Before last night, a cab driver has never subjected me to a racist rant. Last night, one did. I blame the Hitler mustache.
I had just left my apartment and crossed the street. I –ahem– hailed a cab. A black fellow was crossing the street behind me and he hailed the same one. A moment too late. The cab driver stopped and shouted out his window: “I’m stopping for you; NOT HIM!” I told the black guy that there was another cab coming right up behind us. He then asked me for two dollars to get to Dufferin Street. I got in the cab.
Once inside, the driver, a South Asian, ranted at me about black people for the whole journey. Well, that’s not completely true. He did pause to tell me how much he liked my “look” and to ask if it was from the thirties. I told him it was and thanked him. He happily returned to his theories on the thieving Negro.
If not for the Hitler mustache, I would never have learned that nine out of ten black men never pay their cab fare. Or they all rob you. Nor would I have known that, even with a Hitler mustache and eagle headed cane, it is still easier for a white man to catch a cab on a cold night than it is for a black fellow with a toque and heavy jacket.
This could have been much less morally ambiguous if the black fellow hadn’t of, after hailing a cab, asked me for two dollars to reach his destination. But what can I tell you? That’s just how it happened. It must be one of those gray areas that people are always telling me about. Whatever it was, it certainly took the fire out of my moral indignation.
I met my companions for the evening, Anita and Daryl, and regaled them with tales of my sordid little adventure. They were as surprised as I. It was not until the next day that my boss suggested a plausible explanation: Perhaps the cabbie was afraid of me and attempting to show that he too was a racist. That is possible. But it just wasn’t the vibe. It felt like he was comfortable. The Hitler mustache had put him at ease.
It will do that. To some people.
We three traveled to the gala without a word from our new cabbie, though I now suspected his kind of the most dastardly thoughts. Experience had taught me that cab drivers are all closet Nazis. He must be bashful, I thought. Just waiting for the right moment to attack Poland. But nothing happened.
Upon arriving, I was promptly disapointed. I had expected to be greeted by a red carpet, flanked by adoring cancer victims in stretchers, raising their bony hands in an outpouring of thanks. Not only was there no red carpet, not only were these ungrateful invalids nowhere to be found — aside all of that, the doorman had the temerity to tell me that I was not allowed to carry my cane inside.
“It would,” he explained, “just take one drunken idiot to use it as weapon.” I informed him that I did not drink. He said that did not matter. I asked about the coat-check. He did not trust me to make it even that far without bludgeoning someone.
After some tense negotiations, he told me that I could leave it outside, behind a statue. Curiously enough, behind the guards and beside the exit. This location would allow any gin-sodden malcontent, who was leaving the place, to pick it up and hit them with it.
I thought it best to avoid pointing that out.
But this incident filled me with trepidation. I was beginning to wonder just what sort of gala this was going to be. My first doubts occurred when I heard that it was taking place in the East End and at The Phoenix nightclub. I have twice watched the police scraping bullet riddled corpses off this venue’s front steps. It seemed like a strange location; one that did not bode well. But, since I believe the East End is just fine — no matter what anyone says– I put those doubts aside.
What was my reward for such selfless egalitarianism? I suffered the indignity of cane confiscation at the hands of a mere doorman. It was almost more than I could bare. If not for you, my dedicated sponsors, I would have left at that very instant.
But I thought of you and I stayed. Thankfully, so did Anita and Daryl. We had been lied to. This was not a gala. This was a lot of white people, in from the suburbs, wearing mustaches, and thrashing about to songs by Vanilla Ice. There was a cash bar and no cheese in sight. No h’orderves at all. No food. Neon lights. You get the picture?
It reminded me of my distressing evening at a so-called gentleman’s club. That too was caused by a mistake in naming or an outright untruth. Someone really has to stop the middle-classes from abusing everyone else’s expressions. It was bad enough when frat boys were openly shizzeling each other’s nizzle. But now this? They’re free to just call anything a gala? Just look how excited Anita is:
That is not a happy camper.
As for the evening’s photographer, Daryl?
Well, the less said about that, the better.
I would have been bored too. But I had an objective. To win Man of Movember.
I found one of the judges and promptly nominated myself for the award. He had his doubts. I nominated myself again, a bit louder, and he said he would find a sub-category. He eventually settled on best “Playboy Mo” where I would compete against two other men. Unless one of these men is Stalin, I thought, I’m sure to win.
