A SIMPLE TWIST (A Provocative Tale of Hate)
Photo courtesy of Zach Vessels, Unsplash. A SIMPLE TWIST OF HATE
By Stephen Shaiken ( c ) 2021
This is a work of fiction and creative imagination. Any similarity to actual people or events is purely coincidental.
Max walked down the empty street, heading home from the plant, focused on the cold beer awaiting him, when he noticed a man holding a clipboard heading towards him. The man stood out, as there was no one else on the street, and he wore a suit and tie, not common in this section of town. Strangers were noticed in this working-class neighborhood where everyone knew each other. Max was born and raised there and looked it, with his open army surplus jacket over a plaid flannel shirt, old jeans, and a well-worn baseball cap. An uncombed beard tumbled to the edge of his collar bone. A pony tail hung out the back of his cap, and like the beard, a blend of black, gray and white. When the stranger was within ten feet of the Max, he addressed him.
“Can I have a minute of your time?” he asked. He spoke slowly and softly.
Max found the man’s presence unusual. Strangers rarely trudged these streets, aside from election time, which was not until next year. Aside from politicians and detectives, not many men wearing suits came to visit. As Max neared the stranger, he saw he was in his late forties, around the same age as Max. Unlike Max, he was clean- shaven, with a haircut more expensive than Max could afford. Manicured nails graced the hand holding the clipboard.
Probably asking me to sign another petition to protect our gun rights, Max thought. Those folks do come around every once in a while, he recalled, but they dress like the rest of us. I’ll just tell him I’m an NRA Life Member and move on to my beer, he decided.
“I’m Tom Parsons,” the man said, extending a smooth, manicured hand. Max gripped it with his own, rough and calloused, and gave his name. Parsons’ handshake was weak, not firm like the men at the factory.
“I’m looking to recruit a few good men,” Parsons said, showing the clipboard, which held a paper with signature lines, few of which were filled in. “For the European-American Association,” he explained.
“Never heard of them,” Max replied.
“Not surprised to hear that,” Parsons said as his smile flashed a set of perfect gleaming white teeth. “Mainstream media’s doing all they can to keep good folks like you from hearing about us. That’s why I’m out here today. Just finished canvassing the next street over.”
“What’s this bunch all about?” Max asked, as much from curiosity as courtesy. It wasn’t often that he spoke to men in suits. He recalled being questioned by some lawyers about an accident at the plant, but that was a few years ago.
“Glad you asked,” Parsons replied. “I’ll send you some literature, if you’ll just write down your name and contact info. For now, let’s say we stand up for the rights of those of us who are of European stock. White people. Like you and me.”
“Someone trying to take away our guns?” Max asked. Don’t look like much chance of that happening. And I ain’t European. I’m American.”
“Guns are the least of our worries, my friend. We got all we need. It’s our heritage, our culture, and our souls they want to steal. And by the looks of you, my friend, no doubt you’re of good Northern European stock. What are you, English? Scots Irish? German?
“I was born right her, just like my Daddy and my Mommy,” Max replied. Grandparents all born here too.”
“Sounds like you’re just the kind of man we’re looking for,” Parsons said. “A good old- fashioned American, whose life and culture are under attack.”
“What are you talking about?” Max asked.
“You look just old enough to remember what America was like before they started letting in the world’s riffraff and garbage,” Parsons replied, anger creeping into his voice. “Now they’re trying to tear down everything we believe in. Every damn religion but ours gets respect, and every culture but white Europeans has special rights these days. Muslims and Mexicans waltz in like they own the place, killing white folks whenever they feel like it. You willing to fight for your rights, and your family and your culture?”
Max thought for a moment. He wasn’t sure where this man was going. He didn’t think men in suits talked this way.
“I fought in Iraq, 1991,” Max finally said. Did my four year enlistment then joined the union. Machinist. You been in the Service?”
“I don’t fight for Jews,” Parsons replied.
Max stared at Parsons. He didn’t understand what he was talking about.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” Max said. “I was in the U.S. Army.”
