Claudia Clubs

I used to have dreams of being a novelist. Here is an excerpt from my book about ambition and tragedy in black Los Angeles: Jordan Crossing

(from the archives, 1990)

Thursday night after work. The sun is still out and the urge comes over Claudia to hit the town. It's been so long since she has been out. Looking over the papers on her desk she, cleans off the table with a brush. Producer was gone; she turned up the radio. Too many long nights preparing for weak stories. Here’s a story that's never told, the shit I go through to get a good time. I just cannot wait until tomorrow night, besides there are clubs happening tonight. She reecalled the days of 24K and Glitter on Sunset. Well tonight I'm gong to enjoy myself, she though. She leaned back in her chair and admired her office, the degree on the wall UCLA. Man that was hard, but I made it. Journalism. She felt sorry for all the English students she left in that major. What were they doing now? Slaving away on obscure black writers that the black community doesn't know and the academic community doesn't respect. What sense does it make? It’s obvious that these writers are great and knew exactly what they were talking about. Their points of view, essays and philosophies are complete. Enough to carry a whole society. It carried us and gave us the strength to compete at the 'predominantly white institution". She couldn't think of any of her real, down to earth college girlfriends who wasn't either deep into the real black writers. The rest were deep into denial. But those were the underclassman days. After that trip to Mexico, everything changed.

Hmm. Her flashback surpised her, now as she took a second look around her office. What are you doing now, Mrs Williams-Precht? Hyphenated to a French director? Are you really getting those stories? She started for her pad, snatching a uniball from the art deco canister. The effects of black mexicans on the contemporary african american woman. Ahh. another time. Really. She placed the purple pad into her satchel, snapped and stood. Five foot eight and one half, she thought to herself, walking straight and proud.

The cleaning people had already come into the building. Mexicans, she could tell. Not just latinos of every stripe but Mexicans and Mexican Americans. This was their shop. Their domain, quiet as it's kept. They are getting over in la vida sin corazon, vacuuming sucking up American dirt and turning it into food for their children. Food but not stories. For all of the million latinos in Los Angeles County there were no stories we ever heard, Claudia thought. Every once in a while, in her Volvo, she would hit the scan button on the radio instead of the one that tuned directly to her favorite soft hits. She would hit a Spanish language station, and then a Vietnamese voice would blare as the frequency numbers spun off every 5 seconds. It was an immigrant thing, Claudia couldn't understand. She watched the woman pushing her personal garbage can on through the maze of cubicles. She was young and tired and did not hum any spirituals. She sorted the white trash from the colored trash - the white to be recycled, the colored to be dumped. The woman was about five foot tall. Short. Always the short people working this shit. That is my great grandmother, Claudia thought. That woman is my great garandmother; America has not changed one bit.

Downstairs, the underground parking structure. A professional woman's heels snapping to the pavement echoing against personalized stalls against the glass of imported vehicles in the sodium orange glow of security light is the ironic staccato of fear as it is the invitation to civilized love. This Friday night, trying to go back and feel a part of that black society which seems to be decaying under her feet are steps into vaguely familiar territory in strange shoes. She slammed shut the trunk over her satchel, containing her purple pad of truth. Secure - this automobile designed for the man of possessions holds her scribbled heart on dog eared stationery. Seated securly in the driver's seat, she turned the key, eyed the rear view.

Her man, the one in possession of her attraction is drunk somewhere miserable over the truth of scarlet criticisms from staff. Minions with the nerve to talk back strike. Claudia knows from where their nerve springs.

The 10 is a maze of metal and glass, the eternal pain in the ass it usually is still better than the chance of getting stuck in the surface soup between West Los Angeles and downtown. The distance is short, about the same as from Harlem to the Battery but like taking the Kennedy expressway at the wrong time. Everytime is the wrong time on the 405. Claudia heated when traffic slowed to a crawl. It made her feel trapped. Last week on the way to the valley she was caught in gridlock and a derelict walked, literally walked across the freeway. He wore a dark gray burlap duster, a man in his mid 40s hair matted and bleached by the sun. As he weaved between cars he left grimy handprints on hoods and stared down the drivers and passengers. He passed in front of Claudia's car loping sideways. His gait reminded her of the blurry filmclip of Bigfoot in the north woods. He appeared to be a blur, everything was blurry, slimy and sleazy at the moment and Claudia could feel her stomach twitch as if her bowels were about to fly open. The feeling of revulsion was complete and shameless. Everyone had caught this wave of nausea as if he heralded wormwood and sulfur. People were honking. Nobody honks in Los Angeles in gridlock but now here it was a storm of horns high beams and curses at dusk. The man whirled like Theloniuos Monk in a bio-pic she once saw, spinning as if he were trying to create a sterophonic effect with the blaring chorus. He grinned and leered as he spiraled towards the center divider, the center of attention at rush hour between the ranks of imported motorcars. Was he laughing or cursing back, through the tangle of hair and sooty face, it could not be determined. She turned up the air conditioning, flipped circulation to internal and tried to slam shut her sunroof, but it was electric. Suddenly she realized that her steel skin was too thin. The windows of her car were too transparent, her suspension was too taut. She didn't want to feel the street, she didn’t want to smell it, she didn’t want to see it.

