Dirty Red Kiss has been reviewed by Boing Boing and An Obtrusive Reader:

“Five chapters into "Dirty Red Kiss," ... It's a damned fine read.”

https://boingboing.net/2001/12/13/ive-five-chapters-in.html

“Dirty Red Kiss's narrator opens a window through which we can see humanity.”

https://obtrusive.blogspot.com/2007/12/dirty-red-kiss.html

And has been excerpted in the literary publications Pie Zine, Tight Pants, Fiss Piss.

One

 

                                                                   One

 

    It goes like this.

    I’m white, but I live with the Brown people, and each morning everything changes when the

Black kids get on the bus.

    The ride starts out quiet enough. Just me and the Brown people sitting or standing. We look

out the windows and keep to ourselves. There’s conversation, but it’s in another language from

the one I speak. It’s kind of like easy listening music to me, there but not there.

    The scenery passes by, and we slip in and out of our thoughts until the Black kids get on.

    I know some of you will probably call me a dumb punk. I’m not. Have you ever read Dr.

Martin Luther King Jr? I have. That guy was so smart you can hardly follow what he is saying. A

great man. Rosa Parks? Courageous. I don’t have to list anymore. You get the idea.

Besides, we all have the same color blood.

    When the Black kids get on the bus all of a sudden me and the Brown people have to put all

our energy into pretending that we don’t witness their music, gestures, and loud conversation. I

know they didn’t want to be here. They were kidnapped and made to be slaves. It’s just that the

bus ride is kind of nice when it’s quiet. It’s almost like a dream.

    When I lived with other White people things were different. My life was linear, planned,

sensible. I had a home and a wife. Now I share an apartment and have an Ex.

 

                                                                        #

 

    During the past year I was fortunate enough to meet a mirror. Her name is E. I met her at a

dance club near the water on a Saturday night. My friend thought that this was an excellent place

for people to meet and he was right. The majority of the women were White although there were

some Black, Brown, and Yellow women as well. They all wore clothes that covered as little as

possible. I knew I was going to like the place.

    The majority of men were White too, but there were some Black, Brown, and Yellow ones

also. A lot of the guys seemed kind of sleazy. Some actually wore gold chains and had their

shirts unbuttoned revealing their majestic chest hair. In all fairness there were some women there

that were Bimbos. I guess it evened out. The funny thing is that the obvious match went

unanswered. The sleazy men should have been paired with the Bimbos. That would make the

most sense, but all the sleazy guys I saw were trying to get the nice women. My guess is that

they really wanted to fail. I think they feed on rejection. Either that or they’re just plain stupid.

    And for the Bimbos, well, they never go home alone.

    Once we got inside, me and my friend moved among the mass of flesh and discovered that

there were three areas: The DJ dance floor, the eating area, and the live band room. My friend

stayed in the room that had the live band playing oldies and top forty songs. It was bright and the

people danced kind of reserved. I left him and went to the DJ dance floor. It was darker and the

people danced however they pleased.

    I took a seat on one of the speakers and watched the crowd. I could actually feel the volume

of the bass and it seemed to me the flares of my trousers were flapping with every beat.

A slim attractive Brown woman in a skintight black dress motioned me to join her on the

floor so I did. She smiled and swayed. She couldn’t really move too much due to the fact that her

dress was so tight. After a while it was clear she was there with friends, and she nodded toward a

small pack of White women standing on the outer edge of the dance floor. She pointed to the

prettiest of them telling me to go ask her to dance. I walked over to the prettiest one, took her by

the hand and pulled her onto the floor. At first, she seemed stunned with my approach, but I said

her friend told me to bring her out and dance. She smiled and began dancing. She mostly moved

her shoulders and her feet a little and bobbed her head. After a few songs I thanked her and went

and sat back down on the speaker. I continued to watch her dance and noted the herky-jerky way

she moved. She had an angelic face and the most intense eyes.

    I started watching the other people and lost track of the prettiest one for a while until the

dream state I was in was broken by her grabbing my hand and dragging me onto the dance floor.

She held me very, very, close and it felt fantastic. After a few songs she pulled away and faded

into the crowd. I sat down again on the speaker. I was pleasure dizzy and could hardly think.

