Saint And Sinners (59 page)

“What in the world is that?” Roman grinned, pointing to his concoction.

“Hell if I know. It’s the special. Tastes pretty good though…a bit too sweet, but
it’s different.”

“I’m usually just a regular ol’ beer drinker, but this place makes you want to try
all sorts of stuff. I rarely do it, though.”

Just then, the bartender approached.

“What can I get for you?” he asked as he vigorously dried a wine glass with a white
towel.

“I’d like a—”

“Live a little!” Saint interjected with a sly grin. “Get this man a Pain Killer.”

The bartender nodded and left to prepare the cocktail.

“A Pain Killer?” Roman’s eyes smoldered with curiosity and his lips crooked to one
side. “What the heck is that?”

“My man George actually got me to hip to them. It’s cinnamon, coconut and rum…damn
delicious. You’ll love it, you’ll see.”

“Okay, I’m trusting you.” Roman laughed lightly then looked down at his joined hands
on the counter.

“Yeah…trust.” Saint nodded as he peered into his barely disturbed drink. “That’s what
this meeting is all about.”

“I’m not following you.” Roman turned towards him, his expression more serious now.
“Thank you.” He nodded at the bartender as the man set his drink down in front of
him.

“How long have you lived in California, Roman?” Saint glided his finger up and down
his glass, feeling the cool, wet condensation as he geared up for his pitch.

“My whole life…”

“Have you ever imagined living somewhere else? Somewhere completely different?”

Saint was met by silence as Roman deliberated long over the question.

“At times…why?”

Saint sniffed and scratched his head, digging into his scalp a bit too hard.

I need to cut my nails…

“Well, I want you and your family to move to New York. I want you to join me.”

Roman turned towards him, but Saint kept his gaze on the bar. Out the corner of his
eye, he could see the man was in utter shock, his mouth hanging wide open.

“Join you? Join you with
what
?” He could hear the disbelief in the officer’s tone, loud and clear. “From what I
know, Mr. Aknaten, you—”

“No, keep calling me Saint. Don’t jump back and forth like that.” Saint waved his
hand at him. “We’re friends…or I at least hope so…”

“Uh, okay, Saint, from what I know of you, you are an author and therapist, and…”
The man looked around cautiously then whispered, “And the baddest motherfucking Angel
Child I have ever seen in my damn life.”

Saint smirked, took a frothy sip of his drink and set it back down.

“Thank you… Well, I’m glad you brought that up and think so highly of me, because
I think the NYPD needs a mothafucka like you on their team.”

“NYPD? New York?! You want me to join the force in New York?!”

“Yeah…I do.” Saint sat straight and looked the man dead in the eye.

“Let me explain something to you, Roman. I know that you know, though you didn’t mention
it, but I am what many call an advocate for black women and Rainbeaus.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“And how does that make you feel, Roman?” Saint smiled and turned away, taking another
swallow from his glass. “Just because your wife is Hispanic doesn’t mean you’d necessarily
understand and be open to the concept. I don’t take things like that for granted,
you know, make those sort of leaps in logic.”

“Well, if I’m not honest, you’ll know.” Chuckling, the man took a nervous sip of his
Pain Killer. “Damn…this is good.”

“Told you…” Saint grinned and continued to sip at his own drink.

“So, I may as well tell the truth. After meeting you, I did take the liberty to read
some of your books.”

“Mmmm hmmm.”

“And well, you have a different viewpoint, a different approach, that’s for sure.
I’m not against people marrying who they want to marry, but it does appear at times
that you, well, take issue with black men such as myself.” Roman sat a bit taller,
his deep voice dropping low, a hand on his chest for emphasis.

“I’m glad you’re being honest, Roman.” Saint took another taste of his beverage. “Let’s
get this out of the way.” He turned towards him. “I don’t hate black men. I’m tired
of explaining that, but you’ve brought it up, so now I have to address it again. Look,
that theory isn’t even coherent and I’ll tell you why. I
cannot
hate black men because you are the
fathers
of the women I covet. I am a scientist by trade.” He raised a brow and pointed to
himself. “I
think
like a scientist; my principles are scientific in nature, regardless of the spiritual
over and undertones. That is why my official, professional name has the word, ‘Doctor’
in front of it. I cannot love someone,
genuinely
love them, Roman, and hate the source from which they came—the very person that created
them.

