He smells like he hasn’t taken a shower for three weeks. He chucks more rubbish into the back of the garbage truck. He took a shower this morning, but hasn’t taken a college course in three years. The promise of going back for a degree, in whatever, is diminishing everyday. The $6.15 an hour for being a garbage man in New York City won’t pay tuition. He complains about the ridiculous price for education. But, it was free three years ago when his parents offered to pay for it all.
His name is Poindexter. Poindexter McKinley – Junior. Most of you know him. He wasn’t spoiled growing up; just fortunate. He hasn’t taken advantage of his opportunities though. In 2000, he attended NYU in Greenwich Village. Poindexter spent too much time quenching his thirst. He failed out. And to this day, four years later, he complains about the price of college.
“Hey, Dex. Let’s go get a Koolatta and some chocolate munchkins or something at ‘D&D’s,’” Mookie says.
“No. I have to save my money to get back into school. The price is rising with every breath. I might have to offer a college a leg or two just to get back in,” Poindexter says.
“Here you go again with that back to school crap. It’s like your one of those commercials saying, ‘It’s back to school time’…but for you it isn’t.”
“I’m going back, Mook.”
“Yeah, Dex. And I’m going back to Africa…Now pick up this garbage.”
It’s 8:23 a.m. Poindexter and Mookie continue their pickup route for Thursdays. Mookie isn’t like Poindexter as far as his up bringing. He grew up in Brooklyn with two older brothers and a younger sister. The father, Ronny, is nowhere to be seen. His mother, Alexis, had the oldest brother at fifteen and Mookie at twenty, the age Mookie is now. Being a single mother is difficult, but she makes it work. Food is on the table for her children. She waitresses the breakfast, lunch and dinner shifts at “Mo’s Diner” in Brooklyn, Heights. The kids are often on their own. The television and Brooklyn streets are their babysitter.
Poindexter grew up in Greenwich, CT with an older brother and sister. His father, Richard, is a lawyer who found time to coach little league and vacation with the fam. His mother, Nancy, is a housewife. Poindexter and Mookie’s similarities of apathy and complaining (or speaking their minds as they call it) brought them together. They live together in a two-bedroom apartment above “Toni’s Deli” in Brooklyn Heights. It is usually late, but the rent gets paid.
Or maybe they were brought together out of love for the garbage game.
“Wuu! That’s horrible. Something must be dead in there,” says Mookie. “Or was dead and then eaten…Speaking of food, when are we going to eat? Whether saving money for higher learning or not, you have to eat.”
“Dude. We just started work an hour ago. Let’s at least finish 14th Street. Alright.”
“Aight. Dude. You drive…and none of that punk music.”
“Ruby, ruby, ruby, ruby Soho.” Poindexter sings a little tune from punk band Rancid. Everyday they fight over who isn’t driving and what music is to be played. The driver picks the tunes. The cool garbage man is the one that hangs off the back of the truck. Today is Mookie’s turn to hang. He makes eye contact with the female passerby’s in Manhattan who are often in their successful women outfits – long black pinstriped slacks reaching their uncomfortable, yet more importantly fashionable, high heels. Mookie smiles at one who looks like a Sabrina. She forces a smile out of sympathy, but with a little sign of disgust from the thought of dating a trash man. Mookie often tells the girls, “Somebody’s gotta do it. You feel me?”
It’s 9:13 a.m. 14th Street is conquered for this week. Poindexter looks for a parking space, blasting “Ruby Soho” and bobbing his head to the rhythm. He finds a wide enough space to fit the dump on wheels. Parks and takes up 2 and 1/3 spaces – just enough to piss off some Manhattanite that is late for work looking for a space. Walk? Use Trains? It’s New York.
Lights are flashing. A man in blue is handcuffing a man that’s black. Mookie says, “Nothing ever changes. Would you look at that. Just leave the man alone. He’s just trying to do his thang.”
“Yeah, well maybe his thang is illegal. The policeman is just doing his job.” Poindexter says.
“This isn’t Connecticut anymore. You people don’t understand.”
Flashes of yellow zoom by. A Mercedes drives by playing “50 Cent” and Mookie “waves his hands in the air like he just doesn’t care”.
“Yeah. Mr. Mercedes doesn’t understand either,” Poindexter says.
“Oh. Ha. There you go again. Always hating on the black man because he’s driving a nice car.”
“No. That music is garbage. Maybe we should throw it away.”
