The Pseudo-Chronicles of Mark Huntley

Good News - 9/30/04

Thursday, September 30, 2004

I did something stupid today. I think I almost got myself killed.

And even worse, I know a few things now that I wish I didn’t.

The trouble started at the Lucky Bar. Even been there, Reader? Next time you parade through our nation’s capital, you should take the time to check out Dupont’s proudest dive. All the Yuengling you could ever wish to drink, and the bartender kind of looks like an old pirate lady. And this just a fifteen-minute walk from the White House.

A few of the Divide ad office folks headed out there at 5 to celebrate somebody’s birthday, and invited Dale and me along. Well, they invited Dale, who invited me. And I said okay.

Why? I think I’d gotten too wrapped up in my thoughts about auras and chakras and all that other shit. Just this morning, on my way to work, I’d seen another aura person: a silvery one. A Hispanic girl, late teens, in a fedora (how about that, an aura and fedora, my kind of woman). Our eyes had actually met, for a second, and I thought I heard the sound of a parakeet screeching, of all things, before I turned away in a hurry.

And so now I welcomed the chance to hang out with second-degree buddies and just talk about… nothing of consequence.

Some time later, after a few too many beers and a few too many times watching Dale try to start up a fruitful conversation with the redheaded ad rep with the nice smile and those long, coltish legs (Katie? Katrina?), I swung back toward wanting to talk about consequential things. And Dale was the nearest, most sufficient target.

So as Katie or Katrina giggled and then pointedly turned toward Leanna and Monique to strike up a conversation about soccer, I leaned in closer to Dale and said, “You ever see things you can’t explain?”

He scratched at his stubbly face and chuckled. “Yeah. Right now I’m seein’ two Mark Huntleys right next to each other. And both’re talking to me at once!”

Not a great start. But, not being sober either, I was ready to push forward.

“Okay,” I said. “You’re a fact-based kind of guy. You don’t believe in Jeebus or any of that stuff. What if—assuming you were pretty confident in your own sanity—and your own physical health—you started to see a, a cloud of color around certain people? What do you think it would mean, on an objective basis?”

Dale’s face grew more serious. He put down his beer, rested his hand on his belly, and said, “Color.”

“Yeah. Like… purple. Or silver.”

“Well.” For the next moment the whole bar seemed to grow quieter—the chatter of the Divide girls, the boasts and loud laughter from the soccer fans—as I waited for Dale’s answer. He stared at the dirty floor, then met my eyes and said, “Mark, when you look at me, what do you see?”

“I don’t… see anything,” I said.

“Naw,” Dale said. “You look at me and you see a black dude, don’t you?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Dale sat up and said, in a tone I now knew to be mocking me, “See, we’ve all got to make a conscious effort to recognize our racial biases. To reach out, y’know? This isn’t about purple and silver, Mark. This is about black and white.” A pretty young Asian girl in tight jeans walked by, and Dale’s head followed her. “And yellow… and brown…”

He couldn’t help it any longer—he burst into laughter. “Sorry, man, just fucking with ya.”

Right. I should have predicted this.