Date: Sun, 16 May 2004 08:34:57 -0700 (PDT)
From: Robin Reed <any_mouse2003@yahoo.com>
Subject: Cafe au Lait: Alexander the Great

Copyright 2002 by any_mouse2003.

All rights reserved. If graphic depictions of sexual
acts between consenting adults is illegal in your
jurisdiction, or if you are under the age of 18,
please stop reading now.

This is a work of fiction and in no way draws on the
lives of any specific person or persons. Any
similarity to actual persons or events is entirely
coincidental. This work is  copyrighted by the author
and may not be reproduced in any form without the
specific written permission of the author. It is
assigned to the Nifty Archives under the terms of
their submission agreement but it may not be copied or
archived on any other site without the written
permission of the author.

PLEASE: In a perfect world AIDS doesn't exist. My
characters didn't live in our world, but they do now.
Deal with the issue of unprotected sex, and use proper
precautions.

Alexander the Great

The Negro my boss had warned me about arrived just
before lunch.

I don't know what I had been expecting. He had been so
concerned about the racial thing, I thought it might
be some dark skinned H. Rap Brown thug. I knew that
wasn't true. I had been working with the black guys on
the loading dock and in the parking shack since I was
fifteen and could get my papers.

I knew they were just people, and when the summer came
with all the riots I gained a deep respect for what
they had to deal with that I had no comprehension
about. So even if this person was a tough guy I was
confident I could get along with him.

I was selling a pair of jeans to a woman who had a
disinterested pimply kid in tow when I heard my name
being called. I completed the transaction, closed the
register, and slid the pants into a sack with the
Department Store logo on it and turned around.

My nerd manager had a tall young man with him. I took
an involuntary breath. His skin had the rich color of
caramel, just lighter than a the sweet rich cup of
coffee au lait with which I started my mornings. His
hair was a sort of light brunette in a million tight
curls, cut close on the sides and rising a little on
top. Style.

His eyes were the strangest shade of hazel and his
aristocratic nose had just a hint of African flare. I
was stunned. This was no Negro. This young man looked
like the pictures of Malcom X when he was still
Detroit Red.

"Bob," I want you to meet Alexander. He will be
joining the staff here today and I want you to show
him the ropes. How to open up and close out."

"I'd be happy to" I said, hoping I didn't look too
startled. "Nice to meet you, Alex."

He smiled and I saw radiant white teeth behind his
lips that were not much fuller than mine. Just rich
and sensuous.

"I prefer Alexander" he said softly "But just don't
call me late for dinner." He finished the joke with a
smile and I grinned right back.

"Alexander it is" I said. "Sorry."

The manager looked at us and pursed his lips. "I'll
handle the register here. Why don't you show him the
break room and where he can get some lunch if he is
hungry. We have a half hour for lunch here, no more,
and two fifteen minute breaks."

"We are very organized here" I said. "We run a tight
department."

The manager knew I was ribbing him but he let it go.
He was such a wimp. "Come on, Alexander. Let me show
you the ropes." He smiled and we walked off past the
display counters and the suit racks. I pointed to the
door between the slacks and sports coats. "Back there
are the dressing rooms. We are supposed to keep an eye
on them to make sure no one is doing any shoplifting
or tag-changing."

"Do you have much of that here?" asked Alexander in
that soft voice. His inflection rose on the word
"that."

"Nah," I said. "Mostly we have hard-working blockhead
Dutch in here. It is a boring clientele." I paused.
"I'm sorry, are you from around here? I didn't mean
anything by that."

"Goodness, no," he said firmly. "I am from Chicago.
They sent me here for the summer."

"Who did? The family?"

"Yeah," he responded with a sigh. "There were some
issues. We have kin here. I'll tell you about it
sometime, if you are interested."

I found that interesting. I wondered if he had to cool
off from something. But that could come in time. "Let
me show you the break room. It has the only Coke
machine on this side of the Mall." We took the
escalator down to the basement where we sold tools and
patio crap. I don't know why the heavy stuff was in
the basement, but I just work there.

We looked at the Coke machine and the ultra-modern
industrial microwave. "That thing will cook a hot dog
in about three seconds," I said. "And sometimes the
machine actually gets the ice right in the cup, unless
it turns it over and spills everything."

He laughed, a melodious sound like water flowing over
smooth stones.

