The Only Good White Man Alive

Michael Franks sat in his chair, deep in thought. A stocky, red-haired and green-eyed Caucasian male in his late twenties, he loosened his tie and sank comfortably in his chair, thinking about what Dr. Leonard Kingsbury revealed to him just hours ago. You're sterile Mr. Franks, the good doctor said in that neutral voice. Michael swallowed hard, nodded and then left the doctor's office. Calmly he walked to his car, and drove home. Just another day in the life of a young white man in North America.

In his high-rise condo in downtown Toronto, Ontario, Michael poured himself some wine and sat on the patio, feeling warm all over in spite of the frosty November wind outside. Michael looked at his apartment, filled with the trappings of success. His Carleton University bachelor's degree in business hung on the wall, along with his Law degree from the University of Toronto. Yeah, he was destined for success. That's what he'd been told time and again. Not bad for a poor guy from the Vanier sector of Ottawa, the son of poor British immigrants.

All his life Michael Franks had pushed himself to go further, to be the best, and now, it seemed, mother nature just handed him a checkmate. What's a lad to do when told by a doctor that he would never be able to reproduce? Michael shook his head, and swallowed the wipe. Without thinking he flung the empty glass at the wall, and watched it shatter. Rubbish, he said, then got up. His bare feet stepped on a shard, and he yelped in pain. He slipped, and almost went over the rail but caught himself at the last minute. Perfect end to a perfect day, he told himself as he went back into the living room. His bloody feet smeared red all over the pricy white carpet, imported from Camargue, France.

Michael cleaned up his wound in the washroom, and applied a bandage on his foot. Then he went back to the living room, and watched TV. They were giving a rerun of Star-Gate Atlantis on the Space Channel. Michael thought of what he'd done in the past few hours. He just got promoted as an account manager by the Dominion Securities Division of the Royal Bank of Canada. Not bad for a twenty-seven-year-old associate fresh out of university, eh? Michael shook his head. It's all for naught, he thought. What good was he? A good-looking, seemingly healthy and successful man who couldn't reproduce due to a tweak in his DNA. In the eyes of mother nature, he was an abject failure.

Michael went to work the next day, wishing the events of the previous day had been an unpleasant dream but knowing they weren't. Such is my fate, he thought. Walking through the crowded office like a zombie, he didn't notice a pair of eyes staring at him. Those eyes belonged to Yasmina Camara, a tall and lovely young black woman from Senegal whom Michael met a few months ago. Yasmina was only the fourth visible minority person hired by the Dominion Securities Division of RBC. The top branch of the largest bank in all of Canada wasn't exactly known for its commitment to diversity. Even in Toronto, Canada's largest and most racially diverse metropolis, discrimination was alive and well.

Yasmina Camara had been wide-eyed, optimistic and eager when Michael Franks had contacted her on behalf of the Human Resources Department and told her she was hired by the Dominion Securities Division of RBC. The young black woman had no way of knowing it but she was indeed lucky. Yasmina Camara's hiring had been preceded by that of Ahmed Hussein, a Somali-Canadian guy with an Algonquin College business degree, and Christina Suleiman, a Lebanese Christian woman with an accounting degree from York University. The very first visible minority person hired by the Division was Jerome Yamamoto, a Japanese immigrant with an MBA from the University of British Columbia. It was Michael Franks who suggested to his boss, Eric Carter, that they hire more visible minorities. This is Toronto if the staff is all white it doesn't look good, Michael said. Sounds good so you handle it, Carter had replied.

Michael Franks shook his head. How odd for him, the British-born immigrant to be the only non-racist person at the office. The Division Head Eric carter wasn't fond of visible minorities and didn't hide it, though at first glance the tall, middle-aged white male with the silver-specked reddish hair and distinguished good looks seemed affable enough. Michael knew that Carter had hired him mainly because of how he looked. He was a tall, good-looking and ginger-headed young white guy in his late twenties. When a man like Carter looked at Franks, he saw a younger version of himself. There were lots of qualified applicants, young men and women from Latino, African, Arabian, Caribbean and South Asian backgrounds with degrees from Toronto-area institutions like the University of Toronto, York University, Seneca College and many others. Yet these folks got passed over nine times out of ten in favor of white applicants because Eric Carter, the Head of the Dominion wanted to keep it as white as possible.

