Fine Because She's Mine by Reginald Terry Hinely

It is fairly late at night.
Oak Cliff get's a little riskier at night.
It's an older neighborhood in Dallas.
Back in the twenties and thirties, the best and brightest made their
homes here. That neighborhood remains with yuppie pioneers. But most of
'em don't send their kids to public schools.
We're not in that neighborhood. We're a couple of miles south of there.
Our neighborhood has poorer versions of the yuppie pioneers.
And in between and scattered around are the really poor. The Central
American refugees intermixed and sometimes feuding with the folks from
Mexico and the folks who have been in Texas, heritage-wise at least,
long before the gringo ever saw this fair land.
And of course vast blocks of people all shades of black and in between
are scattered around as well.
So the request is not taken lightly.

"Honey, would you go to the store? I need some tampax."
So I step out into the night. The cicadas hum, and the sweat rises, but
really it's not too bad. It has cooled from the 107 of yesterday to the
upper 90's today. Of course the reason for the temperature drop means a
hell of a lot more moisture in the air. The wind has shifted from the
desert to the Gulf. Some tropical thing is brewing and heading for the
upper Texas coast.

I start up the Metro and head for the Seven-Eleven Store. That chain of
Mom and Pop killers was started right here in Oak Cliff. The one with the
historical marker is at Twelfth Street and Edgefield.
At the Seven-Eleven the Metro reflects its red paint in the plate glass
window. I can even see myself inside the car. The headlights go out and kill
the shadows. I disappear into the Seven-Eleven.
The bright flourescent lights and a thousand brand names assault my senses.
I feel I'm raising my arm like Frankenstein in the old black and white
version. But I get a grip and head for the second row where the tampax
can be found. A large black man is standing in the middle of the aisle
peering at the different types of tampax. There are different colors and
different sizes. Green for regular is my quest. I'm looking and my
companion mutters, "Damn, I can't find the super absorbancy."
A statement left hanging in the gulf between us. Not a question. Not a plea.
I see my green and regular, and my pink and somewhat peeling hand
reaches and grabs the plastic wrapped box.
I see the super right next to the green.
I get a box of that, too, and hand it to him.

"Say, what choo doin', man?"
A direct question. No question about it.
His brown eyes seem to swim in the only visible white of his body.
"It's super," I say.
"Yea," he says.
I head for the counter and he grabs my shoulder.
I feel his fingers as they press into my shoulder.
I turn around and greet those eyes.
"Is she tight, man?" he asks.
I notice the clerk watching me. I notice two or three other shoppers
checking out this unlikely bond. I realize the guy had been speaking quite loudly.
I reply.
"She's fine," and add, "because she's mine."
His eyes sharpen. Then more white is revealed in a big smile.
"Cool..." he says.
and adds,
"Me and you brother."

His hand reaches out. I slap it. I then let my palm see the tile above.
A dark form of similar shape eclipses the flouscent lights and my palm feels
the sting of acceptance.

The clerk, a pimply faced boy of fifteen, checks us out.
In the parking lot I'm starting my car when my new friend walks out.
He's laughing.
He starts to sing in the new fashion, and his finger is pointing at me,

"She's fine, Cuz she's mine,
drink some wine so sublime...
Whatcha gonna do if she walks away
Whatcha gonna say on that new day....
She's fine, Cuz she's mine,
And she ain't, got the time..
She ain't goin' out that door today
Cuz' I got the super anyway and ....
she's mine..."

He opens the door to his car and gives me a wave.
I roll up my window and start the engine.

In my brain I imagine my own remembrances of Mark Twain...
the words are discombobulated but the rhythm's right.
"An eight cent slip for a blue trip fare
Black is the color of my true love's hair
Punch in the presence of the passenjair.
Punch! Brother's Punch with care,
Punch in the presence of the passenjair!"

Dum dee dum diddle dum dee dare.

It still drummed in my ears when I reached home.

"You got regular, right?" she asks.
"Yep," I reply.

Terry H.