My head cleared enough for me to decide I should give her my telephone number. It was a

weird sensation. It was like the idea literally popped into my brain. I distinctly remember

physically feeling the thought arrive.

    I got a pen from the bar and wrote my number on a napkin.

I looked around for her. I didn’t see her, but I did see the brown woman who first motioned

me to dance. I asked her if she would give my number to her friend. She seemed perturbed at my

request and reluctantly agreed, folding the napkin and putting it in her purse. I thanked her and

found my friend in the live band room.

He was having a good time dancing with a White woman with yellow hair. My friend is

Black. I smiled and he waved.

    I got bored with the band and headed over to the DJ section and saw the prettiest one in the

eating section of the club sipping a drink.

    “I thought you left.” I said to her. She looked up only slightly and continued sipping her

drink.

    “Oh, hi.” She answered. I introduced myself and she told me her name.

    “You want to go outside and talk?” She asked.

    “Sure.”

    She walked away and I followed her through the eating section, through the DJ dance area,

out the entrance, and into the late-night air. She took out a clove cigarette from the little black

purse she was wearing and offered me one. I really have never liked clove cigarettes. When I

was a kid going to rock concerts it seemed like someone was always lighting one up in front of

me. They smell awful. They smell too sweet.

    She asked me where I lived, and I told her I lived in the city. I asked where she lived, and she

was vague saying she lived in the Bay Area. I said that was a big area to live in and she just

shrugged.

    Then she asked me what I did for a living. I told her and asked the same.

    “I’m a jewel thief. I steal jewelry.”

    She smiled and I knew she was playing with me. I smiled and took another drag from the

awful clove cigarette I was smoking. Her friend that I gave my phone number to was leaving the

club with a guy and she stopped long enough to retrieve the napkin and give it to E. I explained

that I gave that to her friend to give to her and she put it in her purse.

    She studied me and held my chin in her hand and moved my head for a left, and then a right

profile.

    “You have a strong face.”

    “Thanks.”

    We finished our cigarettes, and I followed her back inside. We hooked up with her friends in

a booth in the eating part of the club. The two girls we joined had a sleazy man on each side of

them whispering in their ears. After a while the sleazy men went away, and it was just me and

the girls. My friend and the yellow haired woman he was dancing with stopped by for a while

and then left. Eventually it was closing time and the girls offered to take me home.

    The girls and I waited outside while E got her coat. I listened to them chit-chat about who was

with who and who was only a player. E came out and took my chin in her hand again showing

her friends my strong face and then we moved on. As we were walking the girls were saying

how hungry they were and started naming restaurants we could go to in the early morning. We

passed a pizza place and there was a delivery guy standing in the doorway holding a pizza. E

said that she would love a pizza. I asked the guy how much and he told me. I bought the pizza

much to the delight of the girls. Each took a slice as I held the box open. E fed me since my

hands were full. She held the slice, and I would take a bite and keep walking.

    We got to the car and E demanded to drive. I rode shotgun and handed the remaining pizza to

the girls in back. We circled the block once to see who was leaving the club with who and then

headed down Mission Street toward where I live.

    I told E that what would really impress me was if she could drive the car with no hands

steering only with her knees. She demonstrated she could do this, so I added that she needed to

keep steering with her knees and act like she was taking a bong hit. She did that as well and I

told her I was impressed.

    The girls in the back began questioning me about what it was I did, and one asked me point

blank if I made a lot of money. My response was rather crass and defensive, but it ended their

questioning. E didn’t seem put off with my reply and pointed out a good-looking man in a car

that drove by. I said he was gay, and she argued with me.

    “Well, he must be bisexual then because I’ve slept with him.”

Of course I hadn’t, I just wanted to rattle her, and it worked. She seemed confused and the

girls in the back started laughing and would point out other men in cars asking if I slept with

them and I kept saying yes because it upset E. She had an angry expression on her face and

wouldn’t look at me.

    Right before we reached where I live, I took pity on her and assured her that I had not slept

with those men, and it seemed to ease her mood some. She was thinking awfully hard and had a

quiet confusion about her that went unnoticed by the girls in the back who were laughing about

something else by now.

    We got to my neighborhood, and I had her pull to my corner to let me out.

    “Call me.” I told her.

    She said she would and sped off up the street. I could see the girls in the back laughing. They

might have been laughing at me. I didn’t mind.

