The Asshole

Koor Mitchell was an asshole.

Koor understood this better than anyone else. It was just one of those things. Some people are nice guys because they have that much love for everyone else. They can handle the abuse that goes along with being so nice. Some nice guys become assholes for survival. They are a bit too nice for their own good, and their foreheads radiate the message, “Fuck with me!” People happily oblige.

Part of what made Koor an asshole was that he was a heck of a nice guy, under it all. The other part was that he was pretty smart. Intelligence breeds more assholes that humanity alone ever would.

What rounded out Koor’s personality, however, was this: he was honest. Koor would not lie to spare someone’s feelings. He didn’t pretend to be dumber than he was in order to get the things he wanted. He would not fabricate to keep his ass out of hot water. Koor did not pretend. If he was broke and homeless, he was broke and homeless, not “evaluating my housing options while growing streams of revenue.” Koor was real, and that made him as asshole. He wasn’t a bastard. Koor didn’t go out of his way to hurt or use people. He was an asshole. There is a difference, he often pointed out.

One thing Koor was not, however, was angry. Koor did not understand angry people. What are you angry for? Anger is a wasted emotion. One gets angry over things they can change. It is akin to one being angry the sun came up. There is nothing you can do about it, so why raise your blood pressure?

Anyway, today, Koor was anything but angry. Even an asshole had his days.

Merkur Daewoo Mitchell had played the lottery once in his life, in Iowa. He stopped at a gas station to fill up. Business pretty much stopped when he exited his car and went to settle his bill at the pump. The clerk, bless her heart, scrutinized his hundred to ensure Koor hadn’t been scammed into accepting a phony Franklin from someone. This was for his protection, she assured him. Realizing what was going on, Koor demanded his change in Quick Pick Powerball tickets.

One man standing behind Koor, the remnants of his hair jammed under a cap with a plastic mesh back and a front logo that read “They Were Good for Something…Cotton is a Cash Crop”, warned, “Son, you don’t wanna do that…”

That sealed it for Koor. He was not this dude’s son.

The old man wasn’t being considerate. Or even helpful. This city in Iowa was almost all white. While it accounted for 6% of state Powerball sales, it’s wins were in the double digits. In the interests of affirmative action, an Asian Indian family had been allowed to win once. Once. They did the right thing and promptly bought a hotel and a Subway, employing many town residents and furthering the stereotypes that made folk comfortable.

What if this jigaboo won? The only person who would be happy was Pete Willingham, the guy who owned the Cadillac dealership up the road. And Pete wasn’t a share the wealth kind of guy.

Regardless, Koor left the gas station with a fist full of tickets and a look of satisfaction on his face.

Two weeks later, Koor and his woman, Vira, were sitting naked in his living room, eating dry turkey sandiwches (Koor hated mayo…Vira loved Koor) when he decided, in a fit of post coital clarity, to check the winning numbers on his laptop.

“What’s that, Baby?” she asked, gagging on mesquite turkey, cheese and seven grain bread. Love had its costs. Good thing was that Koor liked to eat, too. And not just turkey.

“Gotta check and see if I won some money,” Koor grunted. His sandwich was dry too, but it was good.

The checking took a while, so Vira fired up her own laptop and began looking for wedding dresses on eBay. Women might not be logical, but they are intuitive as all get out.

“Let’s go back to bed Hon,” Koor finally said, closing his machine.

“How much we win?”

“Enough.”

“I gotta go to work in a bit.”

“Not anytime soon, Vira.”

It took Koor a few days to get his money. He called his lawyer, who was also licensed to practice in Iowa. The lawyer suggested private security. His brother in law happened to run such a firm. Koor agreed. He had seen on television where protesters milled outside of the gas station where he’d purchased the ticket. The townspeople did not care. Sure, he was one of those people, but he was from somewhere else. He would take his money and go back to from whence he came. It would have been different has he built a monstrosity of a house in the middle of town and then set about throwing loud parties and trying to get intimate with there women. This guy? He just wanted his money and to go home. And the cute, plump dish beside him made it clear he was not into white women.

No, black folk from urban areas in the surrounding three states, led by the Right Reverend Bishop T. H. Chickenwing IV descended on this little Iowa town to protest the fact that the urban poor paid the most into the lottery and got the least from it. The Right Reverend Bishop had them march all of the way from the happy America Hotel through town, stopping along the way to sit in (and eat breakfast) at the Corner Diner and then make their way to the gas station. The buses that would ferry them back to their respective homes were filling up at the station when the black SUV pulled in and the security team ushered Koor and Vira in. When the crowd got too close for comfort, Koor’s goons tossed a smoke bomb rigged to smell like Harold’s mild sauce. That lulled the crown into submission.

