Flesh, Fat and Blood by P.J. Jason
But don't get me wrong: It's also true that my wonderful career is so
exhausting, I rarely have time for a home cooked meal.
So, I dine out--and a lot! And I only "dine" at the best restaurants. Like,
"The Baton." What's the difference between dining and "eating"? The price. At
The Baton the appetizers (caviar and potato pancakes) cost as much as the
entrees. We're talking dead presidents, 20 to 30 bucks a pop.
Besides, the entrees are no bigger than the appetizers. Which is another
difference between dining and eating...a difference I find reassuring.
I get a strong sense of security knowing that I can spend more money on
dinner ($200 and over) than most people working a whole week at some funky
nine to five: frying burgers at McDonald's or selling perfume sprays in
shopping malls.
I thank God every time I step into a department store: Thank God I don't
have to work for minimum wage...Thank God I've found an easier way to make
money and barrels of it.
But most of all, I thank God I'm privileged enough to enjoy the company of
people like me. I mean, the more I meet people like me, the more money I
make. If you want fish, go to a fish store. That's why I dine at The Baton.
Who am I supposed to meet? What am I supposed to learn at Burger King?
Sitting under the white ceilings in the cool, polar glow of the halogen
Foscarini lamps, I know the brother in the Armani suit. He has a good reason
to be sitting at The Baton with his beautiful model--her cocoa body, anemic
waist line, her lips big and red. It's no accident. He's the hottest (and the
youngest) ad executive in town. And everybody knows, he's just won six
industry awards. He's the man behind those Nike Michael Jordan and Spike Lee
milk commercials. Besides, he has a cool fade, a well-cropped beard and a
well exercised body. He wears green suede shoes and Chaps cologne. I mean,
step aside Denzel Washington. This homeboy is the cover of Gentlemen's
Quarterly. Chicken-heads just dream about it.
(By the way, if you've never heard of The Baton, you obviously can't afford
it.)
Personally, I've made my money (and did I say lots of it?) so easily,
divulging my secret would be tactless and vulgar--if not impolite. But since
my wife (who grew up on Park Avenue) is such a pixie, she insists that I tell
you my age--and hers. To disgust you even more, I suppose. We're almost 30;
and we already own things that most people will never buy in a lifetime.
--I'm going on 25.
And if it's not too impolite to say: I do take the greatest pleasure living
in the Memphis downtown where two bedrooms start at $450,000. I love my white
Jaguar and the way it feels when the doorman opens the door for me. It's
great to have someone carry my grocery bag to the elevator...especially when
these suckers are older than me.
I guess you could say...I don't feel any special affection for the cult of
the working poor, the quiet, suffering nobility...that blue collar crap Bruce
Springsteen used to sing about when they closed America's factories. I mean,
look: Most of these suckers deserve what they get. I mean, I knew these
people...When I was a kid, they were the ones who made of fun of "me" because
I did my homework--every night. They called me a sissy boy, lame-to-the -wood
school boy.
I'm sorry. I detest them all. These cretins couldn't care less if a Barbara
Kruger or David Salle are showing at the Mary Boone in Soho. They're too
primitive to conceive that maybe paint spread on some cloth has significance,
some meaning --a reason to exist. They don't see how staring at paint could
possibly have any relationship to their lives. They're still living in a
mobile home or a rat-infested tenement in the South Bronx. What does art have
to do with that?
Listen to me. I know these primitives better than you. I was born and raised
by them. It was kind of like being raised by wolves. We lived in a lopsided
tenement in the Bronx. But if you think I'm hard on them, you should hear
what they say about you--and me. The way we live. Just listen:
Listen to my dear old Pop, a real moron who still peddles hot dogs on Times
Square:
Pop...on travel (after I said I wanted to visit my roots):
"Why you got to go anywhere? Look, I sit. I eat. I watch T.V. When I wanna
see Africa I watch National Geographic Explorer. So, why spend good money to
walk around and pick up diseases in a strange place? Huh?"
Pop...on politics:
"Man, you're dreaming boy! They're all a bunch of crooks, the whole bunch of
them. And who are you? What do you mean VOTE? You think anybody cares if you
don't like the President of the United States? You're just a punk living in
the Bronx. What're you going to do?"
Pop...on buying flowers:
"You crazy? Spend money on those lousy weeds? I can pick them in the Bronx
park for free. Besides, if you can't eat them what good are they?"
Pop...on "eating" out::
"Food if food. A piece of meat is meat. So, you throw a little fancy sauce
on it and it's like a restaurant. It all comes out of a jar anyway and in the
end it all comes out the same place. You think rich folks don't take a dump?"
I could go on, but I'm sure you've avoided people like this. Like, I hope
you've never invited one of them to spend a weekend at your East Hampton
house so you could sit around, sip cocktails and discuss your new Calder.
