There were five of them at the bar. Big men. Black men. Loud men. Smoking cigars. And it didn’t take more than a word or two for me to know they were New Yorkers. The one man pointed at me “Come on over here.”
I’m Mr. Milquetoast, a meek, mild-mannered Canadian. Balding, bi-focaled. In the tropical sun that day I was as pale as one of those larvae you find under a rock, kind of sickly looking. I’d just escaped the Toronto winter, landing in Puerto Plata for a week and now I wanted to crawl under a rock.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Come on over here I want to talk to you.” He said it with some authority. I complied. It seemed like the Canadian thing to do. We’re like that sometimes. Most people think it is politeness. But why did I apologize to the parking meter I bumped into the day before I left? Maybe Canadians simply feel inferior in the presence of the mighty American, or even inanimate objects. So I shuffled over with my magazine and towel in hand.
“What do you want to drink?”
“A Cuba Libre?”
“Yeah!” One of the crew indicated I should give him a high five. I complied.
“Lemme see that magazine.” Now we were getting down to business. It really wasn’t me they wanted. It was my Vanity Fair magazine with Obama on the cover. The drink my new “friends” bought me arrived. We toasted. I felt less like toast myself, although I was still a bit self-conscious.
The interrogation began. I told them I had driven with my friends from Toronto to Baltimore through a snowstorm to see Obama. “Why?” I didn’t really have a good answer, but the one I gave seemed satisfactory. The ringleader, “PJ” thumbed through the magazine. He seemed partial to some of the fashion and models. “Wouldja look at her? MMM mmm”
Then I made a mistake. I told them how we’d been stopped at the border. That when the guard asked the purpose of our trip my friend had said “Obamamania” Pull over. Park your car and wait in the control center. We got the full inspection. It took almost an hour. Everything but the body search. They even seized my orange. (Like it was a threat to the New York state citrus crop.)
I told them how we were fearful of American police, the possibility we as foreigners might “disappeared” without any rights or protection. How I’d avoided traveling to the USA 7 years and how frightened I was by the picture of Dick Cheney below the Homeland Security seal. The part about my fear of American police seemed to disturb them. They shuffled in their chairs, scowled and one looked away, in disgust.
But I recovered. I told them that throughout my visit to the States in January the peace officers had been thoroughly professional, that they had been friendly and helpful in what I assumed might be difficult circumstances. All of them, at the border, in Baltimore, Washington, on the mall. And PJ actually laughed when I pointed out the irony of the “Uniformed Secret Service”. I mean you can’t be very secret in uniform can you?
Then I noticed PJ’s T-shirt had a NYPD logo. It wasn’t just a fashion statement. He introduced his son, his buddies from his precinct and his friend Zap, who worked for the State Parks Department. I guess I passed the test. They got me another drink. “Imagine how they might have treated a brother at the border”. We talked. They wanted to know about race relations in Canada. How about that post-racial era the politicians were talking about? How did things look different outside Bed-Stuy? I wasn’t the focus of the conversation anymore. Just one of the guys, more or less. Talk turned to wives, girlfriends, children and grandchildren. Hanging out. Relaxing. Golf. They liked their time in the Dominican Republic. The people were beautiful but the poverty was awful. Next year they were going to come back but they wanted to rent a condo instead of staying at a hotel.
A day later I saw my new friends again. “Not golfing?”
“Naw. Change of plans. Sit with us Cuba Libre.” I did. The agent had found them their rental place. The day was spent in town instead. At the rum factory, the cigar stores. With the people, the vendors, the hawkers, the festivalgoers. They knew they cut quite a swath as they swaggered through town for the Dominican Republic’s National Holiday. They laughed. The pickpockets and petty thieves would cross the street on sight. Apparently some people could see they were cops, eh?
At the parade they met a local boy, Sammy, who told them of how hard he was working to do well at school. His mother agreed. So did his teacher and principal who were supervising the students.
“Show us son.” He amazed them in English and Spanish, mathematics, poetry, and geography. He had answer for their every question. “I want to help my Mama who has done so much for me and my sister.” “Will you stay in school Sammy?” What would it take? The principal said tuition was $75 per semester.
The five big men. Black men. Loud men. Smoking cigars. They dug in their pockets and between them peeled off the bills to pay Sammy’s way through high school. This one had potential. This boy they could help. One step at a time. They’d golf next time.
These beautiful Americans.