I set about planning.
To be a playboy I needed women. A lot of them. I asked two for their help. They refused. Anita shook her head and said: “In a roomful of skanks, you ask the two nice girls?” I told her that’s why I have so much sex: The unerring inability to diagnose the moral standing of women. But there was not much time to debate the point.
I was corralled to the right of the stage and told to wait. Here, I caught the eye of four young ladies, who I once again propositioned. They convened and agreed to my proposal.
I must confess — I was a bit nervous. When one is about to take the stage with a Hitler mustache, well, one never really knows what may happen. My hands were as cold as I have ever felt them. My knees trembled; just a bit, but it was there. The backstage was a chaos, which deepened my appreciation of Nazi stage management.
And then my name was called.
I could not hear what was going on, could hardly see the crowd and had great difficulty in understanding a word of what was being said. I walked onto the stage with these lovely young ladies and proceeded to give the weirdly informal salute Hitler favored. Then I was pulled back. I still had no idea what was happening. There was to be a second round.
The same again. But this time — I kid you not — isolated members of the audience were throwing up the fascist salute. For a moment I thought the Nuremberg Rally was about to start. It was a good thing that no one gave me a microphone. I don’t think I could have refrained from promising a final solution to cancer. As it was, I broke character and started laughing.
Drunk on power, I had to be dragged away from my adoring Sieg Heils by my adoring, though surprised, lady friends.
Sadly, I did not win. A fellow in a white disco suit took the honor. Some treacherous part of me is relieved that that white disco suit beats white power.
We left the stage in a blur.
I bought the ladies a drink under the angry glare of some fellow at the bar then found Anita and Daryl. At their insistence, I put an end to the evening. On the way out, I picked up a gift bag, found my cane waiting and then used it to bludgeon the doorman to death.
You just don’t fuck with the Hitler mustache.
12 comments
3 pings
Stephen Kotowych
November 27, 2007 at 7:42 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
You, my friend, have more guts than just about anybody I know.
Ryan Oakley
November 27, 2007 at 7:54 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Just less sense.
Danielle
November 27, 2007 at 8:23 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Is there a stronger word for ambiguity? I have never read such sincere satire. I don’t know quite how to respond so once again I will have to resort to emoticons.
/:^=P
Elliot
November 28, 2007 at 3:49 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
I’m not sure what all the fuss is about given the Holocaust never really happened.
Ryan Oakley
November 28, 2007 at 5:53 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Holo-what?
rebecca
November 28, 2007 at 5:56 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
i just really want to see anita’s outfit
Ryan Oakley
November 28, 2007 at 5:56 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
And I’m not sure I ever said it was satire. I think you said that. Perhaps you’re applying incorrect models to my behavior.
Ryan Oakley
November 28, 2007 at 5:57 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
I don’t think there are any pics of that.
Danielle
November 28, 2007 at 11:27 am (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Perhaps you’re right. But it is behavior.
Elliot
November 28, 2007 at 6:27 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
Point to self: Do not take a shower at Ryan’s house.
Patrick
December 1, 2007 at 6:54 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
I looked at this yesterday while at work (in an office, banking district). I started laughing when I saw the photos. My cube-mates got curious: “what’s so funny?”
I have never closed down a window so quickly in my life. “Oh, nothing.”
Ryan Oakley
December 1, 2007 at 7:19 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
As Danielle would say
:^=)
Grumpy’s Yearview Mirror « The Grumpy Owl
December 31, 2007 at 9:26 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
[...] upended and refined my sense of life, met nice people, fell out of contact with others, grew a Hitler Mustache that raised $300 for cancer, moved “The Grumpy Owl” to WordPress and got a new header. [...]
Owl Pellets « The Grumpy Owl
February 12, 2008 at 9:06 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
[...] Ten New Genetic Clues for Prostate Cancer: They have a new test to diagnose men at risk for prostate cancer. You’re welcome. [...]
Party Like It’s 1997: Nerd Girl Pinup Launch « The Grumpy Owl
November 3, 2008 at 5:14 pm (UTC -4) Link to this comment
[...] growing another mustache. Not for cancer or Hitler but for a combination of the two; the Canadian winter and me. My face is an itchy mess. I feel [...]