Wednesday, January 5, 2011


© London Saint James, May Not Be Reproduced Without Permission


     Oh, it wasn’t any one thing in particular, but of late, everything about his life generally bothered him.  In some ways he was anesthetized to the constant struggle between the Indian world in which he was born into and the White world he was adopted into, but this current feeling of exhaustion was something different.  He was missing something.  Something he could not quite put his finger on.  It wasn’t due to the fact he had lost his heritage when his mother died at the age of twenty-two, giving birth to him or he had a drunk for a father who died from an over indulgence with lighting in a bottle, good old home brewed firewater, when he was just thirty-four.  It wasn’t even the fact J.P.’s career in the FBI ended early and he had stranded himself back where it all began in South Dakota, no it was… well, he wasn’t quite sure.
     J.P. glanced around his six foot by eight foot office with its mint green walls and all the awards hanging in a symmetrical row, encased in walnut frames, highlighting his glory days at Quantico.  With a tilt to his head, he glanced at the bookshelf.  Taking precedence on the middle of that shelf, encased in glass, was the reason for receiving salutations and adoration for being a real-life American hero.  Yep, that twisted metal shard, which he was lucky enough to have received from a car bomb, was once embedded into his lower spine.  It was that twisted metal shard which reminded him daily that he was lucky to be alive, lucky he could walk.  And it was that same shard which reminded him daily why he no longer had a career with the FBI.
     Glancing down at his desk, he gave a half grin at the fake bigmouth bass which his one-time partner had given him as a joke.  Field Agent Rothman wasn’t so lucky.  He was killed in the blast which J.P. survived.  With a breath, J.P. turned in his chair to glance out his one damn window with the breathtaking view of the old AT&T phone sub-station then scrubbed his hand down his face.  He was tired of this rinky-dink town with its two stop signs and the red blinking stoplight which hung in the middle of town and never seemed to work.  He was tired of the half paved roads.  He was tired of Rusty Miller getting shitfaced every third Friday and disturbing the peace by singing Sweet Home Alabama at the top of his lungs, off key, while pissing his name in the dirt in from of the bar and offering to kick anyone’s ass for a buck.  He was tired of Doris Peez and her damn dog Buster, shitting on his lawn every morning.  He was tired of screwing the widow Sands, a buxom blond in her forties.  In truth, she is afraid to be seen with him in public so she sneaks over to his house whenever she needs her itch scratched.  He hates himself for not putting a stop to it, for not telling her to bug off, for allowing his dick do all the thinking.  And he really hates every time they screw it’s always in the same boring missionary position because she feels “safe” doing it that way.  He was tired of the fact she thought he was going to go savage on her anytime he suggested a blow job or doggy style.  And don’t even bring up the idea of eating at the Y.  That suggestion sent her into convulsions and a verbal lashing on improper, depraved, unbecoming a gentleman lecture which took forty minutes from his life he will never get back.  He wished she put that much vigor into screwing him though.  But the sad truth, jacking off would be more enticement but he always says yes to her.
     He turned to look at the calendar then winced at the date.  Tonight he was suppose to go over to his parents house for dinner, sure this was just his mother’s way of setting him up on yet another blind date.  His was thirty, not getting any younger and his mother wanted grandchildren before she died, as to which she reminded him every chance she got but he hated blind dates.  Of course they were never local women, coming down from Rapid City or the State Capital and once from Washington DC.  Cecelia Nelson-Clark was a hook-up, a “friend of a friend,” from his mother’s days as State Representative.  He thought there might be a chance with her but found out the hard way he was wrong when he went to see her without warning.  It was to be a surprise, but he was the one surprised when he found her in bed with a linebacker from Detroit. But for the most part even high-class, educated women, took one look at his darkened skin, long black hair, his dark brooding eyes and they were confused and sometimes scared.  So he was forced to explain his white parents, the Honorable Mayor Ronald Masters and his lovely adorning wife the Honorable Senator Debra Ann Masters, who adopted him as a baby.  Thus, J.P. Black Lance was now J.P. Masters.  But he loved his mother, she never noticed the color of his skin yet in other ways he knew this could be considered naïveté.
     Taking a call, he winced again.  It was his usual weekly invite to poker.  He hated the Saturday night poker games, the Sunday afternoon socials, the always predictable keggers which he had to break up after every high school football game.  And most of all he hated walking into their one and only grocery store merely to be greeted by the store manager with his flippant, “Chief,” knowing Lee wasn’t using his title but trying to get away with a racial slur due to his Native American heritage, being born into the Sioux Tribe.  To Lee Warner, J.P. Masters should be back on the reservation where he would live out his life with his always pregnant squaw, smoking a peace pipe, drunk like his no good for nothing biological father, not the Chief of Police.
     J.P. ran his fingers through his long silky black hair then picked up his black Stetson from the corner of his desk and placed it upon his head.  Adjusting his gun in his hip holster he smirked.  Screw Lee Warner and the rest of his merry men of bigots who live in this town, he thought then headed for his SUV.  Suddenly, he felt the need to run to the grocery store.  Perhaps buy a pack of gum and flirt with Lee’s blond-haired, blue-eyed, nineteen year-old daughter.  Yep, even if everything else sucked, some days it was good to be Chief.

Things Are Changing

Hi, everyone. Thank you for taking the time to stop by and reading the last post on this blog. Don’t worry, though, I’m not disappearing...