That Guy

Colson Whitehead, "Visible Man"

People think I have it easy, but it's surprisingly difficult being The Guy Who Got Where He Is Only Because He's Black, what with the whole having to be everywhere in the country at once thing. One second I'm nodding enthusiastically in a sales conference in Boise, Idaho, and the next I'm separating conjoined triplets at the Institute For Terribly Complicated Surgery in Buchanan, N.Y., and then I have to rush out to Muncie, Ind., to put my little "Inspector 12" tag in a bag of Fruit of the Loom.

It's exhausting, all that travel. Decent, hard-working folks out there have their religion and their xenophobia to cling to. All I have is a fistful of upgrades to first class and free headphones. Headphones That Should Have Gone to a More Deserving Passenger ....

.... Frankly it's a lot better than my last two gigs, The Guy Who Left the Seat Up and The Guy Who Took the Last Beer, although I do suffer from a lot of work-related injuries, as you can imagine. For all this jibber-jabber about how I don't understand a working man's problems, you should take a look at my medical chart. I have carpal tunnel, tennis elbow, miner's lung, scapegoat rash and vintner's dropsy, and just last week I burned my thumb making horseshoes. The funny thing is, I didn't want to be a blacksmith. But I heard they had an opening and I couldn't help myself.

I put in a good day's work, unwind with a little Marx, and then settle down for some well-deserved rest. I have a nice bed. It is a California king. It is stuffed with gold doubloons, the treasure I have accumulated by gathering the bonuses and raises that would have gone to Those Who Would've Gotten It Except for That Black Guy. The bed is quite comfortable. I sleep O.K.