Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 <H1 ALIGN=CENTER>Serendipity</H1>

   <H2 ALIGN=CENTER><i>or; How a GOOD THING Can Just Fall In Front of
You</i></H2>

   <H3 ALIGN=CENTER>Copyright 2010-2015 The Scribbler</H3>

   Word count = 4345

   <em>Chapter the Ninth</em>

   Well, well.  That was a MOST interesting experience.

   Now, we all know that the Walton's Market is an equal opportunity
employer...  Right?

   Try being a white man, shopping for, and with, two black kids.  You
wouldn't believe the looks the the kids got.  Nasty?  I'm here to tell you,
nothing brings out the hatred in a black woman, more than another black
woman, or in this case, girl, being with a white man.  Claws came out, all
over that store.  None of those nasty looks were directed at me, though. 
At least none that I noticed.

   My two just cowered against my back, crowding my heels, as we made our
way through the store.

   I had maybe three hundred dollars worth of groceries, clothes for
Latisha and Tyrell, and a a few things for me, in the cart.  When our turn
came, I had my slaves placing the things on the conveyor belt for the
cashier to ring up.

   The cashier, was, of course, black.  She was wearing a pissed off look,
on her face, and was talking to herself, in low enough tones that I
couldn't make out the words.  Until, that is, I heard, "...fucking oreo
cunt.  Nigger on the outside, white on the inside, hangin' with that ofay
motha-fucker" as she slammed a package of egg noodles into a bag.

   I rested my hands on my slave's shoulders, stopping their actions.  I
pulled them with me, as we started to leave, abandoning the groceries, but
then I stopped, and turned to the woman running the register, and after
carefully looking her up, and down, said, "You might be able to find a
white man to take care of you, if you lost, oh, say, eighty pounds of ugly
fat, and learned to speak with deference to your customers.  I don't see
that happening in this lifetime, though, and because you chose to gravely
insult my kids, in front of me, no less, I refuse to shop here.  You can
pass that on to your manager.  Or not, I don't care." I turned us away, and
headed for the door.

   As we walked into the foyer, one of the security personnel intercepted
us, and said, "Sir, I have to ask you all to come with me," and grasped me
by the upper arm.  In a way, it was funny, because the top of his head only
came up to my shoulder.  His having to look up at me, didn't seem to piss
him off, or anything, but I'm sure he wasn't happy about it.

   I did not try to pull away, or anything, I just stated, "We are leaving,
unless you are detaining us." In this state, "attempting to escape" is the
felony, and even yanking yourself free from their grasp is grounds for that
charge.

   He replied, "Sir, as I said, I have to ask you to come with me.  It
should only take a few moments to resolve this, as soon as the manager gets
here." He was obviously confused as to why he was detaining me, and not
happy about the situation, at all.

   I told my slaves, "stay close, kids," and let him lead us into the
security room.  Now, the security room in these stores are interesting, in
that, there is no door knob on the inside of the door.  once the door
closes, you need a key, to get out, or a button in a hidden location pushed
to release the catch plate.  In other words, you had to be LET out.

   There was a desk set sideways to the door, with a comfortable chair
behind it, and an uncomfortable straight backed chair, in front.  I just
smiled, and started dialing my cell phone.

   When it picked up, I said, "Donna, this is Will Jones.  Please record
this call." Donna is my lawyer's secretary.

   "Of course, Mr.  Jones.  Recording is active," she replied.

   I heard her saying for the recording, the date and time, and then I
said, "My name is William Jones, and I acknowledge that this call is being
recorded by my request." I knew from long conversations with those who
know, that everything that happened in that room was being recorded on
video, from multiple angles, so Mr.  Store-Security didn't have a
complaint, me setting up my own recording.  I placed my cell phone in my
shirt pocket.

   "Now, Sir," I said, to the security agent, "I repeat, I would like for
us to leave, immediately."

   "I'm sorry, Mr.  Jones," he replied, "I can't let you do that."

   I carefully didn't ask why not, or make any threats.  I just spoke
again, that I wanted to leave.  He just as carefully didn't acknowledge my,
or his, recording our conversation.

   "The manager will be here in a moment, to discuss this matter with you,
Sir.  You'll just have to wait," was the response.

   I didn't bother to repeat myself, again.  I just hugged my two slaves,
one to either side of me, and told them that this was going to work out
fine.  Then, I sat, uninvited, in the chair in front of his desk.  He, in
turn sat in his chair, and folded his hands on the desk top.

