“Once they’re finally gone I’ll stop repeating myself 50 times a day. I’ll strut around my house in my underwear without running into some neighborhood kid lounging on my refrigerator door,” he’d say indignantly. “My remote will be where I left it. Hip-hop will be out of my life. What's more, I’ll only cook on holidays.” To that end, each son received the same college graduation gift --- an apartment security deposit, rent for six months, and an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.

Five months after Tyrone doled out the last graduation gift curiosity got the best of me, so I popped the question, “Tyrone, how does it feel to be home alone at last?”

"The dog won’t die?” he barked.

“You want your dog to die?” I asked in disbelief.

“This is not my dog. It’s their dog and they are gone,” he growled. “Now I’m stuck with a sickly old dog that isn’t mine.”

“Exactly what’s wrong with Ferd?” I queried about the lovable mutt of questionable breed.

Tyrone explained that besides being overweight, Ferd had a cough, a limp, and high cholesterol.
“Furthermore, the dog has the audacity to hide his food bowl when I’m late from work,” Tyrone snarled. “And, last month he had a stroke! I could have vacationed in Tahiti for two weeks on his hospital tab.”

On Ferd’s first day home from the hospital Tyrone laid down new rules. “If you and that vet think I’m spending $60 a month on medication and another $80 on special diet food, forget it,” Tyrone declared. “If it’s not at Costco, don’t look for it in your bowl.”

Expecting the worse I asked, “So how’s Ferd now?”

“He’s stopped limping and coughing and hiding the bowl. But the dog still won’t die!”

To be continued.