Everyday they fight over what’s real music. If it is happening then it’s all real; however, the debate goes on. Poindexter hates rap music. He claims he can make better music, but the acoustic Santa gave him in 2001 is gathering dust clouds. He’s jammed a couple times pretending to be Jack White – not quite.
On the other hand, Mookie eats and sleeps hip-hop. As he says, “I have to. I’m from New York City.” So is Victor Tallarico (Steven Tyler – Aerosmith) who impacted rap music more than your cents guys. Mookie doesn’t listen to anything, but rap. He believes Snoop Dogg is just a straight up pimp. What’s that mean?
Poindexter says, “Let’s go eat.”
Mookie says, “Easy for you to say.”
Poindexter and Mookie go into Dunkin Donuts (D&D’s). “Oops, I did it again,” Britney Spears claims over the loud speaker. Mookie and Poindexter nod in agreement that her music just straight up sucks. Mookie orders an egg, sausage and cheese that Poindexter calls a “Shit Burger” because of its’ awful smell. He also orders a hot mocha café latte that tastes exactly like a coffee. It’s got a delicious sounding name, you must purchase. Poindexter orders a chocolate glazed donut with the rainbow colored sprinkles on it. Mookie makes fun of him saying, “Your taking your gay toleration rhetoric a little too far with that.”
Poindexter doesn’t care for the comment. They’ve had this conversation before. Poindexter explains that it’s not like he walks around freedom fighting for homosexuals. He just thinks they should be treated equally...but will make fun of them. On the other hand, Mookie turns it into a joke reciting Dave Chapelle, “Gay sex…I’m sorry…I just find it gross.” And then he becomes serious and brings religion into the equation while wearing a gold Jesus cross. “Marriage is between a man and a women. You know. It’s not Adam and Steve. Eve and Eve wouldn’t be bad though. YouknowwhatI’msaying?”
“Dude, you didn’t get the memo. The Union won. Stop reciting George Bush. You don’t have to vote for the oppressor anymore,” Poindexter somewhat jokes.
“Eh. I don’t vote.
“You should.”
“You didn’t vote in 2000.”
Bullshit music continues playing. The two know-it-all garbagemen keep complaining. They finish eating breakfast ~ 15th Street clean-up time. Poindexter pulls the door – it says, “Push”. Mookie acts like he’s never mistaken the push-pull sign (as if anyone reads a door before entering/exiting; “as if”).
“We’ll stop at Mo’s for a late lunch. Mom will hook us up with some finger-n-fries,” Mookie says. Every Thursday, late afternoon, after their shift is over, they eat at “Mo’s Diner”.
It is summer of 1989. Mookie is five. His ass sticks to a stool in “Mo’s Diner”. In front of him is a toaster. He sees his reflection, sticks his tongue out, and makes fish-faces. And then plays with the alligator on his shirt. His mother is taking care of customers, in the corner booth, who are complaining about the broken ceiling fan. Sweating while eating is not what they ordered.
“What’s the matter momma?” Mookie asks.
“What happened here?” The alligator chills on the stool next to Mookie. His mother is ready to scold. She used her money to give her kids nice clothes. Mookie makes another fish-face, slaps his cheeks, and chocolate milk flies out. His mother laughs, wipes up the milk, puts the towel over Mookie’s head.
“I’ll have the supper-egg platter and coffee, little cream, no sugar,” says Mrs. Dawson who’s reading the front page of the New York Times. The Wall is Falling. Pete Rose Banned from Baseball.
“Enjoying your summer vacation Mrs. Dawson?” Mookie’s mother asks.” The spoon dings against the coffee cup.
“Yes, enjoying life.”
“Oh how I would love to be a teacher.”
It’s 5:33 p.m.
“Hi Miss Mookie. How ya doing?”
“Just fine Poindexter. Just fine…How’s the workday going, you two?”
The garbagemen slide into a booth, making a farting noise; Mookie says, “Excuse me”. Poindexter prefers the booth. Mookie prefers the stools. Next Thursday they will stool. Neither of them answer Mookie’s mother’s question. It is obvious that the workday is going, but how well could it be going? They pick up other people’s garbage all day. They will go home later and ignore their trash. Their apartment is a pigsty.
“So Poindexter, are you still saving up to go back to school?” Mookie’s mother asks.
“Ma, Dex ain’t going nowhere, except insane, with that back to school crap.”
