White like me

The meeting today was comprised of a small group who started their own businesses around the same time, back in the 80s. Some of those companies have come and gone, but we’ve remained in touch.

A few months ago, we got together and hatched an idea to give back to the community. We would stage seminars to help small and medium-sized businesses grow and not charge for enrollment. I liked the idea but saw a flaw in it. People are suspicious of free seminars. There’s a hook in there somewhere.

I’m not one to criticize without offering a solution. My concept was that we charge a nominal fee and donate the proceeds to a charitable, direct-service organization on a rotating basis. That is, the net from each seminar would go to a different nonprofit. Everybody wins.

At lunch today, we were discussing the plan for the first seminar. Barry kept interjecting that we have to make a strong effort to attract this minority group or that one. I pointed out that the objective was to service businesses of a particular size range, not race.

He stared at me for a couple seconds. “I just don’t want to be the only black there,”

“These are business owners, not Klansmen.”

“Henry, my white brother, you don’t know what it is to be a minority.”

Not in the sense he means. I was one in the neighborhood where I grew up. In the short run, I’ve done business in countries where they don’t like Americans and/or whites. But, he’s right.

For some reason, I thought of Larry’s Pleasure Box. That was a bar, deep in the area of Cincinnati known as Over-the-Rhine.

In college, I hung out at what was then a neighborhood bar called Murphy’s Pub. Now, it’s more college oriented. One summer, I played softball for their team. Most of the guys were blue collar.

One night, we played Larry’s Pleasure Box, which was all black players. Blacks and rednecks. University of Cincinnati colors, but the results were more incendiary on the ball field. Several fights broke out on contested plays.

Doug, the owner of Murphy’s, invited everyone down to his bar afterwards in a gesture of good sportsmanship. Or, maybe profit motive.

That was interesting. After a few rounds, some of the guys from Larry’s invited us down there. So, we piled in a few cars and followed them into the Forbidden City.

We parked fairly close and walked in. It was like the Deltas from “Animal House” showing up at the Dexter Lake Club. “Wait till Otis sees us!”

Abrupt silence and stares that could stop a charging rhino. We froze until our escorts led us back to the pool tables. Normalcy gradually returned.

We started playing for beers, but that gave way to shots. Some kind of bourbon that smelled like spar varnish but didn’t taste as good.

At some point, two things dawned on me. The first was that the sobriety line was well behind me. The second was that the stares had returned. Why is that? I looked around. My friends from Murphy’s were gone, as were the ball players of this bar who had invited us. I was the only white in Larry’s Pleasure Box very late on a Friday night. Not the optimum scenario. “If I was in your shoes, I’d be….leaving!”

I casually sauntered toward the door, reading faces that seemed to be trying to decide what to do about me. My foot hit the sidewalk in a dead sprint.

I streaked past where we had parked. Gone. No familiar cars. No familiar faces, either. White guy running through the hood. There’s a good idea. I was stumped for a better one.

Fear is a motivator and I’m pretty sure I set a personal best time in the mile. Then I hit the Clifton Avenue steep uphill and my body felt it necessary to jettison the excess liquid cargo. But, I was out of the woods. I staggered the rest of the way up to my car, a few more blocks away, parked by Murphy’s. It was closed, so there was no way to get a ride home.

It was a little over a mile to my abode and my run had cleared my head. I was able to navigate safely and live to play another game.

If that night is what Barry feels on a regular basis, he can invite any group he wants to.