Rilke on Black

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I’m not a criminal.

I’ve done my share of dodgy things but they managed to slide under the legal line. Then I kidnapped a man, a black man. Even criminals despise this branch of the business. It smacked of cowardice and worse, stupidity.

To add insult to cliché, I did it for a woman. I don’t even think I liked her a whole lot but I sure adored her.

I was working as a bouncer. I didn’t wake up one morning and think “I must become a bouncer.” I didn’t think God whispered it. But I sure look the part. I’m six foot, four inches, weigh sixteen stone and I look mean. Shee, I’ve behaved mean in my time but it’s not part of my nature. It could have been as my father is a drunk. Always was. A very vicious drinker. Alcohol didn’t turn him that way, it just fuelled the process. My mother lit out for Bradford when I was seven. That’s where she probably still is and I reckon that’s penance enough.

Dad was a Hitler. At fourteen I was big and most of all, I was ready. He slapped me in the face for some infringement of his manic code and I grabbed his wrist.

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