Copyright 2002 by any_mouse2003.
All rights reserved. If graphic depictions of sexual acts between consenting adults is illegal in your jurisdiction, or if you are under the age of 18, please stop reading now.
This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the lives of any specific person or persons. Any similarity to actual persons or events is entirely coincidental. This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any form without the specific written permission of the author. It is assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of their submission agreement but it may not be copied or archived on any other site without the written permission of the author.
PLEASE: In a perfect world AIDS doesn't exist. My characters didn't live in our world, but they do now. Deal with the issue of unprotected sex, and use proper precautions.
Alexander the Great
The Negro my boss had warned me about arrived just before lunch.
I don't know what I had been expecting. He had been so concerned about the racial thing, I thought it might be some dark skinned H. Rap Brown thug. I knew that wasn't true. I had been working with the black guys on the loading dock and in the parking shack since I was fifteen and could get my papers.
I knew they were just people, and when the summer came with all the riots I gained a deep respect for what they had to deal with that I had no comprehension about. So even if this person was a tough guy I was confident I could get along with him.
I was selling a pair of jeans to a woman who had a disinterested pimply kid in tow when I heard my name being called. I completed the transaction, closed the register, and slid the pants into a sack with the Department Store logo on it and turned around.
My nerd manager had a tall young man with him. I took an involuntary breath. His skin had the rich color of caramel, just lighter than a the sweet rich cup of coffee au lait with which I started my mornings. His hair was a sort of light brunette in a million tight curls, cut close on the sides and rising a little on top. Style.
His eyes were the strangest shade of hazel and his aristocratic nose had just a hint of African flare. I was stunned. This was no Negro. This young man looked like the pictures of Malcom X when he was still Detroit Red.
"Bob," I want you to meet Alexander. He will be joining the staff here today and I want you to show him the ropes. How to open up and close out."
"I'd be happy to" I said, hoping I didn't look too startled. "Nice to meet you, Alex."
He smiled and I saw radiant white teeth behind his lips that were not much fuller than mine. Just rich and sensuous.
"I prefer Alexander" he said softly "But just don't call me late for dinner." He finished the joke with a smile and I grinned right back.
"Alexander it is" I said. "Sorry."
The manager looked at us and pursed his lips. "I'll handle the register here. Why don't you show him the break room and where he can get some lunch if he is hungry. We have a half hour for lunch here, no more, and two fifteen minute breaks."
"We are very organized here" I said. "We run a tight department."
The manager knew I was ribbing him but he let it go. He was such a wimp. "Come on, Alexander. Let me show you the ropes." He smiled and we walked off past the display counters and the suit racks. I pointed to the door between the slacks and sports coats. "Back there are the dressing rooms. We are supposed to keep an eye on them to make sure no one is doing any shoplifting or tag-changing."
"Do you have much of that here?" asked Alexander in that soft voice. His inflection rose on the word "that."
"Nah," I said. "Mostly we have hard-working blockhead Dutch in here. It is a boring clientele." I paused. "I'm sorry, are you from around here? I didn't mean anything by that."
"Goodness, no," he said firmly. "I am from Chicago. They sent me here for the summer."
"Who did? The family?"
"Yeah," he responded with a sigh. "There were some issues. We have kin here. I'll tell you about it sometime, if you are interested."
I found that interesting. I wondered if he had to cool off from something. But that could come in time. "Let me show you the break room. It has the only Coke machine on this side of the Mall." We took the escalator down to the basement where we sold tools and patio crap. I don't know why the heavy stuff was in the basement, but I just work there.
We looked at the Coke machine and the ultra-modern industrial microwave. "That thing will cook a hot dog in about three seconds," I said. "And sometimes the machine actually gets the ice right in the cup, unless it turns it over and spills everything."
He laughed, a melodious sound like water flowing over smooth stones.
"I've seen worse," he said, eyes twinkling. "Now why don't you show me how to work."
