Why White Men Love Me: "The Saliva Incident" (episode 2)

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor
Please note that the white man in this photo is not the one involved in this incident

A couple of months ago, my colleagues and I went down to Atlanta to have dinner with one of our major clients: a loaded older white man who always likes to keep the party going. He’s one of those clients that has your boss freeing up the next morning’s schedule because you know that it’s gonna be a long night of kissing ass. Well, we all flew into Atlanta and met the client at one of the many fine dining establishments “the dirty dirty” has to offer. It was a typical business dinner. The client was already at the bar when we got there, sippin’ on his Jack, No Coke. Of course, after dinner he was ready to hit up the next stop—a sleazy, locals jazz club. So there we were, all lined up along yet another bar, damn near midnight still kissing ass hoping to get the nod for our next deal, when the client leaned over to whisper something in my ear but nothing came out. That’s when I felt it. I froze in a state of shock.

Was that what I thought it was?

Ew ew ew ew ew ew

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, oh my god

But the client was already up, shaking my boss’s hand, then my colleague’s, and out the door.

“Are you okay?” my colleague asked noticing the horrified look on my face.

“No I need a bottle of gin.” I replied.

As the bartender was pouring I was trying to recover.

“What’s wrong?”

“The client just LICKED MY EAR!”

“What?”

I took the Gin to the head using it more as an antiseptic. “How is it that we all come to ATL, the southern Bastian of Black Professionals, and I’m the one who ends up with an ear full of a White Man’s saliva?”

click here for: episode 1

Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com

Click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came to be

The First and Last Black Man at the Country Club

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

My darling grandparents (God rest their souls) decided after decades of fast and fabulous New York City living, that it was time for them to make that pilgrimage down south back to their roots for retirement. They settled on a good two acres of land that was footsteps away from a marina. My grandfather was an avid boats man and former member of the Jamaica Bay Yacht Club. It was perfect.

They moved in when I was about 5 years old. And every summer we would spend down there with them. My sister, brother, cousin and me building countless memories of an adventurous childhood in Little Washington, North Carolina. However when my grandparents learned that the country club across the street did not accept Black members, my grandmother insisted on having a pool put in the backyard so as not to "make her grandchildren feel slighted.”

Fast-forward a decade. Grandma has gone on to heaven and us grandchildren are now grand teenagers, too cool to spend our entire summer down in "North Cack", leaving my dear grandfather to socialize more with the neighbors. At a dinner party, a newcomer to the neighborhood casually asks my grandfather, "how come you're not a member of the country club, Charlie?” Crickets. Crickets and more crickets.

By the next week, everyone was up in arms with guilt and obligation and so my grandfather became the first Black member of the country club. I remember the first time going to the club’s restaurant for dinner (less than 10yrs ago) and the only other Black person was the bartender. And he was kind of cute.

A year or so later during a visit, my brother and cousin decided to get into some typical teenage mischief. They'd left the house in the morning and gone for hours. Dusk was near. The doorbell rang. Grandpa opened the door to my brother and cousin and the local sheriff. "Are these your grandsons?"
"Yes," Grandpa replied.
"We caught them driving along the main road in a golf cart they stole from the country club".

Damn.

I don't know why they thought it'd be a good idea to take a golf cart to the local gas station to pick up a pack of Newports and think their Black asses wouldn't get caught.

[Sigh] I think my grandfather might have been the last Black member that country club allowed in.

Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing tickles.tv@gmail.com

click here for: How The Urban Chameleon Came To Be

PLEASE NOMINATE US FOR ALL FOUR CATEGORIES BY JULY 25TH!!!

Did She Just Call Me A Nigger?

by today's Urban Chameleon contributor

It was a Friday night and my two friends and I decided to meet up after work at Rosa Mexicano in the city and catch up. I had gotten out a little earlier than usual and decided to do some shopping at Zara picking up a fabu raincoat and some new tops. When I got to dinner I of course had to put on a mini fashion show for my girls before we got into deep conversation mode. One of my friends just started a new job so she had lots to tell us about her new corporate life, and gave us a complete break down of everyone in her office. No matter how are conversations begin, it always some how transitions back to us reassessing our lives sometimes celebrating how far we’ve come and sometimes beating our selves up for not being further along. Tonight we were in celebration mode toasting to all of our good fortunes.

When it was time to leave, we walked over to Park Ave and 22nd to wait for two cabs. They were sharing a cab to go uptown and I was headed to Brooklyn. We managed to flag two cabs down, which pulled up back to back for us but when I quickly turned away to wave goodbye to my friends this white woman was headed into my cab. I said “Oh hell no I know she saw me.” So I quickly rushed passed her and said, “Excuse me miss this cab pulled over for me.” Next thing I know she shoves me inside the cab bumping my head against the opening of the door and then I really said “OH HELL NO” so I began to kick the shit out of her. She manages to catch my leg in mid third kick, which at that point we were just throwing blows at each other, her with one arm still around my right leg and the other arm bumping against my fists in the mix of all of my Zara shopping bags. Next thing I know the woman flies back on some Matrix reloaded tip landing on to the ground. My girls had come to my rescue, one had grabbed her shoulder the other pulled an old school move and had grabbed her by her ponytail. I closed the door to my cab and my friends, one in her bedazzled, jeweled flip flops and the other in her red leather mini skirt scooted back into their cab. The woman who was now completely flustered on the ground and still cabless yells out, “YOU NIGGERS!” as we drive away.

We immediately called each other from our cabs dying laughing at the irony of what just happened.

Did we really just get into a fight and have to jump this crazy woman on Park Avenue? I mean rightfully so, she was dead wrong. But damn I haven’t been in a fight since I was twelve and in the projects at that. I had to ask the cab driver if he did in fact pull over for me which he said he did and then asked if I was alright. I thought to myself was he just saying that because he was afraid I would call my girls back and jump him? Hahahahah. Oh lawdy a Friday night gone awry. I got to get to church this Sunday.


Have your Urban Chameleon story featured by e-mailing

-->tickles.tv@gmail.com
click here for: How the Urban Chameleon Came To Be