Chasing James Stewart

It's in winter when the scars are most visible, when the glances
become stares for longer and longer. The cold brings them out: A raised
brown train track runs down the side of my face, coming to a halt in a
wheel just under my jaw. My beard covers it slightly, but it is still
there, lying low underneath, ready to leap out and bitch slap anyone
looking hard enough at my face, or feeling close enough to me to caress
my cheek.

Then again, if she had even looked at my scars tonight before she
decided to snub me things might have turned out better.

The doctors say, 'The marks are going to be permanent, but remember
you're lucky to be alive.' The police say much the same thing, like it
is an everyday occurrence.

'You should be more careful in this city,' they say, like it's my
fault.

When the body is wounded, the first priority is to heal quickly.
Looking beautiful must always take second place to survival. Sure it
could re-grow perfect skin but that would take too long, and chances
are infections would creep in and cause death way before that could
happen.

African American skin can scar particularly badly. It's what's called
keloidosis, an overgrowth of scar tissue. The surgeons told me this,
preaching down at me. But luckily for their leather wallets, and me,
treatments exist: freezing the affected area can help or perhaps
surgery to remove the keloids. Although there is always a chance they
would return. Either way I'm black, I expect they think I can't afford
cosmetic surgery without resorting to robbery or having the good
fortune of being talented at a sport white Americans will pay to
watch.
.
I tell people in bars I was once a Motocross rider too, when I was
young, before the accident. I tell them, during a big race I fell off
and a bike ran over me and the tread of the tires sliced open my face.
I tell them I could have been just like their hero, James. Everyone
just wants to be accepted. Truth is the closest I've got to a rider is
one of the posters that adorn the city.

They don't believe me, it's too far fetched; sure this sport might
produce one black American hero, but two? No chance. Plus black people
always lie, they think. I can read it in their eyes. Race relations
aren't great here.

Truth is whites put these marks on me, I shouldn't label them with
colour; I should say men did this to me. But they when they attacked me
they spat 'man' in my face like old chewing tobacco. When they left
me bleeding at the side of the road, contemplating the American dream,
they ran away laughing amongst themselves about the dying black cunt
they'd just done over for the seven dollars in his pocket. Now, instead
of bills, I keep a switchblade in there all the time, because soon they
must be coming back for me, guided by the lines on my face.

James stares at me from the poster at the side of the road, soon the
race tour will be here, but where his smile once offered all people
like me encouragement his face has been wrinkled into disdain by the
thawing and freezing of the past weeks. Maybe he can see my scars
too.

A gap in the traffic lets me cross the road, knees high to avoid slush
puddles and piles of snow. Since the attack the only thing I've wanted
is to be accepted again. Just like a sports player spends hours
practising to achieve his goal so I practise. I refuse to be put down
by those below me. As I walk up to the bar I pull my collar up against
the cold, feeling the right side of my face tingle in pain. I pray that
it is warm inside and my skin quickly settles down.

All this snow we've been having, some folks blame climate change, I
blame God. It's like He's preaching to us, the black underclass,
plaguing us with a thick white covering that forms a metaphor for the
way we are being treated. And in this bitter snow nothing can grow or
flourish; making any sort of progress is a hard struggle. But to stand
still for too long is to perish, so I press on. Praying that, like how
the harshest seasons come to pass, it won't be long before the sun
returns to melt away the oppression.

The steps up to the bar's porch have been cleared of powder, but the
handrail is still covered. It takes time to get to the top because when
they weren't slashing my face the men kicked me in my stomach and legs
and broke my femur. I tell people the limp is caused by the fall from
the speeding bike too, or sometimes a college football injury that
stopped my chance at the Big Time.

The white world outside gives way to dark; the bar is like a large cave
stretching out in all directions. It is oak and pine constructed into
shelter and entertainment, traditional. Steadily, eyes and heads turn
to look at me as I walk to get a drink. None of them shine a smile of
recognition my way; I don't flinch from my path.

A friend of mine grew up with suffered the same kind of thing as me, he
tells me all the time about his experience with the cops, back when it
seemed like he was the criminal too. He says he banged the police
sergeant's desk so that his pen jumped up and rolled for cover on the
floor. He struggled hard to quiet the swearing in his head, asking,
'Why won't you do anything?'

