Black Coffee

Sitting here in my war room, devouring caffeine, plotting against those poor fools who dared to cross me. The lights are off. The drapes are drawn.

Jazz blares from my stereo, not that smooth slick background music, but real jazz. Jazz with teeth to it; jazz that sparks and smokes; jazz where the instruments are getting the hell beat out of them and the musicians are worn out from their efforts.

Yeah, that’s the kind of jazz I’ve got banging around the room, loud enough to block out the parade of intrusive voices talking to my machine, talking in my head. I’m taking no calls today.

My people, we like to say “forget-about-it,” but we never really do. Good or bad, we don’t forget anything. We remember the promise of the Lady in the Harbor. And we still remember what they did to Mr. Sacco and Mr. Vanzetti.

Yeah, we don’t forget, neither collectively as a people, nor individually, person to person. We appreciate and reciprocate when someone does us right. And we never forget when someone does us wrong. That‘s not a cultural stereotype; it’s a cultural truth. Now if your mind is already conjuring up thoughts of Tony Soprano or Don Vito Corleone; if you think that’s what our culture is all about; then shame on you. If you think we’re all criminals, think we can’t get even, can’t get justice, without bloodshed, guns and hitmen; well then shame, shame, shame on you.

But make no mistake about it, it is inherent in our culture to remember when we have been wronged; it’s in our blood. That’s a cultural truth.

My people, we have a time-honored recipe for Revenge; it’s a dish best served cold. But, ah, the planning and preparation, well that can be done in the heat of the moment, when the blood is boiling.

They think it’s over; they better think again.

Sitting here in my war room, nested in my favorite chair, feeling comfortable and uncomfortable concurrently, with jazz in my ears and knots in my stomach. Sitting here, in the shadows, devouring caffeine with a vengeance. Nothing pretty nor pampered about it; it’s not a Double Latte nor Cappuccino with a whisper of Cinnamon nor some hazelnut-flavored concoction. It’s the real deal, genuine COFFEE, black, strong, no sugar. I embrace every last drop from my mug. It’s nasty and bitter and hot as hell, hot enough that it burns my insides on the way down.