Your Blues Ain’t Quite Like Mine

There are six cardinal colors--red, yellow, orange, green, purple and blue--and there are 3,000 shades. If you divide those 3,000 shades by six, you come up with 500, which means there are at least 500 shades of the blues.

For instance, there is the “I ain’t got me no money” blues. Or the “I ain’t got me no woman” blues.

I was sitting perched atop a bar stool in a little supper club called La Louisianne, trying my best to drown my latest version of the blues in a third glass of Johnnie Walker Black when my friend Kerry sidled up. He didn’t look too happy either.

My problem was that my editors had just killed one of my columns. To say I was displeased would be a major understatement.

I didn’t know what Kerry’s problem was, but as he ordered a double cognac, it seemed we had the same objective.

“What’s up,” I grunted.

Kerry loosened his tie and sighed. “White people, man. White people.”

*

I had heard that lament before. It’s sort of like when women, frustrated with the opposite sex, exclaim: “Men!” Normally I would have inquired of him, but tonight I had my own pain. So, we sat there quietly for a few minutes, staring into our drinks.

Kerry and I go back about 10 years. I met him while working on a political story, and over the years we became friends. He’s the only black face in a downtown law firm.

“I think I blew my chances for ever becoming a partner in the firm today,” Kerry mumbled. I could hear a story coming.

The source of Kerry’s long face was a birthday luncheon he and his co-workers had thrown for a colleague at Engine Co. 28.

Over lunch, Kerry’s co-workers had come up with a solution for what ails the inner city--something that has eluded L.A’s politicians and policy-makers.

Their answer? Get rid of the people, tear down the buildings, and replace them with trees, grass, tennis courts, riding lanes, a lake and golf courses.

And to Kerry’s dismay, they weren’t joking when they said it. It’s not that they were ready to propose legislation. Let’s just call it wishful thinking.

The conversation started innocently enough. Everyone was chatting around the table when Kerry overheard one of the ranking officers mention how he had always envisioned a Central Park for Los Angeles. Being from New York and a big fan of Central Park there, Kerry jumped in.

Where would you put it? he asked.

“It would be just south of the Santa Monica Freeway and west of the Harbor, about as far west as Vermont,” said the man, who lives in Pasadena. “That way we could get rid of that infestation over there.”

“Infestation?” I asked.

“That’s what the man said,” Kerry answered. So, Kerry asked him, what would happen to those people. Mr. Pasadena said they would all be moved to Barstow.

“That will put everybody on notice that they have to clean up their act,” he said.

*

Kerry was getting ready to inquire a little further when the others began refining the proposal.

“You’d have to go farther west than that if you really want to solve the problem,” added a paralegal from Hermosa Beach, “at least as far as La Brea.”

“In that case, you might as well take it to Fairfax,” said a woman attorney from Hancock Park.

“If you’re going that far, you should take it to La Cienega,” another attorney added.

“Well, whatever you do, make sure you get that Baldwin Hills area,” said another attorney, this one from Beverly Hils.

Then Kerry said he stunned everybody. Why not take the park boundary all the way to the beach? Everybody at the table got quiet. I guess wiping out Culver City, Venice, Marina del Rey and big chunks of Santa Monica and West Los Angeles wasn’t exactly what they had in mind.

Unfortunately for Kerry, he couldn’t keep his mouth quiet.

“What exactly is the purpose of this park? he asked. “Is it to provide the residents with some recreation or to remove them from the area?

“It sounds like the old reservation, concentration camp mentality to me, which is only a notch above the ethnic cleansing mentality.”

I told Kerry I thought he’d gone a little around the bend, hinting about extermination.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, “but I just couldn’t believe these people.”

“So, what did they say then?” I asked.

“They didn’t say anything. I mean not a word. They just got quiet for a second, and then changed the subject to something else.”

I ordered another Scotch and Kerry had another cognac. We sat there staring into our drinks, listening to the tinkling of glasses and the incessant bar chatter and quietly singing our own versions of the blues.