After verifying the ticket, Koor and his posse were back in the truck and headed to the state lottery office for his check. The crowd climbed aboard the busses, minus the Right Reverend Chickenwing. He was a man of the people, but he had to see Pete Willingham before he left town.

First, the cameras.

“Bishop Chickenwing?” a reporter called. “What was the purpose of this march?”

“We feel it is unfortunate and downright unfair that for a black man to win the lottery he has to travel 300 miles away from a major city. Also, we think it is wrong that poor black people spend so much on the lotteryu and receive little return on their investment.”

“But…isn’t the lottery a game of chance?”

“White people have the stock market. We have the lottery. You force us to play and then never pay off.”

“Bishop!” Another reporter called. Another mike thrust before him. “Do you have evidence that African Americans were forced to play state lotteries?”

“In the book of Malachai…before I quote some word, let me make one thing clear…My people will start marching against this injustice nationwide until this silliness stops…We will disrupt your lives, people.”

Across the country, mayors of small towns had their secretaries flooding the Right Reverend Bishop’s office with requests for marches that afternoon. The only thing better than no black people was black people who came, spent money, and left. They were so entertaining. And they could dance, too. If civil rights leaders across the country could flood small towns and leave with a Cadillac, well, the economy might turn around in no time.

Koor was oblivious to all of this. He had his check in hand and was headed back home. In the back seat of the SUV, he looked out the window while Vira lay in his arms, sleeping. His attorney, a small, nut brown man with a big head, posed a question.
“What are you going to do with the money?”

Koor shifted slightly. He didn’t want to break Vira’s rest.

“First things first…when we get back, I need you to file whatever paperwork is necessary. See to it that my ex gets the percentage she has coming for my boy.”

“You wanna give her 20% of THAT?”

“Nah. Judge set her percentage waaaaay lower because he is with me so much and I pick up his other expenses. But let’s tie off that end straightaway. If she tries to fight for an increase, tie her up in court.”

“You perhaps should fight for custody?”

“Please. I didn’t win that much money. Why fight? By just doing what I do she already has all but given him to me anyway.”

“True.”

“Call Ariel Capital Management and let’s see if we can get in and get some accounts opened. Have them messenger me over some prospectuses. Or is that ‘prospecti’?”

“With this kind of money, I can get you into a larger firm…”

“I want Ariel. Funny how you never heard their name associated with shenanigans over the last several years. “

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. I’ma talk to Vira. If she wants to quit her gig, fine. Set up some separate accounts for her at Ariel.”

The attorney raised his eyebrows. Vira smiled in her sleep. Koor ignored them both.

“I’m also gonna open a business…”

The attorney looked at his client sharply.

‘Why not just enjoy your money?”

“I wanna keep busy. It’s not that I am giving up work. I am just giving up working for anybody but me…”

“What kind of work? Like you do now?”

Koor shook his head in disgust. “No, I don’t want to sit behind a desk ever again. Office politics and dealing with the public on that level…forget it. I want to do something I like that the community will like that will make money.”

Omar Budd, Esquire shook his head and settled back into the seat.

Koor hated publicity, but he put his to good use. He used the photo op of him standing with the lottery commissioner and the oversized check as an opportunity to announce the opening of his new business.

Black leaders at home watched the press conference with joy. A new source of revenue was a good thing, because some of the faithful were starting to ask why they contributed to help keep Da Leader in a mansion while they lived in the projects. The newly rich were an easy group of black folk to pressure. They felt guilty having money and wanted to up their street cred by being seen doing the brotha hug with someone know to be down with “The Struggle”. The struggle now was for dollars. Every leader knew that. But they needed to get what they could before these fools following them woke up.

Collectively, Black leadership, espescially local black leadership, was salivating over the crumbs they’d get from the new black mega lottery winner. Then he opened his mouth.

Boy, would they have preferred someone not so articulate. Someone a little less self assured.

Black leadership nationwide screamed in unison at flat screens everywhere, “That asshole!”

“…I think a combination rib shack, barbershop and carwash is just what the community will support,” Koor continued. “I will fund this enterprise completely, and I already have folk scouting for locations. I hope to employ some of our young people, but employment will be open to anyone who wants a job and will show up on time and presentable.”

“Will you serve beef ribs?”

“Indeed, although I won’t indulge. I do not eat red meat. But this is about meeting the need of the marketplace, not personal preferences. That’s the number one rule of business: keep it business.”

“Baby,” Vira said later, as they were in bed spooning, “do you know anything about making ribs?”

“Nope,” Koor nuzzled the back of her neck. Vira giggled softly.

“Or cut hair?”

“I can wash a car good,” he wrapped his arm around her middle.

“Leave my tummy alone,” she giggled again, a bit louder.

“Sexiest part of your body,” he yawned.

“For the next five minutes, sure. But I think that’s gonna change if your hands keep slowly moving south, Mister. Merkur?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“We like to do this. Great sleep aid.”