Two

 

                                                                            Two

 

    So, I live in El Barrio.

    The Brown people and me.

Actually, there are other White people. The Fringe Folks. The screwed, blued, and tattooed.

They dress strange and you wonder where the hell it is they work. In my old life I used to think I

was better off than these people. Not anymore. Now they are my peers. I run into them at the

laundromat next door or in the courtyard of my complex. They are okay, but one of the things I

can’t get used to is the trash that’s everywhere. I don’t understand why all the streets are littered

with every object imaginable: Used condoms, syringes, cereal boxes, newspapers. And dog crap.

I have to watch where I’m walking so I don’t step in dog crap. I do like my neighbors. It’s almost a sin

in their religion to get divorced. The roles are still very traditional. Dad works and Mom raises the kids

 and keeps house. I don’t get it when white people say they are taking our jobs. What jobs? Day labor?

 Bussing tables and washing dishes? Laying tar roofs?

     I know there are Brown people who own businesses and who are in politics and who are rich.

But not around me.

                                                                      #

     AMERIKKA!

     The above is written in mustard on the inside of a bus shelter and as I’m reading it a homeless

 man staggers by singing a Christmas carol. You would think if you wanted your message to last

you would write with something other than mustard. Oh well, I guess you use what you have.

     I’ve been doing a lot of walking the last year. Sometimes late at night I walk by the area near

my complex where the prostitutes are.

     The prostitutes near me are in pretty bad shape. They are older. They look like they’ve been

beat up many times. They look like the homeless women you see sometimes sitting on the

sidewalk with a dirty child and a sign in their laps.

     The prostitutes near me stand on the corner and sway and mumble to themselves. The tricks

they turn are usually in doorways or behind parked cars. Their pimps are young Brown men. You

can see them on the other side of the street with their hands deep in the pockets of their football

parkas.

     There is a place near this area that I think is a home for the prostitutes. Either that or a drug

 house. It’s basically a garage that’s been converted. I’ve seen people go up and knock on the

door. A woman’s voice answers, and the conversation is done through the mail slot. When I walk

by late at night it sounds like there are many people inside. There is always music playing so you

can’t really tell what is going on. The police must know about this place. My guess is that this

place is no big deal to them. Either that or somebody is paying somebody off.

     Not like that ever happens.

     The New Rich Kids are moving in, and I can’t figure out why.

     I personally know people who come from families with millions. I really do. And the weird

thing is they aren’t pretentious at all. When they are hanging out with the friends of friends I

know them through they adapt to their surroundings and will kick off their shoes and sit down on

the floor right next to the cat box. The problem with the New Rich Kids is that they don’t adapt.

They stand out. They drive around the neighborhood in their convertibles with the top down

talking on their cell phones oblivious to the fact that no one wants them here. I guess their

motive is to buy low and sell high.

     There is also a lot of building going on here. Live/Workspaces are all the rage. Old

warehouses are being converted for habitation. More cement. I would like to see someone build

another park around here because there is only one that I know of, and that park is totally lame.

     The park where I live is divided into sections. The outside perimeter where the cement pic-nic

tables and metal trash cans are is where the homeless people sit or camp out. There is an asphalt

trail that weaves its way through them where the dogwalkers from the nearby animal shelter do

their thing.

     I was in training to be a dogwalker, but it didn’t last long. The way of introducing volunteers

into their program was just like an animal behavior modification program. You had to keep

coming back every week for a short amount of time to learn more about the system. It was way

too controlling for me. I was able to interact with the dogs after my first session and could handle

even the wild ones on a leash.

     The facility itself is quite impressive, in fact it’s well known for the high quality of care the

animals receive. The dogs are kept in a neighboring kennel and get assigned a number that

equals the level of goodness or ease they have interacting with people. The lower the number the

more well behaved they are. If I was a dog there, I would be a six, somewhat in the middle, not

unruly, but not submissive either.

     The room’s where the animals are kept are nicer than some apartments I’ve been in. They

have furniture and TVs. The cat’s TVs show videos of birds and squirrels. The dog’s TVs show

videos of families and other dogs.

     On my last day there I was visiting with the dogs, going into their rooms and petting and

taking to them. There was a two-year-old Cocker Spaniel and we bonded instantly. It was true

love, and it broke my heart. I wanted to carry him to the front desk, fill out the papers, and take

him home. But I can’t have a dog where I live. So, I just spent as much time with him as I could.

