A tribute and a pledge

["Derek S." <derektheredrebel@xxxxxxxxx>]

I work at a wine and liquor store on the upper
westside of Manhattan, mostly moving boxes, working
the register, and loading up bottles on to the racks.
On occassion I receive a break from these mundane
tasks and get to make a delivery to someone around the
neighborhood.

One of my favorite persons I delivered to was good 'ol
Neville Tucker. She was the sweetest woman in the
whole world, probably in her late 70's, a proud
Kentuckyian who never failed to let her heritage be
known. Upon leaving her place she would always
remember without fail to make me promise to head down
to Kentucky (where she would make sure I would be
taken care of) and to visit the university, where she
was sure I could get a spot on the basketbal team
because of my 6'5" height.

Though she maintained a cheerful facade, I could
always tell that something was wrong. She would invite
me in each time and ask me to sit down, or show me
here nice view of Central Park from her 98th street
balcony which she prized. She lived alone. Very alone.
She would prolong our small talk until I grudgingly
told her I had to get back to work.

When not reminiscing about Kentucky she would sadly
admit her gripes to me: her loneliness, bad financial
condition, her physical pains, her chronic
insecurities. She had been knocked down by a car a few
months earlier where she injured her hip and chipped
her front tooth. When she talked she would hold her
hand in front of her mouth, confessing that she was
too insecure to let me see her tooth.

Before I left for a two month stay in Spain and
Portugal in mid-June I brought her her usual fifth of
Kentucky bourbon. She was unable to walk and, I think,
a little embarrased for me to see her in such a state.
So I just slipped the whisky on her table and left. I
didn't know it would be the last time I'd see her.

Upon returning to work the other day, I found out she
passed away while I was gone. Her last two checks to
the store had bounced.

She's not the only person of old age that I know who's
been hit hard by the brutalities of capitalist
alienation and economic depravity. My grandparents are
struggling very hard right now. My grandfather was an
independent plumber before retiring-- no union pension
like my other grandfather, a lifelong printer. Just a
few years ago he ran into some big medical problems
and it pretty much wiped out their savings. At 73, he
had to go back to work again to make ends meet (he
left a year later because of his health problems). My
grandmother, a year younger, has also had to
contemplate going back to work. To say the least, they
have a very tight budget right now, which doesn't
bring them too much peace of mind in these last years
when they ought to have it.

Working at a liquor store that lies in the ambiguous
area between Harlem and the Upper Westside, I get a
lot of interesting exposure. The self-admitted drunks
who are in early in the morning for a pint of cheap
Georgi vodka... and the wealthy, white, upper westside
professionals who are in denial, giving me an excuse
each time they come in the morning to buy the more
expensive Absolut Limon (and again when they come back
at night)... The bag ladies who swear by the numbers
and buy more lottery tickets than they can afford...
My lively and colorful coworkers all over Brooklyn,
Queens, and Harlem... The annoying, fake, prissy
bourgies that come in to buy hundreds of dollars worth
of good wine and try to start the most banal and
disgusting small talk (ugh...).

Just yesterday a regular came in, a tough, beautiful,
40-ish black woman who teaches highschool art and
english in the Bronx. Though she always comes in
fatigued and with a bad mood, I love to see her. Her
complaints give me a daily dose of reality and
continued fuel for struggle-- plus, I just really like
her personally. Yesterday she was complaining about
how she blew out her back, but this was the preface to
her bigger beef with the school she teaches at. She
was explaining to me how underfunded her classrooms
are, how she doesn't have the proper materials (or
enough of them) to adequately provide for her kids.
She was contemplating going and buying them herself.
She quietly fumed to me, in her deep but proud voice:
"Sweetheart, these kids are being short-changed. Those
other schools-- you know, those OTHER schools-- they
all have computers in their rooms, supplies,
everything. We don't have nothin'. These kids are
being short-changed and they KNOW they're being
short-changed. And then they get frustrated and don't
care. Shiiiit...". We said our goodbyes as she tiredly
made her way out of the door. "See ya later
sweetheart".

I can't wait until there's a radical upsurge and
people like this get to channel their rage at the head
of mass marches against the injustices of capitalism.
I can just imagine this woman venting her anger, fist
in the air, screaming and chanting, organizing and
discussing, verbally kicking the ass of the prentious
pieces of shit who blame the victims of capitalism for
their problems.

All this helps to keep me going, though I imagine I'd
still run okay without it. The thought of sweet old
Neville Tucker, frail and broken, drowning herself in
bourbon whisky and salty tears as she spent her last
nights alone and unloved makes me seeth with anger. In
her honor I will continue to struggle ceaselessly
against this sick, decrepid system, and for a new
society where all the Neville Tuckers of the world can
live their last years and days in a stable and joyful
environment of peacefulness, security, and lots of
love and appreciation... and where every kid from the
Bronx gets a computer as well a paint brush.

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