We went back upstairs and relieved the Nerd at the register. I showed him the buttons to mash for "no sale" and how to do the credit vouchers and how to place the card just so on the register plate so when you pressed the handle the name and account number came through on the carbon. I showed him the tally sheet we each had to fill out for all the sales we did, and how we would close it out at the end of the day.
Since it was slow, we chatted through the afternoon. I found out he was recently graduated, too. He was headed for college, though his family wanted him to attend a historically black school in Washington DC rather than the University of Illinois.
"Why is that?" I asked. I was headed there myself. I looked forward to the challenge of the big campus and all the activity.
"They want me to be Black for a while, so that I don't forget."
That stopped me dead. I didn't know what to say, and preferred to say nothing rather than something that might be inadvertently offensive. Thankfully a 44-short suit customer showed up and I taught Alexander how to mark up the cut job instructions for the tailor. That is the only part of the job that is complicated. People come in such a variety of sizes.
Selling a suit is a big deal, with a lot of interplay with the customer. I rang up the sale and then measured the stocky mans coat, marking with chalk the hump where the jacket had to be taken in at the collar, and the rise and inseam on the trousers. I always feel a little funny about that, particularly when the guy is such a toad. Alexander seemed to think it was amusing and grinned when I had completed the process, filled out the tag and instructions, and thanked the man for his business.
The chunky man ambled away and I turned and said "What's so funny?"
"You are, Bob. I don't think you liked that man, and I think you are afraid that I don't know I am a Negro."
"Shit, no, I didn't like him. He was a toad. But about the other part, I don't want to hurt your feelings by saying something stupid."
"Like whether I can get a sunburn?" He paused and smiled. "I can, you know. And that is because white men have been fucking the women in my family for two years."
I must have blushed. "It's O.K.," he said. "I didn't say you fucked them."
"This is complicated" I stammered.
"Yes, it is." he said gently. "For white people it is. But relax. Don't for an instant think that we do not know what is going on around us. When you are as light as my family is, you get it from both sides. Not white, and not black enough to be authentic. In New Orleans, we were aristocracy. Up North we are just colored folks that look too white."
"Is that what happened to get you exiled here for the summer?"
"Something like that. Sometimes you get the double whammy."
I didn't know what he meant by that, but he touched me on the upper arm as I looked up to see a family looking at the shirt counter. "Gotta go sell," I said. "Maybe we can catch a smoke in a while."
"I'd like that," he said.
I was glad it was busy. Alexander made his first sale, and I admired the elegance of the way he bagged the shirts, the little flourish as he handed it over as though it were a prize of great price and not just a couple Arrow shirts. The late afternoon traffic stayed pretty brisk and it was coming up on dinner when the Nerd told me he would keep Alexander and show him how to close out, since he came in late and I had opened up. "OK," I said, though I wouldn't have minded staying.
The Nerd said he would be writing a new work schedule to accommodate Alexander's arrival and I said goodnight to the Nerd and told Alexander that I looked forward to working with him.
He extended his hand and I noticed for the first time how slender and graceful his fingers were. I did not clasp his palm in the death grip I usually use. His touch was firm and his flesh supple and warm. I walked out into the still-bright sun and found the car.
The vinyl seats were hotter than shit, and I roared home with the windows down, wishing the little car has air conditioning. I took a swim and found a place in the field out in back of the house to go drink a couple semi-cold Pabst Blue Ribbons. I was daydreaming out there as the shadows grew longer and night fell.
I was day-dreaming about Alexander's fingers. I wondered if it were true, about the relationship between fingers and cock. And if all the Caucasian blood had any effect on how big it was.
Shoot, I thought. I wonder if I am a fucking homo?
When I lay in my bed later, I got rock hard and images of him flashed through my mind as I grunted and rubbed my throbbing dick. When I came, I thought of him shooting all over me. When I licked it up, I imagined it was his.
Shoot, I am a fucking homo, I thought. Now what the fuck do I do about that?
Next: The Passion Pit