When I had to go on my walk, I let him lick my face.

     About fifteen minutes later a very nice yellow woman adopted the Cocker Spaniel. I smiled at

the people I was working with and made small talk with them as we walked the dogs around the

 homeless people in the park. When my shift was over, I signed out, put my volunteer apron in

 the laundry basket and knew I would not be back.

     The main section of the park is a soccer field surrounded by a high chain link fence. The field

is torn and muddy. The Brown people play soccer there. It’s empty during the week except for

the occasional pick-up game with neighborhood folks wearing street clothes. On Saturday the

little league teams play there and on Sunday after church the men play. Some spectators stand

outside the fence drinking beer and listening to loud music from their car stereos. Sometimes

they set up a small grill in the parking lot and barbeque.

     You know what I’d like to see on that field? A soccer game with the homeless people. I’m

 sure I’d have to be the one to put the wheels in motion. I’d have to take the day off from work,

 but I think it would be worth it. I’d wear some sporty clothes, maybe even buy a whistle and

 wear it around my neck and approach each homeless person and convince them to play. We

 would push their shopping carts on to the field and put them along the sidelines so they could

 keep an eye on their stuff, and then divide into two teams. It might be too much for them to run

 the entire field. We could always play using half of the field. It would be fun for them. Exercise

 is always good. I know they get a lot of exercise with all the walking they do, but still, they

 might like the feeling of competition. It might be hard to console the losers. Hopefully there

 would be graceful winners. Afterwards I would go to the grocery store across the street and buy

 a gallon of orange juice and some paper cups while they cooled down. I would even buy some

 of the chocolate chip cookies they make in the bakery in the grocery store. I could give each of

 them a cookie and some orange juice. I could even have some certificates printed for them like

 the ones you get at work for doing something the boss wants to be recognized for recognizing

 you for. The only thing is they really wouldn’t have any use for a certificate if achievement. It’s

 not like they have anywhere they could display them.

Three

 

Three

 

     Sometimes I have to remind myself that I do actually live in one of the most beautiful cities in

 the country. My favorite places all involve the ocean. I like to go onto the piers and look at the

 water. The piers are for the ferries that bring people over to work. If I go out onto them a

 security guard will come and roust me. I always ignore the guards and wait until they are

 standing right next to me. Then I get up and go. Every once in a while, I’ll get lucky and be able

 to sit on the pier without being bothered. I’ll sit right on the edge and rise and fall with the

 waves, listening to the creaking of the planks and squawking of the gulls. I always imagine

 jumping into the bay.

     My most favorite spot in the city is Ocean Beach. I love the Pacific. My ex and I stayed in a

 motel right next to it when we first arrived. We saw two cranes at the beach on our first night

 here. I thought it was a good omen. It wasn’t.

     If I can I’ll take the Muni train to the ocean and walk by that motel. Next door there is a

 coffee shop that had an open mike night. Once this old bearded white guy drug in this huge

 amplifier and played a short Blues set with an electric guitar. I remember he did one original

 song about wine, wine, wine, pass down that bottle of wine. He was the best act that night.

 There was also a young white girl who played the guitar and sang. Her biggest supporter was

 her mom. All the other performers read poetry.

     I’ll walk past those places, across the Great Highway, down the sand dunes, and out to the

 ocean.

     One of the things I’ve come to notice about living in the city is that in public you are never

 alone. Not even at the beach. No matter what time of day or night I come out here there are

 always people around. And you can’t walk out into the water, bend over and cup your hands to

 catch the surf, let it go, and then bring your hands to your mouth to taste the sea salt without

 knowing someone can see you. But I do it anyway.

#

     It’s Sunday evening and the Brown children are playing in the courtyard. It’s basically a

 cement area where all the stairways lead and there are signs that say, “No Playing In Courtyard”

 and “No Jugar En La Yarda.” It drives my roommate crazy when the kids are out there, but I

 like it. It’s nice having children around. It makes the place feel homey. Right now, they are

 rollerblading and throwing water balloons. I had to step over the paper plates of food because

 they set them on the steps.

#

     I have very detailed fantasies.