Claudia wanted to glide. At this moment on the 10 in slowing traffic she felt the apocalypse approaching. Why? Why now does civilization have to go down the fucking tubes just as we black professionals are taking our rightful place in America? Black people have more wealth than ever before so the banks fail. Blacks have more mayors in major cities but the cities are all going bankrupt. I have this great car and I'm stuck in gridlock, I might as well be on a pushcart in fuckin' Alabama. Where is my convertible? Where is my open road? Where is my freedom?

The line was the first step back through time. Claudia thought of lines. Everyplace people are starved for something, they form lines. Here stood Claudia at the door of one of the few sophisticated black clubs in Los Angeles, downtown LA. Hangout of attorneys, police officers, civil servants, accoutants, engineers and military officers. The stock crowd of a middle class society anywhere in the Western world. Here in black, here in their element dancing in suits. America, is much like Russia in that sense, he we are starved for some middle class company, to prove still as we prove by our being and seeing that we are more than the sons and daughters of slaves. Starved still as we queue up to be inspected at the door by the arbitrators of our choices, bouncers. Embodiment of our secret fears of what white poeple might still see in us, the bouncers check the validity of dress, listen for accents in the voice, check the back of our necks for cuckabugs. Like a pledge line we are harassed and asked demeaning questions, searched and seized, frozen for the moment in the cultural fascism of our own creation. But we stand for it, moreover, we stand in line for it, for this is a monster we know. We know the rules for we created them. We push them and have no respect for them because we created them. We enforce them because more often then not we pass the velvet ropes and are invited in, for 15 dollars. The price we have set to set us apart, we hope from those lower class niggers and hoods, the likes of which never grow up to be anything more than security guards. Or bouncers.

Hair weaves, of course, jheri curls, one on a Hollywood looking brother with no tie who will not pass muster, so sorry homes but he does look fine. Heels and pumps becoming increasingly uncomfortable, it will be nice to get off my feet and enjoy a drink. Oh, but what I will have to go through to get just a drink. Good thing I have money. The LA attitude creeps in. The voice raises pitch, eyes eye dresses a bit tight, heels a bit high, makeup a bit thick, hips a bit swivelly. Too, too much harshness, minds in a critical frenzy. Here tonight are party people, those who seem to inhabit this place and would be churching here monthly Fridays. The queue shortened in front of her and she reached the door. Two women directly in front of her were gabbing about some movie yet as the line moved froward their words lost intelligibility in the beat echoing through the open red leather padded door. She produced her license to the bouncer, black shirt thin tie curled up mouth, bushy moustache. He nodded, mouth open gapped teeth, spotted tongue chapped lips. She moved inside and handed a 10 to the girl behind the glass. Red black and green 3 inch fingernails scissored the bill and plucked a pale blue ticket through the aperature. Claudia handled it as if it were dirty, turning away and trialing her arm and Arden gloss behind her, sliding the ticket across the counter as she moved into the joint. She eyed the crowd, full volume and handed the ticket to the smiling brother on the barstool on the far side of the entry vestibule, checkpoint number three. He rips the ticket and leans toward her ear, "Thank you for coming", and grins. He is mentally eating booties all night, just sitting there telling every woman that he is their personal friend, with his tight slacks and pointy boots. She looks back to see him play off his staring. It gave her a wonderful rush, yeah you know you want this... The swell of blackness gloved her and she wailed internally from the swoon. She was Fay Wray, diggin’ the moment, playing her pecuniarliy augmented feminity off the dark mirrors of the negro night club. This was her playground, cause funk is a thang she knows. And baby...

She moved over to the bar, sat smoothly and ordered up a scotch and soda. Why waste time? Claudia budgeted out the number of dances she might allow, hmm maybe tonight is a six dance night. As the cuts revolved and the crowd seemed to move in slow motion. Claudia could imagine every conversation in lurid detail. She felt alien but in command as if someone had handed here a CIA dossier on every individual in the club. That one over there, in the three peice suit still hasn't realized that the 80s were over, because his lines were still operational.