Poke Chop

Poke Chop is doing the Watusi; this is my best guess. It's also entirely possible that he is shaking his sorry-ass groove thang to the Mashed Potato. There are two statements that can be made with relative certainty. First, at this point in his inebriation, Poke Chop has no discernable sense of rhythm. Second, and more importantly, Poke Chop may not be long for this world.

"Take ya look, yall, look at ole Poke Chop. Poke Chop is doin it man, whooo yeah he doin it. Ain't nobody gawna slow ole Poke Chop down, nobody. Whatchu lookin at, fool? Yeahhh… You lookin at Poke Chop, aintcha? Poke Chop the best."

Poke Chop has wandered into a place where he absolutely should not be. Folks are looking at him in amazement. No way he wasn’t already been blind drunk when he first walked in, else he would have instinctively known better. The joint is borderline redneck, absolutely working class, a narrow sea of blue jeans and white faces. The men all have facial hair and hats, the women all have tank tops, and everyone has at least one tattoo.

Poke Chop is not just a black man. While that would be somewhat of a problem, it would not be an insurmountable one. Sure, some of the more racist patrons glare at anyone of color who walks into their bar, muttering rude asides to their buddies. Or if they have no buddies, they curse into their beers. But times have changed here in the big city, and at least inside this public space, most everyone adheres to the doctrine of tolerance. They know that’s an attitude they ought to have. Julios, niggers, fags and punks, they all put in the occasional appearance, and if they behave themselves, there’s usually no trouble. You can have a patron launch into an ‘I hate niggers’ rant at the top of his lungs, but he’ll shut up the moment a couple of blacks walk in. You might even see the same gentleman shooting the shit with a black man; once he’s a known quantity, he’s no longer a nigger.

Trouble is, Poke Chop is the stereotype incarnate, a walking cartoon. Bad hygiene, clothes half falling off his lanky frame, indeterminate age, and a ludicrous minstrel accent. For God’s sake, the boy calls himself Poke Chop.

“Poke Chop take care of you girls good,” he shouts lasciviously, grabbing a hefty blonde on her return from the ladies room. “Poke Chop be the best you ever had,” he assures her. The girl whirls away, spitting out a quick “asshole” as she rushes back to her table. There’s a hush in the room.

“What you call Poke Chop, ya ole bitch? Poke Chop gonna give it to you good. Poke Chop be the best you ever had.” Poke Chop is doing a little dance around his stool as he shouts this, holding onto the edge of the bar for stability. George Jones is playing on the jukebox.

All eyes are on Poke Chop about now. A barrage of shouts and derisions are hurled his way. Oddly, none of the obscenities make reference to his race. Checking the room for body language, there appear to be at least two dozen fists cocked and ready to commence wailing on his hide. Poke Chop is somehow able to pick up on these visual cues, and he plops wearily down on his stool, immediately knocking over his beer. This is the final straw for his neighbor, who grabs him by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. He glares hard, ready to strike, but Poke Chop goes all limp on him, head down and limbs lifeless. He gets yet another reprieve.

And now, it’s melancholy time. “Hey, hey,” he says dispiritedly, as he waves his hand in the air, aiming to snag the bartender’s attention. As if he really needed to try. “Nutha,” he says softly.

Melissa is a big strong girl who has only a limited amount of patience. “How you gonna pay for it,” she demands, her face inches away from the drunk. Poke Chop sticks his hand deeply into the pocket of his beer soaked pants, eventually digging out a couple of crumpled bills and an unknown quantity of change. Melissa takes the bills and counts out another dollar in change, leaving only nickels and pennies on the bar. “You don’t have enough here to get another,” she tells him.

Poke Chop is crushed. His face goes through a passion play before he finally blurts out, “I spilt it. I spilt it.” These are the saddest words in the world, and they take seed in the heart of a grizzled old man in a blue Home Depot hat who nods at Melissa and points to himself. Melissa grimaces at the elderly bastard, and pulls another Bud. In Poke Chop’s mind, this beer has simply materialized because he wants it so bad.

It is the miracle of the Budweiser. Poke Chop is re-energized now, walking the length of the bar and speaking to anyone who will look his way. “Gimmee cigarette,” he says, demanding, not pleading. “Get the fuck out of here.” “Gimmee cigarette.” No reply from patron 2, just a gentle shove. “Gimmee cigarette,” he continues up the line.

Someone throws a smoke from across the bar and it bounces off his sunken chest. Poke Chop happily picks it up off the floor, strut-staggering back to his seat.

I turn on my stool to face the man sitting beside me, a burly fellow with the name Fred printed on his plumbing service shirt. “Dude is about five seconds away from dying,” I observe. Fred looks at me for a long moment, shaking his head. “Crazy nigger,” is all he has to say.

It is the miracle of the Budweiser. Not only does Poke Chop avoid death today, he also manages to con a couple of Spanish speaking migrant workers into buying him yet another beer before his forced exit.

Faith is the world’s culture; wisdom is America’s. Forget the intellectuals - we are some crafty bastards, and for all our lip service to the gods of good and evil, we are a pragmatic lot. Love us or hate us, it really doesn’t matter. We finish strong, just like a good beer. We try to avoid beating our weak, although it often takes a supreme act of will power. And we always – no matter how sorry you are – will give you a cigarette.