“I look at you, Roman, and see half of the equation. I see half of the DNA that created
the woman I adore. Without you, there is no her. So, let’s get that straight, first
and foremost. Secondly, as lame as this sounds, my best friend, Raphael, is black.
I know people throw that up to try and say they aren’t racist, sexist, homophobic
and whatever else, but it’s true. He is a man that is very much into his culture.
He at one point in time also had issue with what I wrote in my books and said at the
conferences I speak at. I do
not
hate black men, I do not think black men are evil, useless, and any other negative
adjective you can throw out there. What I
do
think, Roman, is that, as a whole, black men devalue black women. That is my right
to have that opinion, and it is based on daily actions and behaviors. I’ve studied
this shit since I was a child, and that’s real.

“I believe that you—not you personally, but American black men in general—try to control
their women through acts of selfishness and mental, verbal and emotional abuse and
regulation. There is an obsession going on, especially as of late, with telling black
women that they need to change and simultaneously exposing that they are not wanted
while the accuser mentions nothing of himself that needs reflection, altering or a
complete face-lift. So…” Saint threw up his hands. “What the
fuck
are they supposed to do, huh?! Bow their heads and say, ‘Yes, Sir, we ain’t shit.’
Are they supposed to thank the degrader, and then want to stick by his side? No, they
are not! Black men are institutionalizing a form of mental slavery towards their female
counterpart. When you control a woman’s mind, you control everything else about her.
That goes beyond race; it is simply a biological fact. That is why I explain in almost
every conference I do, that you must first make love to that woman’s mind before you
touch
anything
on her person. Are you following me, Roman?”

The man stared back at him with pure, unadulterated astonishment. Not a word came
out of his mouth. He probably couldn’t believe Saint’s nerve, his audacity, but that’s
simply how it is, and Saint refused to not keep it one hundred with the guy. Yes,
he wanted him on his team, he wanted him bad, but it was no use playing games to try
and charm him, make him come running in his direction. This is who he was; this is
what he was about. Straight, no mothafuckin’ chaser. Get at me…

“No other person is told, ‘You aren’t shit, but stick with me anyway’, even though
I am treating you the worst. You see? That is a form of mind control, which black
men in this country learned in part from the European culture that was here during
colonization. Slavery was successful because it first controlled the West African’s
mind. You cannot make anyone into a slave unless you use degradation first.” He held
up his finger. “Degradation immediately breeds fear. After fear is established, you
use consequence and punishment. These are the simple laws, the rules for how to enslave,
how to pimp, how to socially and morally bankrupt a nation. All one has to do is observe!
The black male mentality in this country, and some parts of Europe and Africa, is
to do this to the black woman—and it is working! Don’t sit there lookin’ at me like
that, man. Do you understand what I’m saying or not?”

“I understand you all right, and I can’t believe this shit…keep going though.” Roman
smirked and shook his head before taking another gulp from his glass.

“Fine, I will. What you do is, you mind fuck your opponent. You extract their self
esteem, as if sucking it through a straw, and you swallow that shit so that the person
you stole it from never gets it back. Then, you tell that person they aren’t shit
without you…and violà!” Saint gave a mirthless laugh and threw up his hands. “They
believe you! It is mental, emotional and spiritual servitude. The black woman is the
new
American slave.”

Roman ran his hand over his face as if he were exhausted. Both men sat quietly for
quite some time.

“The fucked up part is that she hears the damn chains, but can’t see them! She has
no idea she is even shackled. Now,
that
is what you call some good ass pimpin’…” Saint winked at the man, snatched his drink
off the counter and downed it like it was nothing.