   We pretended to ignore each other, for a couple of minutes, until a
rather imposing black woman came through the door, blocking it open, with
one foot, took one look, and said in a harsh manner, "You two kids, you
come with me, now."

   I held my slaves to myself, and said, "Oh, no.  We refuse to be
separated.  Lady, I don't know who you are, but we want to leave, right
now."

   She stepped on into the room, allowing the door to close and latch. 
"You're not going anywhere, Honkey, 'ceptin' to jail, you fucking pervert!"
she yelled.  I noticed the security dude wince, and shake his head.

   I pulled my wallet from my pocket, found the card I'd been given, and
said, "Donna, call this number," I gave the number on the card, "and ask
for Judge Bates.  Tell him you are calling for me, and that we are about to
have one of those bureaucratic incidents he mentioned." I heard her light
chuckle from my phone, and knew she was doing as I bid.

   Looking at the woman, I asked, "I assume, then, that the police have
already been called?"

   "Damn right, sick-o," she stated.  "Now, you kids, I said come with me.
I have to get you away from that pervert." My slaves just hugged me that
much tighter, and shook their heads.

   I was loving every minute of this, so I said, "Ma'am, you haven't said
who you are, or anything.  Are you by any chance, a police officer?"

   "No," she said.  "I'm the manager, here, and part of my job is
protecting kids from being picked up by sick muther fuckers like you."

   The door had opened as she was saying this, and two uniforms had walked
in, observing the situation.

   "I need a number," I heard from my phone.

   Looking at the security guard, I asked, "Got a number for one of these
phones?" waving at his desk.

   "312, 555, 4107" he said, projecting his voice a bit.

   I knew Donna was already relaying the number.  "Two police officers, as
yet un-identified, are also now present," I said, speaking for the tapes.

   The one watching me, said, "I'm officer Marsh, and my partner is officer
O'Malley."

   Officer O'Malley was holding a whispered conversation with the manager,
at the moment.

   The phone on the desk rang, and the security dude picked it up. 
"Security, Jameson speaking," he said.

   His face paled, and he waved a bit urgently, to Officer Marsh.  "Yes,
your Honor.  Just a moment," Jameson said.  Then he held the phone to
Officer Marsh, who took it, and identified himself.  I thought the good
officer was going to faint, for just a tick, but his knees firmed and held
his weight, after wobbling for a moment.

   "Yes, I remember, your Honor," he said into the phone.  He then turned
to face back into the room, cradled the phone against his shoulder and ear,
and sat on the edge of the desk, watching his partner and the manager. 
'Interesting,' I thought, as this left me, my slaves, and Jameson, to the
officer's sides and rear, and not under his eye.  A gross violation of
protocol, and a piss poor survival tactic, for the officer in question.  If
I was a bad guy, that is.  At least his gun was on the other side of his
waist, from me.

   O'Malley and the manager must have finished, because he looked over at
us.  His eyes widened quite comically, when he noticed his partners
position.  But then his eyes narrowed, and I could tell that he and his
partner were having a silent conversation, much like a long married couple
can.

   "Judge Bates," March suddenly said, "He remembers us from that comment I
made in the restroom, that time."

   O'Mally nodded, then looked at me.  "Let's hear you side," he said,
sounding a bit exasperated.

   "Simple, really," I replied.  "We came here to shop, and endured many
hostile glares from the employees.  When we were checking out, the cashier
made several derogatory comments to and about my charges, here." I hugged
Latisha and Tyrell as I said that.

   "I then decided to decline the transaction, and we tried to leave the
premises, whereupon this gentleman intercepted and detained us, despite my
protestations.  We were never informed as to the reason for our detention,
and were never searched for stolen items.

   "Then, That woman came in, demanding that my charges leave with her.  We
protested and refused.  That's where we were, when you arrived.  Oh, and
she used some profanities to describe me, as I'm sure the tapes will show."

   O'Malley nodded, and then addressed Jameson, "Why did you stop him?"

   "Ms.  Jackson, the store manager, called a code Adam on them over the
radio," he said.  "I was on my way to lock down the doors, when I spotted
them trying to leave, intercepted them, and brought them in here."

   "So you were acting on the manager's instructions, when you detained
these people?" the Officer asked.