"I've seen worse," he said, eyes twinkling. "Now why
don't you show me how to work."

We went back upstairs and relieved the Nerd at the
register. I showed him the buttons to mash for "no
sale" and how to do the credit vouchers and how to
place the card just so on the register plate so when
you pressed the handle the name and account number
came through on the carbon. I showed him the tally
sheet we each had to fill out for all the sales we
did, and how we would close it out at the end of the
day.

Since it was slow, we chatted through the afternoon. I
found out he was recently graduated, too. He was
headed for college, though his family wanted him to
attend a historically black school in Washington DC
rather than the University of Illinois.

"Why is that?" I asked. I was headed there myself. I
looked forward to the challenge of the big campus and
all the activity.

"They want me to be Black for a while, so that I don't
forget."

That stopped me dead. I didn't know what to say, and
preferred to say nothing rather than something that
might be inadvertently offensive. Thankfully a
44-short suit customer showed up and I taught
Alexander how to mark up the cut job instructions for
the tailor. That is the only part of the job that is
complicated. People come in such a variety of sizes.

Selling a suit is a big deal, with a lot of interplay
with the customer. I rang up the sale and then
measured the stocky mans coat, marking with chalk the
hump where the jacket had to be taken in at the
collar, and the rise and inseam on the trousers. I
always feel a little funny about that, particularly
when the guy is such a toad. Alexander seemed to think
it was amusing and grinned when I had completed the
process, filled out the tag and instructions, and
thanked the man for his business.

The chunky man ambled away and I turned and said
"What's so funny?"

"You are, Bob. I don't think you liked that man, and I
think you are afraid that I don't know I am a Negro."

"Shit, no, I didn't like him. He was a toad. But about
the other part, I don't want to hurt your feelings by
saying something stupid."

"Like whether I can get a sunburn?" He paused and
smiled. "I can, you know. And that is because white
men have been fucking the women in my family for two
years."

I must have blushed. "It's O.K.," he said. "I didn't
say you fucked them."

"This is complicated" I stammered.

"Yes, it is." he said gently. "For white people it is.
But relax. Don't for an instant think that we do not
know what is going on around us. When you are as light
as my family is, you get it from both sides. Not
white, and not black enough to be authentic. In New
Orleans, we were aristocracy. Up North we are just
colored folks that look too white."

"Is that what happened to get you exiled here for the
summer?"

"Something like that. Sometimes you get the double
whammy."

I didn't know what he meant by that, but he touched me
on the upper arm as I looked up to see a family
looking at the shirt counter. "Gotta go sell," I said.
"Maybe we can catch a smoke in a while."

"I'd like that," he said.

I was glad it was busy. Alexander made his first sale,
and I admired the elegance of the way he bagged the
shirts, the little flourish as he handed it over as
though it were a prize of great price and not just a
couple Arrow shirts. The late afternoon traffic stayed
pretty brisk and it was coming up on dinner when the
Nerd told me he would keep Alexander and show him how
to close out, since he came in late and I had opened
up. "OK," I said, though I wouldn't have minded
staying.

The Nerd said he would be writing a new work schedule
to accommodate Alexander's arrival and I said
goodnight to the Nerd and told Alexander that I looked
forward to working with him.

He extended his hand and I noticed for the first time
how slender and graceful his fingers were. I did not
clasp his palm in the death grip I usually use. His
touch was firm and his flesh supple and warm.
I walked out into the still-bright sun and found the
car.

The vinyl seats were hotter than shit, and I roared
home with the windows down, wishing the little car has
air conditioning. I took a swim and found a place in
the field out in back of the house to go drink a
couple semi-cold Pabst Blue Ribbons. I was daydreaming
out there as the shadows grew longer and night fell.

I was day-dreaming about Alexander's fingers. I
wondered if it were true, about the relationship
between fingers and cock. And if all the Caucasian
blood had any effect on how big it was.

Shoot, I thought. I wonder if I am a fucking homo?

When I lay in my bed later, I got rock hard and images
of him flashed through my mind as I grunted and rubbed
my throbbing dick. When I came, I thought of him
shooting all over me. When I licked it up, I imagined
it was his.

Shoot, I am a fucking homo, I thought. Now what the
fuck do I do about that?

Next: The Passion Pit