Club R

The cotton plants swayed gently in the breeze as a shrouded figure walked across the plantation. A large metal cross dangled from his waist as gnarled hands gripped a rosary. As he walked, two men stood in the distance waiting for him. One, the plantation owner, clad in rustic wear with a fat face and menacing glare in his eye. The other, a political man in an expensive suit holding a pocket watch as he checked the time every few moments.

As the shrouded man reached them, he could see the owner was sweating profusely under the heat of the day, while the politician showed no signs of heat discomfort. The breeze died down some, and the air became hellish and stifling.

“Are you satisfied with the arrangement,” the shrouded man asked the politician.

“Absolutely, father, why wouldn’t I be?” the suited man replied.

The shrouded figure turned to the farmer, “And you, is this acceptable to you?”

“O, I think it’ll work out just fine.”

“Then we are in agreement, this is where we will establish the society,” finished the shrouded man. He pulled a set of blueprints from under his shabby robe. In the caption there was but one word, racism.

“Works for me,” the politician added as he motioned to a group of slaves to approach, “now you boys get to work for me.”

The three laughed as the first wooden beams arrived, and the slaves started to grab them and form them into a frame. Sweat glistened from their foreheads and arms as they toiled away. As time wore on, the building began to grow in both size and elaborate décor that only the privileged could see. Whenever a slave looked at the building, all they could see was a rotten husk of putrefying death.

There were glimmers of hope from time to time. Some men of unconventional bravery and enlightenment would step forward to take on the normal pervasive evil that served as the foundation for the racism in the society. However, every time they did, they would be gunned down by some zealot bent on maintaining the life their fathers had known.

Great men and women gunned down by cowards served as cornerstones to the building. One corner stood as Harriet Taubman. One as Abraham Lincoln. Another stood as Martin Luther King, Jr. Yet another stood as Rosa Parks. All martyrs to the cause in their own way.

Now we find ourselves in the times of today, the organization has grown massive and ominous in the landscape. Inside it seems beautiful, but very dated as a group of white friends sit at a table reminiscing with one another. One lady, Leah, who was particularly petulant looked out the ornate windows at a group of black kids that seemed to her to be staring in their direction.

“I just don’t understand why they’re always looking at us. I mean, we gave them chairs and umbrellas so they could be comfortable out there, and they just want to hang out around our club looking in all the time,” she scowled.

Sue, her friend, mused over the conversation as she looked the youths over.

“I don’t know, that tall one is kinda cute.” She began, “maybe we should let him in here with us.”

“You can’t be serious, Sue.”

“Oh, what could it hurt?”

“There haven’t been one of their kind in here since the days they finished building it. And I think I can still smell them from then even.”

“Oh Leah, always the drama.”

Leah shot daggers at her friend with her eyes.

“Sue, I don’t know if I can continue being friends with a, you know what, lover.”

“Leah, I was only putting you on,” Sue scoffed, “you can’t believe I would be serious about bringing one of them in here, it would be downright scandalous.”

Leah chortled, “You aren’t nearly as funny as you think you are.”