   "Yes, Sir," Jameson replied.  "I followed company protocol, every step,
until Ms.  Jackson arrived."

   "Until the manager arrived?" asked Officer Marsh.  "Explain that,
please."

   "Well," Jameson explained, "protocol says that once suspects enter this
room, they don't leave until after you police have arrived.  She came in,
and demanded the kids leave with her, and that's a direct conflict with the
policy.  She fired one of the security women, last week, for letting a kid
back out, to wait in the lobby while we had the kid's mom in here for
shoplifting."

   "Anything else?" asked O'Malley.

   "Well, yes.  We are always supposed to treat people with respect, unless
and until they try to resist." He said.  "This gentleman never tried to
resist.  In fact, he never even raised his voice.  As soon as Ms.  Jackson
came through the door, she was acting in a pejorative and hostile manner,
and using abusive language."

   O'Malley exchanged looks with his partner, and then suggested Marsh find
out why the Judge was involved, and on the phone.  Marsh nodded, and held a
short, quiet conversation with Judge Bates, Then said, "Thank you, Your
Honor.  We'll handle it from here.  Yes Sir, I'll be sure you get a
certified copy of the video...  Good day, sir." He hung up the phone with a
sigh.

   Marsh looked at his partner, flicked his gaze to the manager, Ms. 
Jackson, and back, then turned to me, and asked if I was going to make a
criminal complaint.  This drew a squawk from Ms.  Jackson, but Officer
O'malley told her to be quiet.

   I thought about it, a moment, then said, "Unless one of you has reason
to think she's a flight risk, I'd like to talk this over with my lawyer,
first."

   O'Malley said, "That's fine, for now.  We'll need your ID.  for our
report, of course." Then he turned to Ms.  Jackson, and said, "This is
highly irregular.  I am not going to arrest you at this time.  But you are
now informed that you are under investigation for kidnapping, False Arrest,
unlawful detainment, and two counts of endangering the welfare of a minor."
He pulled out the little card every cop has, and continued, "You have the
right to remain silent.  Anything you say can and will be used against you
in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot
afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.  Do you understand the
rights I have just read to you?  With these rights in mind, do you wish to
speak to me?"

   I pulled my license and carry permits from my wallet, while this was
going on, and handed them to Officer Marsh.

   Ms.  Jackson started screaming about how it was all a racist plot, and I
must say, I was impressed by both her command of invective, and by
O'Malley's patience with her.  All through her ranting, he just kept asking
her if she understood her rights.

   What happened next, was mostly O'Malley's fault.  He wasn't treating Ms.
Jackson as a possible threat.  So, when she reached up, with both hands,
and pushed O'Malley, he was unprepared.  He stumbled backwards, and almost
fell, as Ms.  Jackson took a step, preparing to kick him.  The Tazer darts
hit her, one in her belly, and one in her left tit.  It may have even
pierced her nipple, it was that close to a center shot.  Ms.  Jackson was
still making noises, as her legs collapsed and she went to the floor, but
there weren't any words, now.  Just a lot of screaming.

   Marsh let up on the trigger, and yelled at her to roll over.  then, when
she didn't, he pulsed the trigger, and told her to stop resisting.  This
continued for several repetitions, while O'Malley made it back to his feet.


   As O'Malley grabbed Jackson's arm, Marsh released the trigger of the
Tazer, and called for back up and an ambulance, on his portable radio.  He
waited for O'Malley to finish cuffing Jackson's hands behind her back,
before clipping the leads and holstering the Tazer.  Then he turned to the
rest of us, and said, "Well, looks like she made the choice for all of us.
Unfortunately for you, this is going to take a while."

   "No Sir," I responded.  "It may take YOU a while, but we are leaving. 
You have my information, and," I pulled one of my lawyer's cards from my
wallet, "I can be reached through my lawyer." I handed him the card, and
gathered my licenses from the desk.  "You can contact them, if, for some
reason, you need a copy of the recording they made of this whole thing. 
But, for now, we are leaving.  This chaos has been very wearing on myself,
and these kids."

   I stood up, picked up my cellphone, then said to Jameson.  "We're done.
Please let us out."

   Getting a nod from the cop, he said, "I apologize for this, Mr Jones."
He came out from behind his desk, and led the way to the door, which he
opened with a key.  Holding it open, he asked, "I do hope you
understand..." He shrugged, implying, 'what can you do?'

