Whitey Imagines the Ghetto - James Prescott


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Whitey Imagines the Ghetto

Copyright © 1995 James Prescott


Life is dead. Nothing to do. Am I dead? How do I know? Can I pinch myself? Sensation. Perhaps I am alive. Time hangs heavy. If I can spend an afternoon and evening drinking that may remove 12 deadly hours from out of my ken. I'm a day older, but I only had to actually travel four hours of the boredom. Some drugs can take the whole day away. Magic. Pinch myself. Bang my head into a wall. Maybe I am alive. Barroom fight. Sure I hurt, but at least I was alive for a while. There's one or two people can attest to that for damn sure. Last job I had the white bastard in charge cheated me on my pay, spat whenever I walked by, and treated me like dirt. God, those days were long. Television? Shit. Eggheads talking about nothing I can follow. Violence and sex and people tryin' to sell me stuff. Interesting for a while, but it doesn't carry the day, like. Hanging out on the street, wish I could grab a bit of ass, not even that seems to come my way. Chicks only seem to look at a guy with lots of money. Where in God's name am I going to get that kind of cash? Why does there seem to be just a huge empty void in front of my feet? What's down there? Just Whitey ripping me off? Job? Hah! Why bother? Of course I dropped out of Grade 8, why in hell should I have stayed? School was the most major drag imaginable. Even worse than hanging out at the pool hall, cause it was harder to do dope, and there wasn't no way to score some cash while you were sitting in school, except for a bit of protection of those middle-class white-on-the-inside arse-lickers who got lunch money. Hardly worth it. How old am I anyway? Six long years, six fucking long years I've been hanging out, just scraping together from day to day. Some days I haven't eaten, some days I sleep cold, some days I ache from the last fight, some days I ache for a fuck. Three, four times a day if I'm not fast the Man hassles me. Wish I could blow his fucking head off. He's a prick. Black prick. Tomorrow? Why in hell should I worry about tomorrow? Today's lousy enough. Tomorrow I might knock off a convenience store, rough him up if he's white and lippy, feel good, score some H, feel real good for a while and before I've turned around it's gonna be Monday. Three days vanished. Three days closer to death.




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