replied, “you’re only charging him like a third of what they’re worth.”
“No, you’re not understanding me,” said Mr. Hubersham, “all diamonds are man-made. Our fraternity manufactures all of the world’s diamonds—none of them grow naturally.”
Brent studied the somber faces of Mr. Hubersham and the stout man for several seconds.
“You guys almost had me,” Brent snickered, “with the poker faces and all . . . for a minute, I actually believed you.”
Brent caught sight of the men’s unchanged faces.
“C’mon guys,” Brent said shaking his head, “you don’t really expect me to believe that crap, do you?”
“Is it really that hard to believe, Mr. Grimes?” asked the saleswoman, coming from behind the frosted glass door of her side office.
The office floor echoed the click-clack of the saleswoman’s fire engine red heels, as she sidled up to the desk with her trademarked sultry gait. Brent gawked at the shapely saleswoman, as she leaned on the corner of the bronze desk.
“Tell me Mr. Grimes, have you ever physically seen a diamond mine for yourself?” asked the saleswoman.
“Yes.” Brent said nodding. “I spent a year on assignment in the Congo, and saw villagers digging for them with their hands.”
“And you never once thought, those gems could have been put there beforehand?”
Brent’s eyes narrowed as he pondered the question.
“Why would someone go through all the trouble of doing that?” asked Brent.
“Appearances,” said the saleswoman, “a gem appearing to be extracted from the bowels of the earth, in a consumer’s eyes, is worth a hell of a lot more than some rock cooked up in a lab.”
“Listen,” said Brent waving his hand, “you’re gonna’ have to sell this story to someone more gullible; ‘cause I’m not buyin’ it.”
“Mr. Grimes, have you ever heard of a scientist named Hans Deutschetika?” asked the saleswoman.
Brent shook his head.
“Well, a coupla’ centuries ago, Spanish armies intended to colonize the Netherlands and sent several troops there with that goal,” said the saleswoman, smoothing out her hip hugging skirt. “But what the Spaniards didn’t know, was our Dutch frat brothers armed their troops with night vision binoculars.”
“Night vision binoculars?” Brent asked incredulously.
“Yeah,” replied the saleswoman, “our frat had that technology back then. That and the fact that the Spaniards liked attacking under cover of darkness, meant they couldn’t compete. Now, what our frat brothers also did, was spread a myth that our troops were defeating the Spaniards, ‘cause our riflemen having better night vision due to consuming large amounts of carrots—they figured this would hide their technological advantage.”
“Carrots?” asked Brent.
“Yes,” said the saleswoman. “The myth took on a life of its own, and shortly after, both Spanish and Dutch farmers were planting and harvesting as many carrots as possible. There was only one problem; carrots were not only butt ugly but they tasted bad, so the majority of Dutch and Spanish villagers refused to eat them. You see Mr. Grimes, carrots back in those days didn’t resemble the vegetable we know now; they were bulbous like beets and purple in color. They not only stained utensils and plates, but they were bitter tasting raw or cooked. So another one of our frat brothers, who was a geneticist, Hans Deutschetika, went about changing the look and delectability of the carrot.”
“And let me guess—he created the orange vegetable we know and love today.” Brent interjected.
“Yes,” the saleswoman nodded, “point being, the Netherlands were never conquered and hardly anyone suspects carrots didn’t always look the way they do now.”
“So what’s that gotta’ do with my assignment?”
“Hans belonged to the bloodline of geneticists who were responsible for creating diamonds,” said the saleswoman matter-of-factly, “we realized how the majority of the world used gold and silver as a means of currency, so our frat thought we needed our own kind of precious gem to compete; one we controlled. Thus, the diamond was born.”
Brent shook his head in disbelief.
“Think of it in terms of paper currency Mr. Grimes,” said the saleswoman, “the barter system was ubiquitous the world over, until we introduced our money. In modern day terms, it’s the paper dollar, euro, yen and so forth. It only serves us ‘cause we control it; and it’s backed by nothing but people’s confidence in it. Now, along with your precious stones training, we’re gonna’ fly you to Dusseldorf, Germany, so you’ll actually see the factory where we produce the world’s diamonds, and you can watch them being made right before your eyes.”
Brent scanned the faces of the saleswoman, the stout man and Mr. Hubersham, catching not one hint of frivolity or tom-foolery.