The sergeant said, 'Now don't you gone take the law into your own
hands, it'll only make things worse.'

Fuck worse he's thinking. Fuck the law. Fuck this entire town.
Censored, censored, censored. Instead he hangs his head. We all
do.

'I've told you we are doing all we can, it seems just a random
attack.'

He's sat there, hands behind his back like they were cuffed, shouting,
'No, not random, it was targeted at me, look at my skin.' He tells me
he wanted to tear a piece of it off and throw it across the desk. The
sergeant doesn't realise this whole place is only on the map for
hosting sport, because of a black man who whites will pay to watch, and
could have been taken off the map for another had my friend or I been
killed on our special nights, we could have both been just another
hidden statistic.

That very same corrupt cop motherfucker could be in this bar now
drinking; probably laughing with his Klu-Klux buddies, setting a target
perhaps. Well, hey guys, if you want one I'm right here. Come get
me.

The waiting to die can be too much; sometimes I just want it over
with.

At the bar I am blocked by two wide-armed, leather encased men intent
on being served first. So I move around to the quieter side. A young
pretty blond woman is here waiting to be seen too.

She takes one look at me and turns up her nose. She hasn't even had
chance to see the side of my face with the disfiguring marks yet.

Perhaps the barman doesn't see her because of the way she is. She was
probably rude to him too the last time she was in here, she looks
typical white. Pure on the outside, tarnished with greed inside. She
needs to be taught a lesson.

Would you like me to shine your shoes while you're up there looking
down on me?

No response.

I said could I get you some cotton from the field before I kiss your
arse.

She turns to me and says, 'you kiss me? I don't think so.'

You'd love me to, I say. If she is just playing with me here, this line
should get a response that is more of a come on. There's a slight hope.
She is probably a bit stuck up because she is edgy, she looks too
classy in this bar, doesn't fit in well.

'Get the fuck away from me,' she says and shows me her back.

She wasn't playing. Her words were truly tinged with hate not sexual
energy.

At the very least it's got to this before I've had to explain away the
scars, before even a glimmer of hope has raised its ugly head inside
me. On the other hand this a new low in my pocketbook of inhuman
treatment.

I grab hold of the side of her arm and spin her around; all pretences
of flirtation and nicety you normally find in a bar disappear. No words
come out of my mouth. My jaw is shaking. The scars twist and bulge on
my face. I hold her still and stare at her.

The woman looks me up and down. Then she holds my gaze. She remains
calm.

You could at least have been polite to me, what makes you think you're
so good?

'It's just the way it is, get your hands off me or I'll kill
you.'

I let go with my right hand, it drops to my pocket and I pull out the
knife. This is a form of an assault after all.

She gasps then lets out a little yelp. But no one is listening, or they
are choosing not to listen, they could hate her as much as they hate
me. The calmness on her face evaporates, but any further words are
culled in the fear.

Outside! I hold the knife down low, so that no one but her can see it.
I spin her around and hold it against her back, then we walk out
together close; to the crowded room, it looks like some cheap whore off
to bang some lucky black dude by the trashcans.

That is exactly what is on my mind.

Outside again it is shrivelling cold. Un-holstered I push the bitch
towards the green plastic bottle bank. The snow comes down unabated.
The knife jabs into the small of her back. She is crying now, begging
through short sharp breaths that make clouds of vapour in the air in
front of her like the outlet from the kitchen does: The air smells of a
mixture of fear and frying steak, like some bastard
slaughterhouse-grill combo.

Pushing, pulling, and riding, just like my ancestors would have, I
share the moment with her. A slave to sex; a slave to the
upper-class-bitch. This scenario probably played out in many a house on
the Bayou. Only this mistress didn't want it.

Something hits me.

Not a real thing, a realisation.

This act I am doing is so ironic. It's a forced acceptance, the
desecration of snow. I drop the blade and back away from her. Pulling
my clothes together I jog through the snow back towards the road,
desperate to escape myself.

Back at the road, James' poster stares at me, reminding that all blacks
won't make it here. The trails he rides are like the scars on my face,
like the lines cars leave in the snow, which make them seem unable to
change path like rickety trams. Only, the lines in my face, my black
face, are just my many paths to having no future.