   I didn't feel a need to reply.  I just pushed my slaves out of the
store, and then put my cell phone to my ear.  "Okay, we're out," I said,
walking briskly towards the truck.  "Do we need to come down to your
office?" I had no doubt in my mind that all the partners were gathered
around a speaker-phone, listening.

   "Not right now, Will." This was Sam Clemens, my favorite lawyer.  He is
the one that handles all my property contracts.  Sam is a devout bachelor,
by the same reasoning as I am.  Much less expensive to rent, than to be
taken to the cleaners by a gold digger.

   He also, like me, is a strong dominant, when it comes to sex.  He's even
borrowed my basement, upon occasion.

   "Will, were you at the place on Atlantic, and 128th?" he asked.

   "Yeah," I replied, "why do you ask?"

   "Because, with your permission," he said, "I'd like to invoke Clause 17.
You own that location."

   "O-ho!" I exclaimed, and started laughing, drawing startled looks from
my slaves.

   My day just became a lot brighter.  I hadn't even thought about the fact
that I owned the property, and that the big store leased it from me. 
Clause 17, is in every one of the development contracts that I sign with
any one leasing a property from me.  Simply stated, Clause 17 says that any
criminal activity on the part of the leasee, or their agents, committed on
the property was grounds for immediate eviction upon leasor (me)
discovering that said activity had occurred.  I could legally turn right
around, and demand that everyone, customers and employees alike, leave the
premises, and lock up the store, confiscating everything inside as damages.
I must admit, it was a tempting thought.

   "You're not going to shut them down, are you?" I asked.

   "Not really," said Sam.  "But I am going to call Bentonville, and
threaten them, just to see how high they'll pay to keep that store.  It's
just now one o'clock, and that gives them three hours to come up with a
reason for me NOT to go to a judge"

   I laughed again, as I unlocked the truck, "I don't care how much you get
them to go for, you can pay the greens fees out of your cut!"

   "We'll have to see about that," he told me.  "One thing you can be sure
of, I'm going to knock that thirty years down to the five we wanted, to
start with.  Even if that's the only thing I can get."

   "Okay by me, and you knew that," I said, as we climbed into the truck.
"Listen, my cell is dying.  I'll talk to you later."

   "Okay, Will.  See ya!"

   I closed my phone, and asked Tyrell to get the charging cord out of the
glove box.  He did, and as he was handing it to me, he asked, "Master? 
what was all that about?"

   Starting the truck, and heading it towards the exit of the parking lot,
I glanced at the two of them.

   Seeing Latisha's expectant mien, I could see his sister had the same
questions on her mind.  "Well, it's like this, kids.  I own the property
that store is on.  I paid to build the building.  I lease the building and
property to the corporation that runs the store.  A part of that lease says
that if the corporation or any of it's people ever commit a criminal act on
the property, the lease is broken and they have to vacate immediately. 
Now, that's a big store.  They wouldn't have time to get much out of it,
except some of the money.  Everything they left behind would be mine, to
use or sell, or just throw away..." I stumbled to a stop, because, judging
by their looks, that wasn't the question either of them was really asking.
"Okay, I misunderstood what you two were asking.  What is it?"

   Latisha took a turn at it.  "Master, those people in there...  The Black
people.  They were all looking at Tyrell and me like they hated us.  They
weren't even hardly looking at you.  And that girl running the register. 
The things she said, really hurt, but those looks the others were giving
us, they hurt too."

   I sighed.  I knew what she was asking.  But, what I didn't know was how
to explain to a young Black girl and boy, how the only ones that many
Blacks hate more than white people, are Black people that DON'T hate
Whites, and are...  Content to live with Whites.  And that, without even
mentioning the "slave," issue.  Still, I had to make a try at it.

   "Well, Tisha, I could be wrong, but I think the main reason, is they
were jealous," I said, tentatively.  " They saw that I am taking care of
you, and your brother, probably better than they take care of -or CAN take
care of- themselves.

   "Now, you know as well as I do that there is a lot of...  Dislike
between the different races..." They both nodded.  "Well, They were
probably thinking something like you were being a traitor to your race. 
You obviously don't hate me, or hate being with me.  Bad as it was, though
I'll tell you it would have been a hell of a lot worse if they figured out
you'd given yourselves to me as slaves."