“You talking about the ZOG Army?” Parsons asked. Seeing the puzzled look on Max’s face he added “Zionist Occupied Government. I can send you some stuff that explains it all.”
“I really got to be going,” Max told him. This is too weird, he thought.
Parsons kept talking, rambling on about black helicopters, racial mixing, communists, Obama, and homosexuality. Max paid his words scant attention, more attracted to the music flowing through the open window of a second story apartment. It was a favorite song of his father, a Vietnam veteran who died of Agent Orange a decade before. An old Chuck Berry song that told the love story of a teenage Cajun couple who married and lived happily ever after. It was called “You Never Can Tell,” and Max’s father taught him to pronounce the Cajun-French saying “say-la-vee,” as his father learned from a Cajun GI he served with in Vietnam.
Max forgot about the strange man before him, and allowed the music to wrap itself around him, as thoughts of his late father drifted across his mind..
Parsons looked up at the open window from which the sounds emanated, and shouted, “Turn off that nigger music!” Parsons scowled and muttered something under his breath as the music kept playing until the song ended.
Parsons’ outburst outburst reminded Max of a guy named Campbell, who worked at the plant and a few years ago, and said some of the same things as Parsons. Campbell had a few friends, but most of the guys on the shift thought he was a jerk. “Even if you think that way, you don’t say it,” the shift supervisor had told Campbell on more than one occasion. One day, Campbell wasn’t working there anymore. This man was talking just like Campbell, with no inkling other might think it wrong.
“I don’t like to join anything,” Max said. “Good luck to you but I’ll be on my way.”
Parsons stood directly in front of Max and looked him in the eye. The friendliness was gone. The smile was gone from his face, and his blue eyes cast a chilling stare.
“Max, you don’t understand what I’m saying. Your people need you. Our race is under assault. Nigger music blasts onto the streets any time of day or night. Spics stream across the border to rape white women. Muslims and Asiatic hordes swarming our nation, trying to turn us into them. Max, one more generation and this nation will be a sewer like most other places on this planet. Total sewers, unfit for white people.”
“Spics?” Max asked, sounding as though he had never heard the word.
“Yeah, spics,” Parson replied. Those tortilla-eating bastards who fill up our jails and wreck our schools and hospitals. Almost as bad as the niggers. If a white man won’t stand up to them, who will? Just fill out your name and contact info, and you’ll be hearing from us.”
Max sighed as he motioned for Parsons to hand him the clipboard. A pen dangled on a string, tied to the top. The finely-tailored man smiled as he handed it to Max.
“Just write in you full name, address, phone and e mail, and we’ll be in touch. We’re having an informational meeting next week,” he said, giving the name of a nearby neighborhood where the event would be held. “Plenty of food, beer and white music for European-Americans,” he added.
Parson started to say something, when the clipboard hit him full force in the face. He was pushed back against the wall of the building they stood before. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth. “What the…” were the only words he was able to utter before Max shoved him face-first into the brick wall of the building. The blood in his mouth muffled his cries, and flowed onto his fancy shirt and suit. Max grabbed Parsons from behind, threw him to the ground, and dragged him ten feet to a nearby garbage can. Parson’s expensive suit was torn in several places. Max removed the lid of the garbage can, lifted Parsons from under the shoulders, and dropped him into the can. Parsons sank into the putrified garbage that filled half the can. Max placed the lid on top of the can and walked away quickly. He turned the corner at the end of the bloc and took his phone from his pocket. He dialed a number and spoke.
“Hola, Maria. Maximo. Estaré en casa dentro de quince minutos. Conocí a un amigo y habló durante unos minutos.” (Hello Maria, this is Maximo. I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. I met a friend and we spoke for a few minutes.)
“Tal vez tu puedes tener una tortilla listo para mí tener con mi cerveza,” he added as he laughed. (Maybe you can have a tortilla ready for me to have with my beer.)