“Don’t play with me.”

“I guess to prove a point. Be good or I won’t let you have any ribs.” His hand pressed a spot on her side, and she shuddered.

“Alright. I sure hope you know what you’re doing. This could be an expensive point you wanna prove.”

“We can afford it.”

Things got off to a rocky start.

Bishop Chickenwing struck first, deploring Koor’s “choice of the most stereotypical businesses to open in our community. As if we do not have enough hair salons, rib joints and carwashes already sucking up our people’s dollars.”

Koor responded in the press, “Well, I didn’t have enough money to open a church and REALLY clean up…”

His rib shack went up first, and while the ribs were good, they weren’t anything stellar. What sold the ribs, though, was the waitresses.

That one got him into trouble with Vira.

“Who chose those damned uniforms?” she fumed.

“I did. They a riot, huh?” Koor responded weakly.

“That is SO insulting…”

“The girls like them. I tried something modest, and they wouldn’t come to work. I suggested this as a joke, and attendance is 100%. Good for business, too.”

“Merkur! The bottoms look like that outfit the little purple singer wore years back. With the behind cut out?”

“Oh, I mean, the health department insists they wear thongs with them…”

He was on the couch that night, but the uniforms stayed.

Several ministers got together and pooled their resources. The contracted with a local to eliminate Koor, for the good of the race.

“Thank God he saved,” muttered one minister, watching the assassin bop away. “I don’t think we could trust a heathen.” The others nodded in assent.

The problem was the ministers didn’t know where to find good help. Over the next several weeks each of their cars were stolen, houses broken into, and more than one daughter came up pregnant. That is ordinary enough, but the word was the babies were all fathered by the same guy.

“But Daddy, he SAVED!” they all cried.

And Koor was still on this side of life.

When the barbershop opened, Koor insisted on both male and female barbers fresh out of Cain’s. He charged a standard booth rent but put away half for each barber to take and open his or her own shop when it came time to move on.

The problem came when the waitresses from the rib shack started hanging around the barbershop, in uniform, on their days off. After a couple of waitresses requested maternity leave, Koor had to make some changes. Moving forward, all new male barbers had to be same sex oriented, he decided. Female barbers could bat for whichever team they like, as they were not producing any babies. Koor also began taxing the guys who got his waitresses pregnant, 25% over their booth rent, to cover child support and daycare. The pregnancies stopped. For a time. Other sexual shenanigans quickly erupted, and the shop became known as somewhere one could get faded in many different ways, especially by people with common equipment. Koor eventually stopped caring. The booth rent got collected, on time, he reminded himself.

Eventually, the ministers were forced to come, hats in hand, to see Koor.

He came from behind the counter at his rib joint, wiped his hands on his apron, and sat down with them.

“Don’t you think we should go somewhere more…private?” one asked.

“I do my business in the open,” Koor smiled. “I sell fatty food, haircuts and carwashes. Anything you got to tell me, you can tell me in front of my customers. Shoot. Most of them are ya’ll members, anyway.”

“Haaay Sista Johnson,” called the Reverend Carnation Green, Jr. The others shook their heads in disgust. What could they do? Boy’s daddy left him the church.

“His daddy was like that, too,” one muttered. They all nodded.

“Whatchall need?” Koor demanded.

“Brother Mitchell, we haven’t seen eye to eye…”

“Ya’ll tried to have me killed. Yeah, I heard about that. You also tried to fix it so my woman would be shunned if she visited ya’ll churches. Ya’ll wrong as hell…”

“We cain’t condone living in sin,” Rev. Green lisped.

“Uh, yeah,” Koor gave the Good Reverend a long, hard look. “Take it you’ll be visitng my barbershop later?

“Oh, no he didn’t. Look, I STAY clean…”

“Carn,” one of the ministers said wearily, “You missed his point. Look, Brotha Mitchell…”

Grunt.

“We are holding a benefit…”

“For?”

“We want to know if you will donate food…”

“For? Needy families? Kids who are starving? What?”
“We want to have a drive to support the community…an inter-church drive…to show our youth they matter.”

“Why not just throw open the doors of your church daily and feed them yourselves? You all got kitchens. You got cooks. Why you need me?”

“This is for the community, brother.”

“Bullshit, Rev. Ya’ll ride through the community and pass the women who put clothes on your back as they stand on the bus stop and you glide by in your Lexus. Churches are to black folk what corporations are to white folk. You have all of these resources and you do what with them?”

“Brother…look, we just want…”

“Something for free. Bounce.”

The ministers rose, looking perturbed. One said, “Fuck it. I gotta go. Man’s coming to put the ATM machine in my narthex.”

“Question?” Koor just had to ask.

Green answered. “Yes?”

“Forget it.”

As they left, a young woman strode in, angry.