     One of them has me in the subway waiting for the train. I’m standing at the edge of the

 platform right on the yellow plastic raised area they’ve put down as a safety zone, so you know

 when you are too close to the edge. I stand at the rear of the platform near the entrance of the

 tunnel and listen for the train. I hear it and step to the edge. I look straight down the tunnel and

 watch the light on the train. You can see the light from quite a way away. It looks like it’s not

 moving at all for what seems like a long time. I watch the light grow bigger and bigger and the

 wind from the train rustles my clothes and blows my hair. And just as the train is about to enter

 the station, I jump off the platform right onto the tracks.

#

     When I was in Junior High or High School, I can’t remember which, I was at this outdoor

 education center in a forest somewhere in the mountains. I don’t know why. Probably for some

 class I was taking so I wouldn’t have to take an academically challenging class even though I

 should have taken the academically challenging classes because all the girls I liked were the

 smart girls in those classes. They were the ones in the yearbook that were the presidents of all

 those student organizations.

     Anyway, I was in the mountains for some reason, and we had to persevere over the obstacles

 in the place. We climbed a wall by using only arm strength moving wooden pegs in and out of

 holes straining to get up and over the wall. We stood on a tree stump and fell backwards while

 our partner caught us. I remember they said the reason for this exercise was to build trust. And

 we walked along this rope that you would usually climb in PE class only this time it extended

 between two trees.

     We had to climb up a tree, step out onto a wooden plank, then make our way along this rope. I

 held out my arms and slowly inched across the rope while it jerked and swayed. The reason I’m

 mentioning this is because today is Monday. And I don’t know about most of you, but that is

 what Mondays are like for me.

Four

 

Four

 

     E called me. I was at work, and I checked my voicemail. She tried to sound nonchalant, But I

 could hear a definite nervousness in her voice. I was delighted and called her after ten o clock

 like she said to.

     We talked about this and that. She was being very coy and vague about the simplest questions

 like what she did for work. She agreed to go out but wanted me to write her first. She lives down

 the Peninsula about twenty miles south, just past the airport.

     I wrote her. I don’t remember what I put. I think it was simple things like my job, hobbies,

 everyday stuff. She wrote back that she was seeing a guy in Long Beach and detailed her many

 recent travels. I didn’t really mind that she was seeing someone else because I barely knew her.

 She also wrote that she was a Gemini. I’ve never put too much credibility in astrology because it

 seems so frivolous, but I did pick-up one of those two-inch horoscope books that they have at

 the grocery store checkouts for about a dollar and read up on her supposed characteristics. And

 the weird thing was it was she a classic example of her sign, almost like she had been studying

 for the role.

     I rented a car for our first date because I don’t have one anymore. For the first time in my life,

 I am without car. I really don’t feel like an American to tell you the truth. I keep waiting for

 some group of men to kick in my door early in the morning and drag me off for some kind of

 questioning. Thank God I have a television. If I do get hauled in, I think that will help.

     I arrived at E’s house and was greeted by a note in the door jamb that instructed me to have a

 seat on the front porch and wait. She was running a little late. The note was written on the back

 of a business card. The card noted a woman with the same last name as E and I assumed that it

 belonged to her mom.

     Eventually E made her grand entrance, swooping onto the porch and saying something like

 she hoped I hadn’t been waiting long. We looked each other over. It had been a while since we

 had last seen one another. We approved. She wore a pair of blue-jean overalls and a simple

 white T shirt, and it showed her figure in a nice way.

     I drove into the city, and we ate dinner at an Italian restaurant in North Beach. The waiter

 complimented me on my shirt prompting E to inquire how she looked to the waiter, to which he

 replied “Marvelous.” We ate and talked quite easily and then headed out of the city over the Bay

 Bridge towards Oakland.

     We were going to see a musical somewhere in the hills of the East Bay. The directions she

 had were somewhat vague and it was truly miraculous that we found the place. But, after

 playing our hunches, backtracking, stopping, getting directions, and making many illegal

 maneuvers, we reached our destination. It was an outdoor amphitheater. We parked among the

 trees in a lower lot and joined the others as they headed up towards the box office. The majority

 of the people going to see the show were old white people who you could tell did not live in the

 city because of their clothes. They weren’t sharp looking. They were comfortable and faded. I

 think I was actually the only person wearing black.