“First of all, Saint, you really do have a way with words. Secondly, I’m a logical
man, not prone to emotional stuff, but, though I understand what you are saying, I
disagree. You do not understand the dynamics of black women and their relationship
with us, as black men. You did
not
experience our history. With all due respect, and I am not doubting your intelligence
and passion, Saint, but you are on the outside looking in.”

Saint nodded and grinned, going over the words spoken to him for a moment or two.

“I can respect that viewpoint, Roman. Now, may I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.”

“How many black women have you dated?”

Saint clasped his hands, leaned a little forward, and smiled. Though Roman was dark
complexioned, it was obvious a reddened glow was forming along the man’s prominent
cheekbones.

“…A few.”

“You have a preference for white and Hispanic women, correct? I’m not judging you.
I’m in no position to do such… This is just a question.”

Roman cleared his throat, took a nervous sip of his drink, smiled and nodded.

“What’s that? A yes?” Saint’s brow arched.

“Yes…”

“Okay, so, here I am,” he said, placing his hand across his torso. “A man that is
going to be
completely
honest with you about something I am not proud of, got it?”

“Got it. Free your mind, and the rest shall follow…” Roman teased, causing Saint to
smirk.

“Nice play on our conversation… Anyway, I have dated almost every race of woman under
the sun. However, the majority have been black. Caribbean, West Indian, African American,
Northern African, South African, you name it. You have dated a few, I have dated
hundreds
… That is not an exaggeration, man. That is truth, no filter. Now, think long and
hard before you answer. Based on that information, who would you say has more knowledge
about black women? You or me?”

“Now, wait a minute, Saint. You—”

“No, no.” Saint put his hand up. “Just answer the question.”

“Based on your example, it would be you…” Roman grimaced.

“Exactly. I will tell you why, Roman. Just because you have the same physical appearance
as far as skin tone and culture as black women, that doesn’t mean you
know
them better than I do, okay? You were not even alive when Martin Luther King Jr.
was marching, nor was I. You were not in existence during slavery, either, so to say
that you share a history with a woman based on that, is flawed. Yes, you have a history,
black history—but you did not experience that
directly
, you simply read about it and witness some of the results of a racist system in this
country, based on the groundwork set from that precedent. You share the results of
white supremacy, you share the racial condition in this country and abroad, as it
exists today, but to truly
know
a woman, it far exceeds her historical timeline. To truly know a woman, it is about
being
present
in her existence and investing time, effort and energy into her so that you may be
a part of her future…”

“Well damn.” Roman broke out in a wide grin.

Saint smiled and waved the bartender over to order a refill of the sweet, blue stuff.

“You
know
white women, Roman. That’s who you know,” he continued, wanting to drive his point
home. “You know them far better than I do. You may even know Hispanic women, Roman,
better than I do, but you do
not
know black women better than I do. Not because I’ve had sex with hundreds of black
women, but because of the mind fucking, that I, too, am guilty of doing to black women,
only differently.”

“Okay, Saint, explain this mind fucking to me. I get the whole, you know…” he waved
his hands about, “controlling a person’s mind, but you’ve kind of explained it in
layers and I want you to break this down to me. The conversation we’re having is fascinating,
by the way.”

“Good, and I’m glad you asked that.” He took a gulp of his refreshed drink and continued
on. “In order to properly mind fuck someone, you must study them, get to know them,
find out their strengths and weaknesses. You have to know who you are trying to convince,
dominate and control. I, too, was a slave master; only, I did not know it. I used
my mouth and cock to enslave women and since black women are my preference, it was
to enslave black women. How unlucky for them, right?” Saint teased, though the truth
of the matter made him queasy. Suddenly a flash of his daughter’s face entered his
mind, and he wanted to hurl. He pushed the emotions aside and stayed on track.

“As you know, I have children now, Roman. I have a wife, a beautiful, successful woman
who knows me almost better than I know myself. How do you think I feel now, looking
in the mirror, knowing that to some degree, I was a part of the problem, hmmm? I took
my skills and used them for wrong doing, instead of helping to solve an issue. Now,
I am trying to make up for it by teaching Rainbeaus what
not
to do, in order to get what they want and need.