Neil Gaiman, �Black Orchid�
What with all the arguing I�ve been able to do lately � the anti-smokers, the Christian Dumbasses, the other students in my classes, etc., etc., ad nauseum � I�m remembering how much fun I have just arguing in a debate that I couldn�t give two shits about whether I win or not. But I also realize that I need to be careful, because it�s all too easy to heap abuse on somebody who doesn�t really deserve it.
Case in point: I went to CostCo on this day after my classes let out. Everybody knows the lines at Costco are nuts. Everybody also knows that I�ll read pretty much anywhere, no matter what the situation. Furthermore, people who know me realize that I�m seldom without my backpack, which more often than not contains at least two books. So with those three factors, it should come at no surprise that I brought my backpack into CostCo, and I read my book while I was waiting in line.
I don�t know if it was because I was wearing my trench coat, or if was due to the fact that I didn�t take off my sunglasses while I was inside the store. (Truth is I forgot I was wearing them.) In any case, I was stopped as I was leaving the premises. The lady who normally just waves you past after scratching a black line through your receipt pulled my cart to the side and said she needed to look through my backpack.
Like I said, I wear my backpack everywhere. And frankly, I�m used to being stopped. (Funny thing is, if I were planning to steal something, I would follow Abbie Hoffman�s advice and dress as much like a square as possible.)
But I�ve been going to CostCo for years now, ever since we found a mutual friend who worked there who was willing to fudge the business license requirement for us. What�s our business name? Glad you asked. We�re the Black Panthers. Seriously. Anyhow, during all this time, I�ve never, EVER been stopped.
I should say that I was also in a bad mood, because I spent at least a half-hour looking for some simple fucking light bulbs, and I couldn�t find any. So, The Look began to creep onto my face.
�Sorry,� the clerk said, although she was obviously not sorry at all.
I would soon fix that.
�This,� I said slowly and deliberately, �is because I�m black, isn�t it?�
Don�t be fooled by the question mark at the end of that sentence. I was not phrasing this as a question.
She laughed quickly. �You�re not black!�
My eyes flew open while an incredulous look shot over my face. The message was pretty clear for a non-verbal � how DARE you?!?!
�I mean...� she stammered. �What I mean to say is... it... doesn�t have anything... to do with... your... skin.�
I continued to glare.
�What I mean is... Look, I�m just doing my job... The people in management told us to check bags, and I�m just... doing... what I�m told to do...�
�I see. Just like the Nazi�s?� I asked, not looking away from her face. I opened one zipper on my bag, even though my bag has six, count �em, SIX compartments. She didn�t even look inside, instead waving me through the line.
Okay, so yes, that was fun. But that poor girl didn�t deserve that, and I would have felt bad afterward, if the whole thing weren�t so funny. And I�m justified in my smarmyness, if only a little, because I know I had been singled out.
Anyway, end of story time. This was a graphic novel I picked up simply because it was written by Neil Gaiman. And yet as profound as some of his work on the Sandman was, I really don�t have much to say about this.
Interestingly enough, there were facets about the comic that had no basis on the storyline, which were more interesting. Things like a mention of Daredevil, even though a rival company publishes that comic. A reference to Etta James that reoccurred continually. Acknowledgements to Alan Moore�s work on Swamp Thing.
The fact that while Gaiman created something with this book that could have easily gone on and on as its own title and series, he effectively stopped it after three issues. There�s a weird quandary with the work as a whole � while I�m glad I read it, it has no lasting effect on me. It�s been a while since that�s happened. Enjoyment for enjoyment sake, I mean. And unlike my rather malicious treatment that brought me joy, Gaiman managed to produce something that brought enjoyment to others as well as himself.
And suddenly, I felt ashamed of my actions earlier.
