In Which a Joke is Safely Racist

“Okay, so you wanna hear an Olie and Lena joke?”

Marcus could only stare blankly at Jones. “A what joke?”

I was leaning against the wall, watching the ceiling fan turn. “It’s a sort of Polish joke.”

“Oh,” said Marcus. “Sure, why not.”

Jones nodded at me and launched into it. “So, Olie is on his deathbed, right? And Lena drags the whole family over, makes a big affair of it, every one of Olie’s relatives is there.”

I rolled my eyes, and sat down at the table, in between the two of them. Marcus had his elbow on the documents. I swatted his arm aside and pulled them towards me, then proceeded to shuffle through the stack of manila folders.

“So every one is over, and Olie is there in bed and he turns to Lena, his voice all quiet and asks ‘Oh, Lena, is my brother Jacob in da room?’ and Lena says, ‘Yes, Olie, Jacob is right over der,’ and Jacob takes a wave at Olie.”

I found what I was looking for, the beige folder marked “Security and Maintenance”. It was overstuffed, and papers were sliding out the sides. I flipped it up, so Jones could see it. “Maybe we should worry about this?”

Jones ignored me. “And then, Olie, his voice even softer as death approaches, says: ‘Lena, Lena my dear, is Uncle George in da room?’ and Lena, her eyes full of tears, nods and says, ‘Yes, Olie, Uncle George is right here,’ and Uncle George puts a hand on Olie’s shoulder.”

I opened the folder and glanced over the sheets. It was what we needed, mapping out every square inch of the place and how it worked. I stopped at a map of camera locations, hoping to find something heartening. There wasn’t. It was a pretty tight setup.

“And then, Olie, poor thing just barely alive, says to Lena, ‘Lena, oh my Lena, tell me please, is my whole family here, all of dem in da room?’ and Lena, holding back a sob, says ‘Yes, Olie, yer whole family is here.’”

I slid the map over to Marcus. He didn’t notice so I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at it. He picked it up and gave it a one over, frowning as he did. I could tell by the look on his face that I didn’t miss anything.

“So then, Olie, his hands trembling, points behind the whole family, and with the cold rasp of a man about to slip away, says ‘Den Lena,’ he says, ‘Why is dere a light on in de kitchen?” Jones spread his hands out over the table, his eyes lighting apprehensively on Marcus’ face.

Marcus looked up from the sheet and shrugged at Jones. “I don’t get it.”

“What do you mean you don’t get it?”

“I mean that I just don’t get it.”

I grabbed the map from Marcus’ hands, passed it over to Jones. “It’s because Polish people are cheap,” I explained. Jones grabbed it and did a quick replay of mine and Marcus’ reactions.

It still took Marcus a second. “Oh,” he said carefully.

Jones continued to study the map. “It’s more funny if you don’t, you know, have to have it explained to you.” He picked up the folder and put the map back in, set the whole thing back on the table. “We may be fucked.”

I nodded. “Maybe.”