Literary Agent Orson: Back To The Plantation

“Beth, bring some Splenda with you,” Garth’s voice boomed throughout Ground. God, Orson thought. Randi, a N.O.W. member, and a writer for SHE-RANT! magazine sat across from Garth like a surly, ticking bomb.

“Go on,” she prompted, leaning forward on one elbow. Spiky hair pointed at him.

“This discussion’s giving me acid reflux,” Jeremy quailed. “Can we change the subject? I think I need a Xanax.” He searched through his man-bag. Beth sat back down with her Frapaccino, handed Garth the Splenda and smiled.

The line at ‘Live Free!’ The Abortion Boutique across the street was particularly long, Orson thought.

“Okay,” Randi nodded to Garth, “go on.”

“In ’64 your president Johnson--”

“He’s wasn’t my president! Nothing with a scrotum will ever rule me!” Randi said. Orson looked around.

“Johnson unleashed one of the most devastating social programs our country has ever seen. Its result was the destruction of the black family and re-enslavement of blacks.”

“Oh,” Jeremy moaned. He grabbed his bag, but Beth reached out to him.

“They prefer to be called African American,” Randi said with a scowl.

“Garth, you’re gonna have to clarify that. Slavery ended a hundred fifty years ago,” Orson said.

“In 1960 eighty percent of black homes had two parents. Today, nearly eighty percent are single parent. The Great Society program penalized marriage for welfare recipients, while rewarding additional childbirths. It was the perfect storm. It set the black father adrift, and sent the black woman back to the plantation.”

“Oh, God,” Jeremy blurted. He twisted his arm free from Beth, jumped and ran for the door leaving one flip flop behind in his mad dash.

“That’s stupid, Garth. Men are useless as a dick to a dyke,” Randi said. “And, my African American sister is the strongest person on this planet. She doesn’t need any Goddamned man. I’ll guarandamntee ya that. Father’s are over rated. Look at me, I didn’t have one and I turned out okay,” she stared round the table.

“It was a cynical act of patronage. For a paltry handout, generations of black families lived lives of crippling dependence and perpetual victim hood. All they had to do was vote a certain way.”

“That’s a damned lie! Those people don’t vote anyway.”

“You’re right, many don’t. It’s funny how your language reveals you,” Garth said to her. “The Democratic party needs--”

“You’re a smug, racist Nazi,” she yelled, slamming her hand on the table.

“The Democratic party needs seventy percent of all voting blacks to stay in power. It has served the party well to stoke black victim hood, and keep them dependent.”

“Bullshit! Besides, they already have the dyke, gay, anarchist, feminist, PETA, atheist, trial attorney, hooker, pimp, freak and biker votes. Who gives a shit about a few African American votes?” Randi said, sliding out of the booth.

“Really, Garth, you are pedantic. Why don’t we change the subject?” Orson suggested.

“Because the story’s not quite finished. In 1996 a Republican Congress enacted the Welfare to Work legislation, and a Democrat president signed it into law. A generation of black women realized the connection between effort and results. This realization is the basis of real self-esteem, and as a result many blacks left lives of poverty and dependence and entered the middle class. The government actually got it right and it’s received very little press.”

“Middle class!? Got it right!?” Randi screamed. “Oh my God, you really are a delusional suburban racist. Those people don’t want your bourgeoisie middle class. They love their ghettos. Leave them alone. Never mind. Stay out of it. Our new President will take care of them.” She stormed out.