“So no B.S.—every one of the world’s diamonds are man-made?” asked Brent.
“Why do you think we measure them in carats?” asked the saleswoman.
Two
Brent stood on the boutique’s sales floor, while sunlight beamed through the front door’s frosted glass. From behind a display counter, he attended to a thirty-something couple, looking for an engagement ring.
The pallid pair gazed at a gorgeous rock he suggested, and emitting oohs and ahhs of satisfaction. While the fair-skinned couple ogled the gem, Brent’s eyes locked in a trance peering past them and into his memory.
He reminisced about intermittent sips of Merlot on the frat’s G5, and the plane’s light touch down in Germany. Moments later, his thoughts put him back in the rear seat of the chauffeured Mercedes-Benz speeding along the Autobahn, with sights of Dusseldorf’s rolling hills outside his window. The floral scent coming off the auburn hair of his shapely German hostess, when he arrived at the frat’s factory, stuck to his memory most. Her ruby red lipstick, aqua green eyes and turquoise pants suit, were a pleasure to follow, as she led him into the warehouse.
The whirring of heavy machinery and assorted sounds of forklifts heaving large boxes, raced to his ears once they entered the factory’s floor. Brent recalled staring up at ten foot high, gun metal gray cubes, where the alchemical trick of turning bricks of charcoal into authenticated rough diamonds took place. He stared at the translucent, unrefined shards of precious stones as the machines spat them out. The manufactured rocks slid down conveyor belts. Afterwards, other metal contraptions laser cut the stones into octahedral shapes, the working classes were conditioned to like. Brent’s hostess told him the factory produced buckets of these stones for a dollar.
“And this was how much again, sir?” asked the groom-to-be, sliding the jeweled ring on his fiancée’s finger.
Brent’s eyes shifted out of his trance.
“That’s going to be ten thousand, two hundred dollars.” Brent replied.
A slight sigh escaped from the groom-to-be after Brent announced the price.
“Tell you what though,” Brent said matter-of-factly, “since you’re a repeat customer, and you guys are such a cute couple, I could let this ring go for . . .”
Brent’s eyes shifted upwards and left, “Ninety two hundred.”
The groom-to-be’s face beamed, while the bride-to-be flashed an ear to ear smile.
“We’ll take it!” said the groom-to-be.
Brent and the former bachelor shook hands to confirm the deal. Still smiling, the groom-to-be pulled his fiancée closer for a soft kiss.
“You see dear,” said the groom-to-be, “this is why I do all my jewelry shopping here.”
“’Cause you know, you’ll always get the best of the bargain.” Brent said.
A butcher’s ‘Belly’
In November of 2009, the Hip-Hop auteur, ‘Hype’ Williams, released the movie ‘Belly’ into theaters.
Now, while most ‘cinephiles’ wrote this flick off as just another ‘rap movie’, anyone watching the opening montage of this film, could see this was going to be a m
uch more ambitious endeavor. I should know, ‘cause that’s what I thought about the film before seeing it.
I saw the film several years after its release, at the behest of a close relative. And I’ll never forget tipping back a frosty beer and gawking at the wide TV screen, while DMX recited his opening soliloquy:
“I sold my soul to the devil, the price was cheap, yo’ it’s cold on this level, but twice as deep . . .”
The next thing I saw on the screen was a street sign, saying ‘Linden Boulevard’. Now, I grew up in New York, near this boulevard; so I guess that moment had an added resonance to me. And then, the contemporary R&B group, ‘Soul II Soul’, started their acapella falsettos of the song, ‘Back to Life’.
“However do ya’ want me . . .however do ya’ need me?”
Now, I know there’s immediately going to be a certain amount of people who think I’m only aggrandizing this film, ‘cause it’s glamourizing sociopathic violence and drug-selling. If you fall into this category, I beseech you to see it, if you haven’t already, and judge for yourself.
Now, if I do have any problem with this film, it’s in the movie’s editing. This movie could definitely use a more ‘linear’ narrative. And being that every film really represents three; the one that’s written, the one that’s shot and the one that’s edited, the horrendous way this film was put together, almost destroyed it. But we all need to keep one thing in mind, and that is, ‘Hype’ didn’t edit this film. A white guy named David Leonard did.
See, David never really