Michael Franks thought fondly of his time as an undergrad at Carleton University. In classrooms filled with students from Arab, African and South Asian countries, he learned to value diversity by befriending students from all over the world. His best friend was a Black dude from Guyana named Jerry Milford, and Jerry only dated blonde-haired white girls. Some white guys would have found it odd to befriend a Black man who's into white girls but Michael had never been prejudiced in any way. The world is divided into good people and assholes that's it, he was fond of saying. When Jerry Milford married a White chick named Mildred O'Connor after graduation, Michael was the Best Man at the wedding and happily proposed a toast to the happy couple. That's what you do for your best friend, no matter what color you are.

While at Carleton University, Michael Franks dated a lovely Jamaican gal named Monique Winston, and they stayed together for two and a half years. He couldn't believe his luck when the tall, curvy and dark-skinned ebony beauty with the thick round ass said yes to him. Michael cherished Monique and worshipped the ground she walked on. Until she left him for a Haitian guy named Jean-Pierre, and Michael swore to never date Black girls again. Not because he felt any hatred for women of that race but because he loved them too much and didn't want the heartache. A promise Michael kept for ages, until he met Yasmina Camara, and began having doubts...

Hello Michael, Yasmina said, snapping him out of his reverie. Michael looked at her, smiled and asked her how she was doing. The tall, dark-skinned and curvy young Senegalese woman was a breath of fresh air. Always polite and friendly, and oh so charming. I'm fine Miss Camara, Michael said, knowing she preferred to be called Yasmina. They chit-chatted for a bit, and Yasmina asked him to join her for lunch. Normally Michael wouldn't mingle with co-workers because he was an intensely private man ( and lunched at his office most of the time anyways ) but today, he said yes.

Michael went to the local Shawarma restaurant with Yasmina, and had a good time lunching with her. The lovely young Senegalese woman regaled him with tales of her adventures in Toronto. She'd moved to Canada only four years ago from her hometown of Dakar, Senegal, and found Toronto a mesmerizing town. Sitting across from her, Michael found himself smiling and nodding. This gal was indeed beautiful, a bit of a chatterbox but that's okay. It takes all kinds, right? Indeed, that day lunch took ninety minutes instead of the forty five they were allotted by the draconian rules set up by Eric Carter, their tyrannical manager. At the end of lunch, Michael Franks heard himself say yes when Yasmina asked him to check out an African Festival with her the coming weekend.

Michael went back to his office, smiling. He did something he'd never done before, and took the rest of the day off. He walked all over the City of Toronto, feeling giddy with happiness. After a sixty-minute stroll, he felt like going home. He hailed a cab, and, noticing that a Black man in a business suit had been waiting longer, he graciously let the man take the cab. The incredulous man stared at him, stunned. Have a good day sir, Michael said, and decided to take the train home. On the subway, he saw an Arab guy with a Chinese chick, and offered to take the happy couple's picture. He texted his old buddy Jerry Milford, who worked for the National Capital Commission, and asked him how he should handle Yasmina Camara. Be confident and cool like I taught you snowflake, Jerry replied, laughing. Sounds good brother, Michael texted back.

Michael returned home, and logged on his computer. He checked out Yasmina Camara's Facebook profile, and liked what he saw. The sexy Senegalese gal looked absolutely stunning in a white bikini, frolicking on the beach with friends. He saw more serious shots of her. Her graduation photos, and photos of her volunteering with S.O.S. Villages in Kenya, South Africa and Algeria. Damn, this gal wasn't just cute, she was smart and well-traveled. As Michael prepared to log off, a voice from his landline phone's answering machine began droning on as the machine automatically played his messages for the day. Mr. Franks I'm afraid there's been a mix-up, Dr. Leonard Kingsbury's voice chimed in. You're not sterile sir, your results got mixed up with someone else's, and I am happy to say that you are fine, Kingsbury's voice droned on. Michael stood up, frozen with intense emotion. He felt confused, angry, happy, elated, stunned and filled with trepidation, all at once. Damn that doctor!

Michael Franks sat in the dark, and poured himself a Brandy. So, he wasn't sterile like the good doctor would have him believe. Damn that doctor. A weaker man might have done something drastic like committing suicide or gone binge-drinking and driving after such news. Michael took a deep breath, then sighed. Smiling, he thanked God for the good news, and decided he wouldn't sue the dumb doctor for his ineptitude. Looks like I'm back in action, Michael thought. Smiling, he went to bed. At least something good came out of all this. This weekend he'd go dancing with Yasmina Camara at the African Festival. He'd never had the guts to even talk to her before and now they were having meetings outside of work. Maybe if she agreed to officially go out with him they'd double date with his Afro-Guyanese buddy Jerry Milford and his plump Irish wife Mildred O'Connor. That would be so frigging cool. One step at a time, Michael reminded himself. Then he went to sleep.