General Prologue
When in April, and it hasn't yet rained, And the drought of March has again sustained Another year of our eternal spring; Then old Santa Ana begins to sing That fiery yet most familiar tune How Los Angeles always feels like June: Smoggy skies in this endless summer day; Our seasons change by the sports that we play (The boys of summer always dodge the fall, So it's a good thing we have basketball, Because our Rams and Raiders sneaked away, And the Kings make our winters cold and gray Till the madness marches throughout the spring And the Bruins and Trojans do their thing.) Not that we all pay attention too much. In L.A. we're pretty well out of touch From one community to the other: Neighbors are strangers to one another! The Westside is busy running the store, And the Eastside is the Westside's eyesore; The South is the center of civil war 'Tween the L.A. cops and the gangland poor; The North is a place I can't say much about; Whenever I go there I get kicked out… But none of this serves the matter at hand. This prologue's more what the scholars demand: Setting the meter and framing the poem; This part is not for you readers at home. That having been said, I'll really begin With names and descriptions of all the men And the one woman involved in this tale; And I'll start with Leo, the oldest male. But first I should probably set the scene: The seven of us, uniformed in green, All worked at the Downtown Holiday Inn On the graveyard shift (which started at ten And ended at eight the following day: Eight bucks an hour ((no overtime pay!)) From that cheap bastard Donald Brubury Of Brubury Sons' Security). Leo Kapitanski, a Russian Jew, Was in charge of our security crew. A handsome man, for his age, I suppose, Despite his large, disproportionate nose. His jaw chiseled sharp, like some crime noir dick; His muscular body, solid and thick, Combined to create a masculine air, Virile and strong as his full head of hair. But Leo had hands like a woman might: Small fingers, thin, with skin as smooth and tight As the hide of a bongo drum from Spain. Perhaps his hands had been shrunk by the rain That slipped like tears from Red Mother's sockets, Years spent patrolling, hands in his pockets, Smoking and drinking to try and stay warm. Eight years in the army with little harm, Thank God, because he was the best of men. May I never see my mother again If, indeed, I am not telling the truth. So what if he cheated on his wife Ruth? After all, none of us is without sin. (If I'm wrong let the rock-throwing begin!) And Leo's no different in that regard, But he was one fine security guard. Second in command was Alex Loma Who spent his shifts in a sort of coma, Sleeping from midnight 'til seven thirty, Snoring and drooling, it wasn't pretty. But he had another job on the side, Which is why most of us just let it slide And never complained or molested him. Besides, most of the guys detested him And preferred that he spent his time asleep: Alex Loma was a huge macho creep! An ounce of steak to a pound of pure fat, And that's all I'm going to speak of that. John Shamburger's next, a man without shame. Shamburger, he said, was just a slave name Imposed upon his shackled ancestors By white American Dream investors Who killed the Natives and enslaved the blacks And then built this country upon their backs. Shamburger had taken classes at school That spoke of the acres and of the mule Promised to families allegedly freed When Northern guilt beat out Southern greed. Bitterness bubbled and shot through his veins And started to eat away at his brain: "It's because I'm black," his favorite phrase, He'd pull the race card at every phase Of an argument that he was losing. His credibility took a bruising With all of the time and energy spent On trying to prove O.J. innocent. We argued for so many months on end, And not even once did he break or bend. But, I must admit, I admired him. The fire inside that inspired him Made him always look outside of the box. And although he seemed stubborn, made of rocks, He's one of the best men I ever knew. Over the years I watched him as he grew. He's a volunteer mentor in the hood, In Hawthorne, and Compton and Inglewood; He doesn't drink, smoke or use any drugs; He preaches to pimps and dealers and thugs The word of the book he keeps by his bed. John promised me that before he was dead He will have made the world a better place, And I watched as a tear slipped down his face And I knew right then he already had. But, before this tale gets too sappy or sad I'll get back to John Shamburger later And move things ahead to Joseph Dator, The next of our group in seniority (Not that rank is a real priority, It's more a practical way to proceed); And Joe Dator was practical indeed. Economic with words and with feeling, Oft he'd sit and stare up at the ceiling, Leaning way back in the chair provided. Rarely ever did he get excited. Born near Manila circa '63, Joseph dreamed of the land of liberty; But, now, apparently, he was content: He had enough money to pay the rent, He had a car and a nice place to live, And a li'l something leftover to give To his local church, once in a while. (A gift he gave with a wink and a smile.) Joe once was a serious Catholic, Right up to the day his father got sick And died slowly of cystic fibrosis.
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