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Yo Mamma’s Yule
Crackpot Mailbox: A Phone Transcript
James, I was shopping at 1:30 on Sunday afternoon—Christmas shopping—when I was reminded of your ghetto grocer stories. The parking lot is very long between the dollar store and the bus stop—where these people were headed
No, I was not headed to a the dollar store and not to that vape place either where all of the creepy people go. I was headed to a name brand outlet when I heard this horrible scream, a scream of agony and desperation. These were African Americans, shorter and darker than me, a married or whatever couple with four children, the youngest being six—and on the ground screaming. Some skinny white boy with blonde hair was looking over like a portrait of The Scream and then looked at me as if he expected me to do something and I shook my head, “No,” because anybody that interrupted this was running into a batch of asswhoop.
The mother was almost indistinguishable from the father or whatever he was, looked just as manly in her heavy coat. The little boy—the only one without a dollar store bag in the group—was on his back, his feet up in the hair trying to protect himself and this woman was reaching over and hitting him about the head and shoulders, trying to get to his face, making thuds.
She was using her open hands but it was brutal nonetheless, most of all what came out of her mouth:
“You a dumb muthafuca. You gonna be the only lille nigga Santa don’ stop fo. En datz how it gonan be—yo ass ain’ neva gonna have shit!”
It was so brutal that even the sea gulls ran away or took off and usually those nasty things will follow you in hopes of food. The adult man and the children did not utter a noise or lend a hand. This was very unsettling, especially on a Sunday afternoon. That boy is probably hoping he gets kidnapped out of that family. I would hope I got kidnapped out of that family. That kid is either going to be gay, a wife-beater or a violent criminal.
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