As he walked on he could hear the faint sounds of music coming from the same window as before. It was the same Chuck Berry number about the Cajun couple. Max smiled as he continued walking home.
My Dad loved that song, he thought.
THE END
Where hate belongs. AUTHOR’S COMMENTS
I generally don’t go into great detail about my stories, other than to note when and why they were written, and what role, if any, a story played in my development as a fiction writer. In this case, I feel compelled to discuss the story- behind-the story in greater detail.
I wrote the first draft of “A Simple Twist” back in 2018, and ran it by KEYBANGERS BANGKOK, the writing group to which I am so deeply indebted for their guidance, support and friendship. At the time, I was outside of America, watching nightmares like Charlottesville and the increasing racist presence everywhere in the country. The piece needed more work, but I was deep into editing my first novel, Bangkok Shadows, and set it aside. (All writers know what the means.)
As racial and ethic tensions in America heightened, I thought about returning to the story, but I was then busy with my second novel, Bangkok Whispers, so rewriting was again passed over.
African-Americans were being unjustifiably killed by police throughout America, and those who protested this inequity were often assaulted and threatened by racists and police alike; urban racists made false police reports against Black men in highly publicized cases. Jews were murdered at prayer in Pittsburgh and outside San Diego. Latinos were targeted en masse at a Walmart, among other places. Now, violence against Asian-American has reached crisis level.
In the face of all this, I was naturally drawn back to this story. Being a Jewish family, my wife and grown daughters Asian-American as well, the issue is certainly personally relevant, as well as nationally important.
I believe my hesitancy in returning to “A Simple Twist” had to do with the violence at the ending. I may have subconsciously feared that the story might be mistaken as a call for violence against racists. Nothing could be further from my own views. Dr. Martin Luther King is one of my heroes, because he refused to meet violence and hatred with the same, and instead, relied upon non-violence, compassion, and love.
A fiction writer’s role, however, is not simply to declare their own views, be they social, political;, spiritual, or philosophical. Our job is to stir emotions, get people to think and feel in response to our creations. I hope I stirred more than a few thoughts and emotions with this story.
The “twist”, of course, is that Max is not the person Parsons believed him to be. Looks can be deceiving; as the saying goes, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” (Though authors know almost everyone does!). Max is not much different than urban working people of any background. He lives in a working class neighborhood where he grew up, works in a plant or factory, dresses the part, seems to have no issue with gun ownership, and essentially just wants to get home and enjoy a beer at end of a long day. Max seems like a level-headed, salt-of-the-earth American worker, the people who built this country and still make it great. (Max and his father both served in the military during time of war.)
So why the violent ending? Max didn’t just lose his temper and punch out Parsons; he beat the crap out of him, and humiliated him by dumping him into a garbage can. Is that consistent with the teachings of Dr. King?
Of course it isn’t. Then again, I write fiction, not stirring civil rights speeches or sermons. I am not trying to get people to take concrete action; I hope to get them to think about the subject of my stories. In “A Simple Twist,” a Latino man is confronted by a virulent racist organizer, who does nor realize Max is an ethnic minority. Max is a working man, not a scholar or a philosopher. He served his country, and his father died from his similar service. Yet Parsons does not consider them to be Americans, or even human beings. It is certainly not out of the question, not by any means, that such a confrontation might well lead to a sorry end for the racist. Perhaps the story goes a bit further than the punches that might be the limit in real life, but after all, this is fiction, and I’m trying to get a response.
Were I a high school English teacher assigning this story, I imagine the questions I would ask my students would be along these lines:
1.) Were Max’s actions justified under any view of the circumstances?
2.) Is it ever appropriate to meet hateful words with violence?
3.) Did Max’s response accomplish anything?
4.) What do you think Max should have done?
I am definitely not a high school English teacher, but I do have one question for my readers:
Whatever your feelings about violence, did you feel better when Max beat up Parsons? (Be honest, now!)
AND ABOVE ALL, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF “A SIMPLE TWIST.”
Sincerely,
Stephen Shaiken
