Not all who see colour are racist.
The time: A very cold, snowy night in December 1990, near the end of a three-week business trip.
The venue: A Burger King, et al, near Niagara Falls, USA.
My second business trip to the USA; I had managed to slip in some leave here and there, giving a total of seven weeks (over both trips). I’d narrowly missed witnessing the cops shooting a civilian in New York City, and later fought off a mugger in the Lower West Side. Apparently it is contra-indicated to walk through Hell’s Kitchen at 06:30 in the morning. Well, I didn’t know; I needed to catch a bus.
Later on, I visited Yosemite, Grand Canyon, Washington DC, Disney World and EPCOT Centre, drove through Manhattan and stayed there for a few nights, drove through the Boston rush hour and survived, worked for a week in Boston, drove all over San Francisco, and ran the ‘Bridge to Bridge Race’ (from Bay Bridge to Golden Gate). And a whole bunch of other stuff, including shopping in the World Trade Centre.
This fistful of experiences and destinations had given me quite a good overview of the States; one which, as a friend in Boston pointed out, was more than most Americans had had or ever would have.
On this leg of the trip I had hired a 3.0-litre Ford Taurus with enormously wide tyres, so the snow wasn’t giving me too much trouble. Being black, it looked a bit like ‘Knight Rider’. Until I got out and spoilt the image, with shorts and flip-flops making me look more like the Hasselhoff of Baywatch than the Knight Rider one. Also, he’s about 30cm taller than I am.
Having driven up the Susquehanna Valley from DC, I had booked into the Viking Motel on Grand Island, near Niagara Falls. Sitting in my cosy room in shorts and a T-shirt, it occurred to me that there didn’t appear to be any catering facilities nearby. Grabbing my keys and a pair of flip-flops (in case conditions deteriorated), I went to my Taurus and started to look for a fast food place. In the states, you’re never far from one; well, the contiguous States, that is. I’m not sure about Alaska.
I found a Burger King. It was one of those places where there’s a microphone hanging above where you stand to order your food. This broadcasts your order to the people in the kitchen, as well as to the entire establishment; and, perhaps, the CIA. Of course, along with the spoken word goes one’s accent. Suddenly, there seemed to be many eyes turned in my direction. South Africa was just starting to come out of the shadows; Madiba was free; there was hope for the future. Still, I tried to stay low-key; I’m not sure how long it takes for hatred to turn to love.
“If that ain’t a South African accent then I’m a white man!”
The voice behind me seemed to come from someone shorter than I. How unusual.
I turned and he was, indeed, shorter than I. But the breadth of his shoulders made me wonder what might have happened to the last person who called him short. He was clearly not a white man, so I must have been a South African.
“Ja,” I replied.
Before I could add anything to show that I could also speak English, he burst out: “Have you seen my town? Have you seen my waterfall?
“Er, no. I’ve just arrived.”
“No problem, I’ll give you the tour.”
He placed his order. No one turned and looked at him (well, maybe the CIA). We collected our food. We turned to go. I put on my flip-flops, took my keys out of my pocket, and turned towards my car.
“Come with me, rather. Then we can’t get separated.”
Oh shit!
Serial Killing 101 – 1. Select a victim; 2. Groom him; 3. Cut him off from transport. 4. [Note to victim] If he isn’t wearing any kind of disguise, he’s probably planning to kill you, mutilate your body, and throw the pieces over the falls.
I couldn’t refuse. His car looked like those gangster ones in the movies; I half-expected to see Faye Dunaway in the passenger seat. It was a two-door about the size of an Armoured Personnel Carrier, little portholes behind the wind-down windows, and—I promise—fake (I hope) leopard skin on the dashboard. I guess it was what Americans call ‘a coop’ and the rest of the world calls ‘a coupé’. Once I was seated (on top of Faye Dunaway!) the carpet felt plush under my bare feet.
My parents had always told me not to get into cars with strangers. And, here I was, about to meet a horrible death the first time I had ever disobeyed their order.
“I’d better introduce my self; I’m Kenny H——ton. Let’s eat first.” Right, that would fit in with SK 101 item 4 – he doesn’t care that I know his name; he’s definitely going to kill me. At least I get a last meal.
“I-I’m K-Kevin Weir, from Cape Town” I replied. If he was going to kill me, I didn’t care if he knew my name, or my domicilium. “How were you so certain that I was South African?” SK 101 – 5. [Note to victim] Introduce yourself; engage him in conversation; talk about your family; make sure he sees you as a person. It’s always harder to kill someone you know.
“I served in the US Navy during Vietnam and we steamed past Cape Town in the…”
“I know!” I interjected as an uncomfortable memory dawned on me. “The USS Franklin D Roosevelt!”