“Mookie, that is enough. If he wants to go back, he is more than capable of doing so. Instead, you should concentrate on your own plans. What are they again my son?”
Mookie ignores another mother question, sips his chocolate milk, swishing it in his mouth. The coldness is refreshing; the absence of plans, not so much. Poindexter sips iced tea, crunching ice with his teeth. The fingers-n-fries are on the way for both to enjoy another free meal that Mookie’s mother provides. The table between the booth is too close to Poindexter. He wonders if he is getting fat or if it’s poor booth construction. He pushes the table, giving himself more breathing room. Mookie gives him a “yeah right look” and pushes the table back. They play this game while waiting for their food.
“Yes, Miss Mookie. I’m trying to save up. Mookie’s encouragement is motivational.”
Mookie’s mother nods. She is on her break. She spends it reading Methods by Barbara Weston.
It’s Thursday again. Bumper stickers stuck on automobiles, reading, “Kerry-Edwards 2004” resemble signs of losers. Bush won reelection on Tuesday. That taxi about to pass Mookie and Poindexter’s garbage truck on 14th Street has one of these stickers. The cab driver, Raheem, is listening to Al Franken on “Air America” and complaining to passengers about election fraud – “Ohio was this years Florida. I’m telling ya, I got plans to get out the cab business someday soon and run for office. I can see the stickers now – “Raheem-Sharpton 2008”. The passenger is on his cell-phone; not hearing a word Raheem speaks. Raheem continues, “Of course, I’m not a native of US of A, so I can’t run. However, my friend, I’m no more of a foreigner than Georgie Boy. He’s gotsta be from Mars…maybe that’s why the government went to Mars during a war…at least I’m from this planet…have a nice day mister.” “Ah…what…yeah…you too.”
The mister gets out of the cab. His relationship with Raheem was short lived. Mookie and Poindexter exit D&D’s. Raheem skids off, making a screeching noise with the tires, one of which runs over a puddle from the rain earlier. It makes a splash, hitting Poindexter in the face. Mookie laughs – not slapping his knee because nobody really does that. One minute and fifty-nine seconds pass and a biker runs over the same puddle, splashes, hitting Mookie in the face. Thursday’s route couldn’t have started better.
“Yo, Dex. Mom ain’t working the diner today. We gotta get lunch some other place.” “Toni’s.”
Toni and Mookie mock Poindexter about using Connecticut lingo for heroes every time he walks in the place. They approach the entrance that is below the store sign, reading, “Deli”. It use to read “Toni’s Deli”, but started fading in ’89 and in ’99 the fade reached completion. Old New Yorkers will tell you its still Toni’s, but to newcomers “Deli” is good enough; they just want a sandwich and Toni will still make it for them. The bells clang against the door. Asians are slanging fruit at a corner stand across the street.
“Poindexter, can I get you a grinder,” Toni asks.
“What’s a grinder anyways?” Mookie asks.
“It’s a sandwich, stupid. At least we don’t call cold cuts our heroes,” Poindexter says. “I’ll have a ham-n-cheese GRINDER, with oil-n-vinegar.”
“What kind of bread?”
“White.”
“You certainly are,” Mookie says.
“Cheese?”
“American.”
“Uncle Johnny just slipped out the door fellas,” Toni says. Uncle Johnny is their landlord. They call him Uncle Johnny because his name is Johnny and everyday that they confront, he tells them how lucky they have it, how hard he and his bros had it, and adds his Al Bundy success story, except in b-ball, at the end of every lecture.
“Late, late, late, again. You boys never learn. I should have kicked you out months ago. I want that rent next Thursday…and look at this place.” Beer cans are scattered, ripped posters of Jenna Jamison and other blondes whose names aren’t the focal point are on the walls, pizza boxes with uneaten pieces and eaten crust are on the coffee table, mixed with tobacco shavings.
“…it smells like skunk in here.”
“Sir, Poindexter’s personal hygiene is his business,” Mookie says.
“Always the quick mouth. Didn’t your mother teach you manners?”
“Not a single one…sir.”
“Wise-ass”
“Intelligent-ass”
“Yeah, no, garbageman…you know you could learn a lot from that mother of yours…a hard worker. If you two worked half as hard as she, you’d make something of your lives.”
“She works at a diner.”
