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‘Amenities, James, Amenities’
Writing at the Saffrono Mansion, Saffrono, New Jersey, 6/4/2022
© 2022 James LaFond
The guest room is in the west wing of the manor house. Doves nest in the oak out front, robins and cardinals in the maples and elm out back, and sleek black birds and wicked blue jays steer about, squirrels foraging and white tail deer browsing. Last sunset I saw a great egret soaring above down towards the river.
The ceiling fan hums quietly, the large screen guest TV blank and unused, note pads and guest pens, even guest mints and an emergency flashlight are handy. As well this soft room has a battle ax in the corner, a wonderful Bowie knife under the mattress, and a shambock in case the servant staff becomes unruly propped in the other corner.
Outback, there is the figure-of-eight pool, the tiki bar, the deck, the patio with the grill, the other patio, the giant connect four game, the bocci ball—entire spare refrigerators dedicated to beer alone.
The host, Mister Saffrono, grills local made franks and house burgers with potatoes and corn on the grill as we drink beer:
Mister Saffrono: “How was your day, James.”
James: “Only two articles—but I did train with Banjo.”
Mister Saffrono: “You are a machine, James. I like to think of myself as a patron of the arts. I’d like you to stay the entire summer. I realize that you have this drive to write a book a month or more. But I’d be honored if you did nothing. You’ve known no rest your entire life, and now that you are the Destroyer of Cities—nigger cities and hipster cites at that—they all go to hell after you visit, I see myself as the functionary of your much deserved rewards—and much delayed I might add.’
James: “This has been a most productive writing spot—already finished one book here, halfway through two others. This is very peaceful.”
Mister Saffrono: “It is my honor, James. I understand your drive to write. But I’d like to think I could impart a sense of enjoyment, the ability to stop and smell the roses, an appreciation for the amenities of life.”
James: [eats some of the grill seasoning out of the palm of his hand and his host winces and continues]
Mister Saffrono: “Please, James, watch the pallet! We appreciate the cool rainy whether you brought, the rosy sunsets—no small boon from the Destroyer of Cities.
James: [laughter] “I told your wife that I had NASA seed the clouds so she wouldn’t have to water the plants.”
Mister Saffrono: “Yes, more nigger plants that should have been left in the tropics. Seriously James, the city of your birth is a veritable negro-infested ruin...and Portland, James, it was the safest city in America—indeed you confided that it bored you to tears, and, now James, beginning within the year of your first visitation, instant shithole! James, you destroyed Portland with your very presence!”
James: “Yes, it seems suspicious when you put it that way.”
Mister Saffrono: “And James, today, you spread fear among the dot-heads—what, was that a total of six cops they called on you, the township police and the park police? And just because you and Andy—who I am sure is still looking like quite the specimen, a paragon of Аrуаn masculinity—are keeping alive the combative arts that once permitted our kind to subjugate the entire planet. James, the homos, the blacks, the Asians, all of the inferior slave races, they know it in their bones, that one day we will rise from our bed un-apologetically and bring the sword and torch, and James…” [grins in Middle Sea malevolence]
James: “Yes.”
Mister Saffrono: “James,” [grins wider, eyes narrowing, as he stabs a burger] “James, their bitches will love it! Now, I know you’re the bitch-whisperer and you like the old broads, but James, you need to start behaving like a conqueror—I see it as my duty to instill this in you. For now on James, as the faggot world of homos and trainies and yammering monkey men spins on its axis, new bitches must be half your age, minus a year for every year past this date! Remember that James! James, bitches know what they are, and they know what we are, we are the mongrel murderers of worlds that they clamor for while Andy and his superior ilk yet sit upon that cosmic lotus peddle considering their return as conquerors. In the mean time, James, Brother, bitches need masters and it is our duty to The Race to provide that mastery.”
The host raises a beer and says, “James, salute!” and we drank as we listened to the meat sizzle and Bailey the blonde hound sat at attention like a Pharaoh Hound, looking up at us as if we could not possibly do wrong, and Mister Saffrono said, “Dogs know, James, they’ve been with us since the beginning—its an ancient pact!”
Such are the evenings of a once skulking paleface, a wretch who spent 38 years skittering among the ruins of a once great medieval city, hunted by ebony savages, now in his retirement, granted some peaceful days to write and some shared amenities when his host returns from the long hours of soul-trading and money-making to greet the falling night.
Three Dogs and a Rabbit
writing spots

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