   I sighed.  "Me, they just hate.  Because of the colour of my skin.  But
you two..." I sighed, again, then shook my head, sorrowfully.  "A friend of
mine was telling me about an experience he had, that was similar to what
happened back there.  He told me, that when he questioned the price of some
tire cleaner to a Puerto Rican cashier at a dollar store, a black man
behind him started cussing him out calling him six different kinds of
nigger and proclaimed that he even dressed like a white man

   "He said that even the store manager got involved with publicly berating
him, calling him a sellout and Uncle Tom and an Oreo.

   "We decided that rage and feelings of inferiority are a big part of the
problem, for many in the black community, and we even figured out how to
fix it.

   "We decided that it is as glaringly simple as it is complex.  The easy
part of solving this for every black person given over to directing rage at
other blacks who do not share their views, is to ask themselves "why do I
feel this way?" They must ask themselves what those feelings have
accomplished for them.  That may seem overly simplistic, but, to answer
those questions honestly requires great introspection.

   "We ended the evening, and as I was leaving, he suggested two quotes by
Booker T.  Washington.  'I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul
by making me hate him.' And, 'Associate yourself with people of good
quality for it is better to be alone than in bad company.'"

   I sighed, and shook my head.

   "I can't help remembering one more quote by Washington.  'The thing to
do when one feels sure that he has said or done the right thing and is
condemned is to stand still and keep quiet.  If he is right, time will show
it.'"

   I looked over at Tyrell, and then Latisha, capturing their eyes, "Those
people, back there?  They are suffering from what he called "victimology."
I think that they were too busy identifying themselves as blacks, and not
enough time identifying themselves as humans.

   "Somehow," I said with a small smile, "I really don't think you two are
going to have that problem."

   "Your friend," suggested Tyrell, "he's black, isn't he." Bright boy
wasn't asking.

   "Nah," I replied.  "He's human, with a really dark complexion." Glancing
at Tyrell, I continued, "Darker than YOURS!"

   Latisha chuckled and dug her elbow into her brother's ribs, causing
Tyrell to laugh a bit, too.

   "I get it, Master," the boy said.  "You don't like labels."

   "Good for you," I replied.  "I really don't give a shit about skin
color, and I don't judge people by that.

   "Now," I changed topic, "we still need to do shopping, and such." I
pondered a moment, then grabbed my cell phone.  As we stopped for a traffic
light, I flipped it open, and punched a number from memory.

   A lovely Jamaican accented voice answered, "Tawny's Island Fashions,
This is Monette, may I help you?" I knew Monette.  A very sweet girl, who
has yet to fall to my charm.

   Adopting my most debonair manners, I said, "Good afternoon, Ms. 
Talifero, is Tawny available?" "This is Will Jones."

   "Let me ask, Mr.  Jones," She replied, with a charming giggle.  "She
seems to be about finished with her customer." I heard Monette tell Tawny
that I was on the phone, and then she came back, and said," Ms.  Palmer
will be with you, in just a moment, Mr.  Jones."

   "Oh, Ms.  Talifero.  I've caught you, now.  We both know that Ms. 
Palmer is there, and I am more than a moment away.  How could she
possibly"" I had to stop, because Monette was giggling so hard.

   I affected a rather hurt tone, and asked, "Ms.  Talifero, Are you
laughing at me?" and I heard a gasp just as I finished speaking.

   Tawny's dulcet voice came sweetly to my ear, "Are you trying to make
time with my girl, again, Mr.  Jones?" She asked.

   "Why Ms.  Palmer, how could you possibly accuse me of such a thing?" I
rejoined, with a smile.

   "Only because she's 'bout fallen to the floor, giggling," Tawny stated.
"-and she always acts like that when you are flirting with her.

   "You know, Sirah, that I will protect her from you!"

   I laughed, and dropped my act.  "Tawny, my own sweet, do you think you
can make time for me, today?  I have a pair of kids that need to be
outfitted."

   Tawny also stopped playing, for this was business.  "Sure I can.  I have
no private sales scheduled today.

   "Are you coming here, straight way?" She asked.

   "Yes," I replied.  It'll take me about ten minutes, to get there."

   "Okay, Will.  I'll have Monette start some coffee for you," she replied.
"See you in a few!"

   "Thanks, Sweetness.  In a few," I said, and closed the phone.

   Glancing at my slaves, I said, "You're in for a treat, today!"