Southern Comfort and Rosa Parks
Friday, August 24, 1956
Brighton Beach, New York
Pulling the door open, stepping aside, “Glad you could come.”
“Hey, would I leave a pal alone on his birthday? ...Here.”
“Come on, Rube, I didn’t ask you here so you could bring me a present.”
“Yeah, I know, but they’re not for you, they’re for me because, if I’m going to spend the evening here, I don’t want to drink your shitty booze and I certainly do not want to listen to your shitty music!”
Ripping the pink-bunny birthday paper off the thin, flat, square package: ‘The Brave Bulls’. “How’d you know,” Mitchell said facetiously, “that I’ve always loooved Mexican bull-fight music?”
“Ain’t Mexican you ignorant schmuck, it’s Spanish and that’s great music to drink by... Go on, open the other one.”
Ripping the yellow-elephant birthday paper off the gurgling package, holding the bottle by its neck, “Oh, yeah! Now you’ve really shown your true , you should excuse the pun, shvartzer colors. ‘Southern Comfort’? And you call what I drink ‘shitty’?”
Going to the portable ‘hi-fi’ phonograph, “Hey, schmuck, don’t knock it till you try it.” Putting both long play records onto the spindle, pushing the ‘Auto’ button, the first record dropping onto the turntable, exciting music filling the room, “You pour!”
*
The coffee table pushed aside so they might stretch their legs forward, sitting with their backs resting against the sofa, their shoes off...
“Hey,” sipping the drink, “it tastes like candy.”
“Yeah,” holding the tumbler to the light, swirling the quarter glass of amber fluid around clinking ice cubes, “but this candy’ll set you on your ass.”
*
The second side of the first record sliding down the spindle, moving back, the arm lowering, ‘Brave’ music filling the room once again...
“Yeah, this time it was all my fault, and I really fucked-up!”
“Yeah, you fucked-up royally! So, what’a’ya gonna do now?”
Thinking a moment, “Later, I don’t know, but right now,” pulling himself off the floor, “I’m gonna take piss.” Wobbling, going into the toilet, closing the door, he stood staring at his stream of urine as it splashed into the toilet... Through, flushing the toilet, Mitchell, by now, out of habit, lowered the seat. Starting out of the room, “Fuck it!” turning back, he replaced the toilet seat in an upward position.
Adding fresh ice-cubes, re-filling each of their glasses with the 100 proof liquor, back on the floor by the time Mitchell returned.
“Do you know... Do you have any idea what the real struggle between men and women is? The real fuckin’ struggle?” on the floor again, taking a swig of Southern Comfort. “The ultimate fuckin’ battle?”
Thinking a moment, Ruby asked, “You wann’a fuck an’ they don’t?”
“Shit! That shows how muckin’ fudge you know! No, that’s just a game broads play with guys.”
“Jesus, will ya look at who’s tellin’ who ‘bout women!” Blinking his bleary eyes, “uh, that they wanna spend money on really dumb stuff like, uh, groceries an’ stuff?”
“Nah, that ain’t it.” Taking another drink, Mitchell swiped his wrist across his mouth. “Guess ya gotta be married to know the thing women want a guy to do more’n anything.”
“Oh, yeah, sure! When it comes to broads,” Ruby giggled, “you’re definitely one’a the dumbest guys I know!”
“Oh, yeah! Maybe you think I’m dumb when it comes to women,” Mitchell said with feigned indignity, “but you don’t know what’s really important to ‘em!” He laughed. “But Lipensky do.”
“Lipensky do, eh? So if you’re such a smart-ass, fuckin’ Yankee, why don’t you just tell me an’ then I’ll know, too.”
“Okay you shvartzer schmuck... It’s the fuckin’ toilet seat!”
“Huh?” Sitting back, Ruby stared at Mitchell. “The toilet seat?”
“Yeah! That’s the most important thing in their lives! To have a guy put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after he takes a leak. I mean, Jesus, where’s it written a guy’s gotta put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after he pees? Why don’t she gotta put the toilet seat down when she’s gotta pee? What’s it, the eleventh commandment: Though shalt put the fuckin’ toilet seat down after thou takest a fuckin’ pee! Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ! You’d think a broad afraid of fallin’ in the fuckin’ toilet!”