“She provides for her family. Unappreciated apparently…did I ever tell you about when I was your age…”
Poindexter never speaks during these confrontations, usually lost in the dream of having his college years back. He knows Uncle Johnny is right. So he keeps his mouth shut. And that’s about all he does. He makes himself promises about saving money to go back to school, but after a week of garbage picking, the money is in the richer man’s pocket; Smirnoff and Marley’s medicine down his throat.
“Fuck that guy,” Mookie says while double fisting a hero, washing it down with chocolate milk.
“Yeah, fuck ‘em. That’s what I said when I was your age,” Toni says. “He’d always come around here, telling me to sell the deli and go into the real estate business with him. Kept telling me we could be millionaires. But me, I’m satisfied with eating…but then again, if I could do it over, I might reconsider the old hogs idea. Smart guy, that man. Just never applied himself. Needed me or his bros to do it for ‘em…means well, just misses his youth so he takes it out you yuts…”
Thursday’s route completed. The hoagies, the grinders, the heroes, the subs, the rolls with some stuff in-between ‘em, whatever you call them, they are completed too. Mookie and Poindexter’s lives just began.
The beer cans were cleaned up last night. There will be more to clean up after tonight. Cleaning them up is an option they will opt out of. Nevertheless, alchy is being drunk, a little Guinness, some Sams, Jack shows up and some Bud enjoyed between two buds. And when alchy is drunk, ideas start flowing. Like ideas of taking that root beer on top of the TV, it has some left in it, put it in the shot glass, and add it to a Bud. Wow. That tastes good. Let’s get a patent and call it “Root Beer Squared”. Or another good idea is let’s start writing comedy when we’re drunk like those donkeys on the MTV show “Jackass”, except we’re funnier…the ideas keep coming while they drink and watch TV…the ideas are forgotten tomorrow, just like saving up for school.
They are in their usually spots – Mookie in the recliner, next to the window that acts like a constant fan, a piece is shattered, which causes a constant debate with Uncle Johnny over whether it was broken before Mookie and Poindexter’s arrival. Poindexter’s on the sofa, brewsky is in the right hand, his left hand acts like a jock strap. The game is on; no need for specifics because it’s THE game and you’re supposed to know which game that refers to. And the mute button is on, Ben Harper and the Blind Boys of Alabama is the music of choice for now. Poindexter is trying to convince Mookie that Harper and boyz are worth seeing this weekend in the village.
“Nah man, I gotta find some ladies.”
“They’ll be there. Females love the acoustic. Plus, Harper is a good songwriter, talks about love and stuff. Except when he writes love songs, he might actually be in love, and the female listening on that particular night is the one he’s talking to. Or that’s what she believes.”
Poindexter first started listening to Ben Harper two years ago. He wasn’t watching TV because TV is anti-good music. He was walking through Grand Central to take the Shuttle to Times Square, then the 2-train back to Brooklyn Heights. He’s seen more entertainment in G.C. than on that MTV channel the kids like; claims he’s never really seen music television – watching music is an odd concept anyways.
There was the bum with his cup of change, and guitar strapped around his neck, that after playing for nobody in particular was on the subway where nobody would sit next to him. He fell on his face against the cold, dirty floor for five minutes, then a woman got worried about him missing his stop – his stop was in ’73 when he stopped caring, lady. Poindexter wondered why he’d never seen a woman bum. There was the woman that pounded drums next to the shoe buffers. She looked somewhat poor, but maybe she was just keeping it real like her male guitarist who had dreadlocks and a tie-dyed shirt that quoted Bob Marley – “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery none but ourselves can free our minds.” The melody sounded similar to Mr. Marley so Poindexter joined the crowd that appreciates Marley’s love for ganja more than his music. They bobbed their heads. White guys tried very hard. Poindexter held his own. The song concluded and the male said, “That is a little Ben Harper for you all. His song ‘Burn One Down’.”
Poindexter play’s “Burn One Down”, the first song he heard by Ben Harper, splits a Dutch, not hearing what Mookie tells him.
“What, you don’t like that song?” Poindexter asks.
“Ya, good song. Not the point. You claim to be saving for school and every weekend you spend money on that crap,” Mookie says.
“What your mom tell ya about minding your own business?”
“Might be true, but I’m still right. You have no idea how lucky you had it. And still have it. And this isn’t Uncle Johnny yapping. It’s me. Your best friend!” They have fought before, but this might be the knockout punch. Their black cat, Charlie, was minding its own business, licking itself with its sandpaper tongue. But then runs into Mookie’s bedroom, scarred from the yelling.