     E got our tickets from will call and we went in, passing a table with some items to be raffled,

 that for the life of me I can’t recall. I’m sure they were homey suburban things like all-natural

 whole grain pasta makers or non-fluorocarboned hand operated vegetable slicers. Very

 Californian.

     The refreshment stand seemed like it was made by someone in the stage crew. It was wooden

 and quite simple like the items it offered for sale: Lemon Aid, wine, jellybeans, and non-oiled

 and unsalted hot air popped popcorn.

     We watched the show and E told me a friend of hers was one of the dancers.

     After the show E wanted to go backstage and see her friend. We stepped over a sign on a

 chain that read “Backstage Do Not Enter” and followed the cement steps down. We found the

 Black actors mingling and laughing, looking joyous and exhausted from their performance. We

 sat on a sofa next to one of the actresses who played a bar person and I struck up a conversation

 with her regarding her elaborate costume jewelry. She had yet to change into her street clothes

 and still had on her costume and stage make up. I don’t know how many of you have ever talked

 to someone after they have performed on stage, but the makeup that they have to wear is applied

 quite heavily. I guess it’s because they have to look perfect to people from far away.

     The Black actress I was talking to gave me several items of her costume jewelry to try on

 which I did. E didn’t approve and made it known to me by that certain look. I just turned away

 from her and continued with my fashion show, thanking the Black actress before E and I got up

 off the sofa and searched the rest of the backstage area for her friend. We found him in front of

 the main office of the theatre. E’s friend was talking with the Black man who was the lead in the

 play and they both gave us a hug when we said hello.

     We all chatted for a while about how good the show was, and they told us the problems with

 the stage and the problems with the other performers and eventually we said goodbye and made

 our way back to the rental car among the trees. I was dragging by this time and sat on the hood

 of the car and smoked a cigarette while E touched up her face.

     On the way down the winding back roads of the Oakland hills E said that perhaps I should

 slow down so I took both my hands off the wheel and asked her if she would like to drive. She

 grabbed onto the steering wheel and guided the car around several turns while I kept my foot on

 the accelerator. We were a team.

     After about a quarter mile of driving like this E asked me to take the wheel again. I did and

 she didn’t complain about my driving the rest of the way.

     As we got into her neck of the woods, she said we should have a drink at a bar in her town. It

 was about eleven o’ clock on a Sunday night and the bar was actually the only place we could

 go because everything else was closed.

     We went in and took a table next to the dart board and tried throwing darts. I couldn’t

 remember how to score them. After a few tosses we sat, and she asked if I wanted to thumb

 wrestle. She said she had many brothers and that she was pretty good at it. I still beat her two

 out of three tries. After my second victory she gave a girlish shriek and slapped my hand

 flashing her intense eyes at me in a playfully submissive way. My heart dropped. I wanted to

 kiss her. I didn’t. We just looked at each other smiling.

     I got us each a beer and we ended up talking about this and that when all of a sudden, she got

 defensive and demanded I justify my position on why I thought it was a good idea to let the Red

 people build gambling casinos on their land. To tell you the truth I didn’t even know what it was

 we were talking about because all I was doing was stealing looks at her chest and losing myself

 in her intense green eyes. But she was adamant that I justify the statement I had apparently made

 about the Red people. I said from what I knew about the subject it seemed like they had little if

 no means of income on the reservations and that the casinos would at least give them some

 opportunity to earn a living, to which she replied, what about the mafia and it wasn’t right that

 the taxpayers should pay for it.

     As we were leaving, she told me how in high school her boyfriends would drive these sleepy

 streets blasting their stereos while she would drive these sleepy streets blasting their stereos

 while she would lounge in the passenger seat with her legs out the window.

     On the short drive to her house, I turned on the radio, turned up the volume, and E dangled

 her legs out the window swinging her bare feet to the beat.

     I killed the music and stopped in front of her house asking her for a kiss. She said not on a

 first date and put on her shoes saying to call her in a couple of days.

     Just like that she was gone, and I was miserable.

     Once I got home and, in my room, I realized I really, really, felt bad. I felt weak. I felt almost

 dope sick like I was going through some sort of withdrawal. I sat on my bed and anticipated my

 call to her in a couple of days. I could hardly wait. I needed my fix.