Laughing, “Maybe puttin’ the toilet down is the twelfth commandment, but it ain’t the eleventh!”
“It ain’t?” Tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks, Mitchell asked, “Why ain’t it?”
“ ‘Why ain’t it’?” Attempting to look at him seriously, “ ‘cause ‘thou shalt not get caught’ is the eleventh commandment.”
*
“You believe in God?”
One third of the quart bottle of Southern Comfort empty, the second side of the second record of The Brave Bulls nearing completion... for the third time, the tone of the evening having turned from drunken jovial to drunken seriousness, still sitting on the floor, the boys had swapped liquor for coffee.
“Don’t know if I believe in God all the time, Rube,” chuckling, “but I sure do when I’m scared or something.”
“Yeah, don’t we all. How’s about heaven? Think there’s a place like heaven?”
“Don’t know, but if there is a heaven, and if heaven’s all it’s cracked up to be, then I think everyone’s got to have their own private, separate heaven ‘cause your idea of heaven might not be my idea of heaven and I might not want to spend forever doin’ stuff you may want to do forever... Understand?
Thinking he did, “Yeah, maybe.” Ruby nodded.
Going on, “I mean like maybe you want to spend all eternity eating corn-pone an’ chitlins... Whatever the fuck corn-pone an’ chitlins are.” Looking at Ruby, Mitchell laughed. “I mean like maybe my idea of heaven is fuckin’ my brains out an’ eating Chicago style, Kosher hot dogs.”
“ ‘Corn-pone and chitlins’? You dick! I ask a serious question and what do I get? ... Well, corn-pone, maybe, but chitlins? Never, ‘cause chitlins’ cooked pig guts, an’ like I told you...”
“Yeah, I know! You’re Kosher.”
“Yeah! Okay, so much for God and heaven.” Trying to get a handle on Mitchell’s beliefs , becoming serious again, “How’s about... Who do you admire, Mitch? Who do you really admire? You got any live heroes, Mitch?”
Taking a drink of coffee, he thought a long moment. “I’ve never been an athletic, sports kind’a person, so there’s no-one there. But if he were still alive, I’d probably say F.D.R..”
“Franklin Roosevelt. Yeah, you and most every other Jew. But I said alive.”
“Uh...” Really, having no heroes. “How’s ‘bout,” pulling the names out of thin air, not really caring about either, “Elvis Presley an’ Marilyn Monroe?”
Having drunk a bit less, sobering up a bit quicker, “Elvis Presley? Lipensky, like I said, you’re a dick! You’re only saying Elvis Presley ‘cause you know I hate him! And Marilyn Monroe? Couldn’t be ‘cause she’s such a great actress! Could be, maybe, ‘cause she’s got great tits, though! Come on, get serious! Who, alive, do you admire?”
“I don’t know, Rube.” Taking another drink of coffee, “I can’t think of any heroes. How’s about you? Who do you admire?”
Without the slightest hesitation, “Rosa Parks and Doctor Martin Luther king, Junior.”
Thinking a moment, the names a bit familiar, but remembering neither, “Who the hell’s Rosa Parks and, uh, Martin Luther King?”
“Doctor!” Now very serious. “His name is Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior!”
Catching the change in the tone of his voice, looking at Ruby, “Yeah, okay! So who are they?”
Wondering how Mitchell could not know, “You don’t remember last December?”
“Last December?”
“Yeah! December, nineteen-fifty-five.”
Yeah, sure I remember last December!”
Looking at Mitchell expectantly, “Yeah?”
“Me’n’Marsha got,” his voice catching, “me’n’Marsha got married last December.”
“Idiot!” Not really said in jest, “Schmuck! You don’t remember what happened last December... Other,” said facetiously, “than you’n’Marsha getting married?”
The blank look on his friend’s face answering Ruby’s question, “Rosa Parks is the little shvartzer lady who got arrested because she insisted on sitting in the front of a bus in Montgomery, Alabama last December. You know, because shvartzers are made to sit in the rear of buses in the south, and...”
“Oh, yeah, I remember reading about that. And this, uh, Rosa Parks is a hero to you.” Posed not as a question, but rather a statement.
“In the light of what she knew she had to face...” This posed not as an answer, but rather an exclamation. “...bet your ass she is!”
“And,” Mitchell asked, “this Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior, who’s he?”