“All I know is you sit around here complaining all day about that arrogant athlete, or that musician, and yell at Fox about their politics, and the only thing you’ve done to participate in this society, is vote in the last election. And your guy lost so you’re back to your old ways!” Mookie says.
Poindexter’s face is red, his head slightly down and is surfing the channels as if he were searching for a comeback. Every other fight they have had, about the same thing, Poindexter would comeback by criticizing Mookie’s life. This time Poindexter realizes that that is exactly what Mookie is talking about, and so are Uncle Johnny and Toni and Miss Mookie. They’re talking to both garbagemen.
Uncle Johnny appears to be a bitter old man; rightfully so. He spends all day yelling at kids.
“Why you kids hanging around the corner? Why aren’t you in school?”
“It’s summer sir.”
“Doesn’t mean school stops.” His tone makes it seem like yelling, but like Toni said, he means well. At 72, he has lots of knowledge, but nobody to share it with. Toni appears to have all the answers, but is just as lost as everyone else. He sparks conversation with people eating his sandwiches, solving many of their problems. And maybe that is his calling; helping other people. But he can’t help thinking what his life would have been if his father didn’t die of cancer and if he didn’t have to drop out of college to run the deli. The way he sees it, he’s just like Mookie and Poindexter, except he has an excuse for not living the life he wants.
And then there’s Miss Mookie who has done nothing but work hard, provide for her children, no excuses made. She appears to be a waitress – because that’s the uniform she wears, but she is so much more. Maybe someday Mookie will realize this. The waitress uniform doesn’t shout dignity like, say, a garbageman’s uniform, but if eyes were to see what she’s accomplished, they couldn’t help but be impressed. She finishes the last page of Barbara Weston’s “Methods – Teaching Our Children Correctly.” She will graduate college with a teaching degree. She plans to teach kindergarten.
It is 2008, and Thursday again. Yes, in 2008, there is still Thursday. Although Bush tried to get rid of that happy day, it remains. The Democratic nominee, Barack Obama (Iraq Osama?), appears to be the next chosen one by God. Republican nominee, John Kerry, not so much. We will only find out for sure on Tuesday. Poindexter AND Mookie will be rocking the vote.
It is 9:33 a.m. The Dunkin Donuts on 14th Street remains. It use to be next to “And Rack ‘Em”, a pool hall where Mookie hustled an Italian smuck named Tony who kept reciting Scarface.
.
“The dude is Cuban…the dude is Cuban,” Mookie said. “I bet you my pool stick up your ass that Montana was Cuban…and fuck what MTV Cribs say – you don’t have to have Scarface in your movie collection to be a big dog.” But Mookie took the better bet - $250 bucks from Mista Mafia.
They’re sitting in D&Ds recalling that night. Mookie’s eating his “Shit Burger”, drinking chocolate milk. Poindexter’s eating a Toni-made grinder.
“Man I wish that place was still around. Who needs another Chinese restaurant in Manhattan?” Mookie says.
“THEEEE Chinese,” Poindexter says.
Some time passes, as it usual does. Mookie asks, “Hey, you ever think about where they get all that white rice from?”
“Hardy har har.”
“Ok, don’t ever say that again…but I’m being serious. Where?”
“Google it.” Their rent has been consistently paid the last few years. They can afford luxuries like the Internet. Bush’s policy of creating Internets didn’t work out. The extra hours Poindexter works at “Toni’s” is paying off. Jenna still hangs in the living room. The window is fixed. Poindexter had butter fingers when Mookie tossed the pigskin. They continue talking about old times like when they considered opening up their own Chinese restaurant – “McKinley-Johnson Chinese Shack”.
“Do you think our customers would of gotten mad that we didn’t have any white rice?” Mookie asks. Poindexter isn’t listening. He’s thinking about next week.
“Next week. Big week,” Poindexter says.
“Oh yeah. THE election,” Mookie says.
“No, well, yeah, but something else – ya momma.” “Yours!”
“No. Your mom graduates.”
“Yeah, that’s something.”
“Well, everything is something. Even nothing is something – it’s a word. Ya mom is more than something though…she gives hope to all us white kids who took college for granted…she’s an inspiration.”
Shivers run through Mookie’s body. He smiles proudly. For the first time he realizes who his mother is. “If this Obama guy can be elected president, you just might get back to college someday.” The chocolate milk is more refreshing.