We didn’t need to discuss it further, clearly we both remembered that débâcle. The FDR had been scheduled to berth in Cape Town harbour for provisions, mail, and a bit of liberty for the crew. When our esteemed government realised that not all of the crew were the same colour as they were (I had an ID card that proved that I was ‘white’), they granted berthing rights conditional upon all ‘non-white’ crew members being confined to the ship for the duration of the visit. How’s that for hospitality! Obviously, the USA, despite their own ongoing covert racism, could not be seen to be publicly consenting to this condition, so the visit was cancelled. Well, partly; the FDR hove to in Table Bay and the chandlers and helicopter services made a fortune out of provisioning them and delivering mail. I might be mistaken, but they might also have moored in Duncan Dock for a day or two, but no shore-leave was granted and visitors were not allowed aboard.
This had probably been the first time (of many!) in my life that I was furious with the government of my country. In those days I didn’t give a stuff about the ‘non-whites’, whoever they were, but I had been banking on being able to go aboard this 300-metre long leviathan that, with its crew of 4000, was like a floating airport. Like any little boy last century, I greatly admired machines that were manufactured with the intention of causing pain and privation.
“Hell, man; we weren’t all like that. I’m really sorry.” I’d never before had to face the humiliation of answering for what my country’s government had done. Sadly, this was relatively minor, compared with some of their achievements. I deemed it wise not to mention that I too was an ex-serviceman.
“It’s past history; don’t let it worry you. I don’t,” he said magnanimously. Very nice, for a serial killer, I thought. Even Norman Bates wasn’t that easy-going.
I didn’t know it then, but a mere two years later I was to face a tough test of my integrity when I refused to work for part of the government’s armaments industry and lost my job as a result. But, that was in the future. Right now I was facing death at the hands of a smooth-tongued mad black Vietnam Vet who had been snubbed by my country. I wondered if Linda would be able to get a refund on my return airline ticket.
He started the gargantuan engine, revved a few times—the torque nearly rolling the car over into the gutter—and then pulled off quite sedately.
To my astonishment, we then engaged in a breath-taking tour of ‘his town’, including a visit to the pump-house of the hydro-electric plant, an art gallery, and, of course, a viewing platform from which we could look across the majestic floodlit falls to Canada, which had refused me a visa because of my ‘Green Mamba’ passport.
At the end of all this, I think Kenny could see that I was starting to notice the cold, so he suggested a quick trip into the city. He parked illegally (I thought) in a bay reserved for City Counsellors, and we walked up a street that was completely roofed-over with curved glass. Everywhere I looked there were Christmas trees and skeins of lights. It was beautiful. Even the pavement felt warm under my feet.
A little further on we passed some very grand-looking doors that appeared to be the entrance to a reception room of some kind. A large sign shouted: ‘No Entry. Closed for Mayoral Function.’
“This looks interesting,” says Kenny, his hand already on a handle that looked as if it had been swiped from an English castle. Before I could object, scream, or faint, he’d pulled the door open and shoved me in ahead of himself. I’d given up trying to fit this into my serial killing scenario. It was like being hit by a large ocean wave; I just went with the flow. Somehow I found a chance to put my flip-flops back on so that my hands were free—probably more convenient for hand-cuffs.
We stood in a room built on a scale one only ever encounters in the USA; Kenny in his Inspector Clouseau overcoat and homburg, I bare-headed, bare-armed, bare-legged, nearly bare-footed. On the opposite side, just before the horizon, stood—I presumed—the mayor, complete with gold chain. He was waving and calling something that I assumed was a summons to his bully boys with the earphones and flak jackets to rough us up a bit and eject us into the snowy streets.
As my ears caught up with the action, I realised that he was yelling: “Hey Kenny! Glad you could make it after all!” Then [raising his voice yet higher], “Ladies and gentlemen! Our Deputy-mayor and current Chapter President of the NAACP,* Kenny H——ton!” And then [sotto voce, but still audible in neighbouring states and Canada], “Hey Kenny! Who’s your friend?”
After we had been introduced, fed, and watered, we spent the rest of the evening socialising with the cream of Niagara Falls society—the type you usually bump into at the opera. Being from the Sunny South, I was by far the most tanned (a rare accolade for me) and least dressed-up of all the guests. At some stage—I don’t know when--I had even managed to step out of my flip-flops. But not one of these nice refined people saw fit to comment on my garb (or, lack thereof). I was just accepted. I couldn’t help being amused by the way Kenny introduced me each time. “I’d like you to meet Kevin, my white friend from South Africa…” You could hear the bold italics. Thanks Kenny, but I’m sure few people thought I was family of MLK.
I chatted at length to the Mayor—also a family man—and he heaped me with stickers and badges commemorating the ‘Niagara Falls Festival of Lights 1990’. “Now be sure and tell your kids that the Mayor of Niagara Falls sent his personal greetings along with these gifts and that he looked after their Pop very well,” he twinkled. He looked a bit like a plain-clothes Father Christmas with a gold chain.
Considerably later—well fed and lubricated—we took our leave of the gathering. I found my flip-flops waiting for me at the door, courtesy—I guess—of one of the staff. Kenny took me back to my car. I thanked him for a memorable evening. We arranged to meet next day (really; we had a grand time together), and he drove away, leaving me to drive myself back to the Viking Motel.
OK, so he wasn’t a serial killer. Sorry. I can’t be right every time. Or maybe he was on sabbatical…
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*National Association for the Advancement of Colored People.