In fact, most people like my Pop have probably worked for you--hanging your
bookshelves or parking your car. And if you're wondering how I can blast my
own family in public, don't worry. Unlike those of us who bother to pick up
books to read stories like this, "they" don't. They don't read. I didn't grow
up with books in my house. My father wrapped the last thing he read in a
brown paper bag.
And, like, I remember the day I got my acceptance letter to the City College
of New York, once called the poor man's Harvard. I waited until dinner to
tell the folks. I was going to college. I was proud.
"Yo, check out where I'm going," I said. I passed the letter to my Pop. He
looked at it.
"You jerk," he said. "I wash dishes with college guys." My Mom grabbed the
letter.
"My God," she said. "Why don't you go to work already, like other people?"
"Fuck that, " I said. "You should honor me."
Of course, at the time, I was too dumb to see where my people were coming
from. They believed that college was for rich kids, not the ones who joined
gangs, took drugs and sang rap songs on the street corners--like me.
So, relax. I can say whatever I want about these people. They'll never
know:
HI POP. HI MOM. IT'S ME, YOUR SON. I BET YOU STILL DON'T KNOW HOW I MAKE MY
MONEY. DUMB-DUMBS, HELLO.
See. It's no use. They can't hear me. But what do you expect from people
who still get their financial advice from the honorable BUBA BEAN, THE FAT
BOY FROM SOUTHERN BOULEVARD.
No kidding. And I know some of you think that since I've made it out of the
"hood" I should go back and do something for my community--my people. Forget
it. I've heard all that crap about guys like me going back to the old
neighborhood to be a role model. I know I'm supposed to be involved and give
a disadvantaged kid a summer job. But to be honest, I wouldn't trust one of
these gutter rats in my office any more than I would have trusted myself
(when I was their age).
Given the chance, at their age, I would've robbed you blind. I know. I've
done it. In high school I worked as a messenger for a Manhattan law firm. I
took white out and computer disks. Pads and pens. And now and then I snatched
a pocketbook from under a secretary's desk.
I also recall delivering some crap to some rich lady on the East Side. She
gave me a nasty little tip; but then, for some reason, she left me in her
living room. So, I took a Whiskey bottle from her liquor cabinet and dumped
a few shots into her fish tank. Then I tipped my B-Boy cap, thanking her
politely for her "generous" reward.
That's why I have no romantic ideas about the poor saps who open my door or
park my car, When these primitives look me in the eye I know that they want
to kill my guppies. (If I tipped everyone, I'd go broke.) I don't even like
to be in the same elevator with these creeps. Since I grew up with these
people, I paid my dues in hell. Enough is enough.
Like when I was in college, I remember sitting on my stoop. I was reading
Keats or Homer. But now and then, the guys from my block would drive by in
their cars. And they'd scream their balls off.
"Hey, look at dat! Whassup!? Dat faggot is readun' poe-tree!"
In fact, I have a reoccurring nightmare that one of these cretins will get a
maintenance job in my building. I mean, at this stage in my life, what would
I say to these guys--my old homeboys? They still have names like Eddie the
Claw and Bugs. And if you think I'm being too hard on them, don't be naive.
Listen to what Bugs used to say about dating:
"Man, when you go out, you get drunk. Then you puke. But don't wash your
mouf. Girls who kiss you after that get hot in the box."
Now you tell me, honestly. Do you want this guy outside your private school
waiting to pick up your daughter? So don't be fooled.
I know these guys. They don't want a shitty job pumping gas or working on an
assembly line for the rest of their lives. They'd love to work three months a
year--like me. Believe me, given the chance, they'd gladly take your Stendig
chairs, your fabric from Donghia and your Directional couch. They watch
"Dynasty" reruns or "Cosby" and they want the life they see--the life we're
living...(Well, the life I'm living...at least.).
So trust me. Stay away from these people. Don't get friendly with the moron
who delivers your dry cleaning. And I bet most of you don't. But
me...sometimes I have to--and I envy you.
I mean, it's sad to see my wife trying to explain yellow journalism to one
of these primitives who responds, "Uhh, I don't get it. I like the Star."
But at least my wife is polite. After all, the Neanderthal now sitting at
the dinner table happens to be my overweight brother--a janitor at a hospital
for the criminally insane. He agreed to come all the way from the Bronx to
hang my new Berninni chandelier.
And though he stands on my hand-loomed Swedish rug, looking befuddled,
staring at my new Leberdang from Vorpal, I try to educate him. At least I try
to explain, politely of course: "No brother. Vorpal has nothing to do with
Star Trek--Vulcan or Warp speed...just hang the lamp."
I'd like to add: "And leave by the service elevator." But, you see, I'm too
polite. This is my family I'm talking about--my flesh, fat and blood.
Yo, I'm a polite person. That's why I never wait on line for soft shell
crabs. I know the "right" counter people at Balducci's in Greenwich Village.
...................... 
All contents copyright © 1996, The Blue Moon Review, All Rights Reserved.