“Are you the manager?” She asked, eyes flaring.

“Ah, yeah,” Koor responded. “Guess I am. What can I do for you?”

“Look, either you are or you aren’t.” The woman was in her 30s, mildly attractive and angry.

“How can I help you?”

“I want the manager. Don’t make me go to corporate.”

Koor laughed at that one.

“Why are you smiling? Why are you laughing? Corporate will hear about this. When they do…”

“Ma’am, what is your problem?”

“I have managed places before. You should always have a manager on duty, and a corporate contact number posted. I have a real problem.”

“OK…with?”

“Don’t interrupt me. I have a degree, I work downtown, And I know how to work the system.”

Koor’s voice grew hard. “Ma’am, do you have a problem with my product, or my service?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me, sir. When corporate hears of this…”

“Ma’am, what is it I can do for you?”

She stormed out.

Koor stopped a waitress working that zone.

“What did she order?”

The waitress, a comely 20 year old sporting two gold teeth, shook her head. “I don’t know, Mr. Mitchell. She just walked in. She didn’t even order anything.”

Koor shook his head.

The following day, Bishop Chickenwing stopped by.


“Brother,” he began gravely, “we need to talk.”

“OK.” Koor posted up at his table. “What’s up?”

“Heart disease is running rampant in our community,” the cleric began. “I personally can tell you that heart attacks and strokes take way too many of us before our time.”

Koor, something of a fitness buff, listened intently.

“I personally think it is a shame a man as intelligent as you would sell out people this…poison.”

Koor thought about that one.

“Well, Reverend,” he began.

“Bishop!” Chickenwing hissed.

“OK, Bishop,” Koor said. “Look, I’m not holding a gun to anyone’s heads to purchase my product. I am employing neighborhood kids. I am running an honest business. If people know they are hypertensive or have issues where they shouldn’t eat smoked pork laden in high fructose corn syrup, isn’t it on them to either avoid my place or, I dunno, come here and order some coleslaw or something?”

“Our people can’t exercise that kind of control when you are right here in the middle of the community! We are in a food desert! There are no Asian restaurants, no stir fries, nothing but barbecue and chicken places around here! You are adding to it, and not helping diversifying the food options in the community!”

Koor sighed.

“Bishop Chickenwing?”

“Yes?”

“Before you get wound up in a sermon, can I ask you a question?”

“Definitely.”

“Why all you preachers got money and wear them tacky, shiny four and five button suits?”

Chickenwing exhaled harshly.

“A business will go where it can make money. You can’t legislate that, or force people to do that. You know why fried chicken shacks and rib joints dominate in this community? Because we support them. A sushi place over here would fold in a week. Just like we do churches. There is no food desert, just people who have make their choices on what they want to eat. I am giving in to those choices. But I do not make them.”

Bishop Chickenwing exhaled sharply again.

“I came here, in good faith…you will be smote…”

“Man, you can smote my joint, Rev.” Koor stood and went back to his grill.

That night, after he showered the smoke smell from his body, he sat down to a dry turkey sandwich with Vira.

“Long day Baby?”

“I’m good Honey. Thanks for the sandwich.”

“Renee called.”

Koor hauled himself out of his chair.

“Where you going?”

“You know I like to eat in peace. Let me see what this fool woman wants.”

“Don’t call her that. She is your ex wife and the mother of your child.”

“She is…OK, Baby.”

Koor lay in his bed and punched the numbers.

“Good evening Renee. How may I help you?”

A trick he had taught himself during his divorce was to be unfailingly polite to Renee. It annoyed her. Once, she screamed at a judge that she was tired of him beig so damned polite. The judge threatened to throw her in jail for contempt while Koor sat mute, giggling inside.

“I understand you own a business now?”

“Mmm hmm.”

“And what’s this increase I got in child support?”

“Mmmm…Sure tehre’s paperwork with it.”

“I don’t read that stuff. What is going on Merkur?”

“Nada. What can I do for you?”

“I’m just thinking about helping you out. I mean. You have this business, you have your relationship, maybe you want me to hang on to Akin for the week and you just have him on the weekends?”

“Why?”

“I’m just trying to help you out. I’m seeing some new attitude with him…”

“So you think weekend parenting is fair to him?”
“Yes.”

Koor exhaled. “Then send him to me five days, and you have him on the weekends.”

“I’m not paying no child support!”

“Been good talking to you, Renee. If you think his attitude is getting out of pocket, perhaps he needs to spend more time with his father, not less.”

She hung up on him, threatening to see him in court.

Fat chance, Koor thought. She didn’t show up last time.

He and Vira had a quiet night. He was holding her as they both drifted to sleep.

“Baby?”

“Yeah V?”

“You gonna be OK?”

Koor sighed and held his woman harder. “I don’t know, Baby. I don’t know.”