Raiford Starke...He's Back
October 3, 1997

It was a sweltering hot Florida summer day, and I'm stuck in bumper to bumper traffic heading west on Stirling Road. "What's the hold up?" I shook my head in irritated wonder as I crossed 441. "I've got a deadline to make." As I followed the procession of traffic, I finally realized they were heading for the same place I was going . . . the ol' right turn and button-hook under the bridge to 64th Avenue and the Seminole Tribal Headquarters parking lot.

Must be a big meeting going on today. I entered the parking lot, but there was nary a space to be found, so I parked outside the gate. As I made my way to the Communications office on the second floor, it suddenly occurred to me: These people weren't coming in droves for any Council or Budget meeting. They were coming to see me!

I could hardly blame these people, for they all wanted to see the man responsible for some of the witticisms, wisdom and just plain horse-sense imparted on these pages. I had to stop and pinch myself. Am I dreaming, or just plain crazy? I don't know - all I know is I was getting more attention than a mouse in a burlesque show. It was almost overwhelming. Indeed, I'd come a long way from that itinerant pizza delivery boy in Starkansaw.

There I was singing that old Howlin' Wolf classic "Sittin' on Top of the World." Little did I realize that somebody would soon pull the rug out from under my world. In three short months, I went from a mild-mannered pizza deliverer to Raiford Starke, that freewheelin, high-flyin' renegade columnist for the Seminole Tribune.

Yet in spite of all that, the nay-sayers and the critics were still not satisfied with ol' Raiford Starke, and faster than you can say Jumper'n Jehosaphat my column was suspended "indefinitely." I was becoming pretty disenchanted with journalism as a profession, and I returned to the Swedish bathhouse section of Starkansaw to undergo some sensitivity training at the Betty Fjord Clinic. I came out of my 30-day sabbatical a new man, with a brand new attitude about life.

I confess, dear people, that underneath all that Raiford Starke bravado there lies a tremendous insecurity. I mean, it's not easy being Raiford Starke, playing guitar by night and pecking typewriter by day. It uses up all my brain cells.

Even now, as I feverishly hunt and peck away into the wee hours on this here word processor, my fingers are actually trembling in trepidation. For today I make my Marion Barry- like comeback to resume my column here in Seminole Country.

While I was gone, I realized newspapering was in my blood. I missed the click-clack of the typewriters, the smell of the ink rolling on the page, the staff meetings at Shenanigan's, the time of day occasionally given to me by Vanessa Frank. I just couldn't get away from it. So I asked for my old job back. No dice , they said. "You are too radical for this newspaper, and besides none of the stuff you write about has nothing to do with the Seminole Tribe."

"I'll take whatever job you have available," I begged, dropping to my knees. "Anything."

The Editor sent me over to Dangerous Dan, head of the circulation department. After making me sign a waiver, Dan explained the ins and outs of the strange, seamy netherworld of newspaper circulation.

My job was to go to check the slot ma . . .er . . .newspaper machines on all six Seminole reservations. I brought a couple broken ones to downtown Ft. Lauderdale to Just Newspaper Boxes, the repair shop. As I approached the gate of this seamy place, a man appeared glassy-eyed, half covered in yellow spray paint and reeking of eau de putrid. "Whadda ya want?" he blurbed out.

"I'm with the Seminole Tribune and I have some boxes that aren't working right, " I said.

"Whadda ya mean they ain't workin' right?!" he said with an air of defiance.

"Well the coin slots take the money but they don't give out the newspaper."

He told me I was in the wrong place. "We only fix boxes here. You need to go to Just Coin Slots, over on Las Olas."

So I hauled them over there and met an equally foul-smelling individual. He laughed when I told him the problem.

"Sounds to me like the coin slots are working perfectly. It's the coin return that is broken. You need to take these machines to Just Coin Return over on Dixie Highway in Hallandale.

I couldn't take it anymore. Those boxes are heavy, man. I started thinking of my old Mexican friend Manual Labor. I took a couple of deep breaths, and counted to ten (something I learned at Betty Fjord). Then I got back down on my knees and begged for my old column back. The Editor said she would give me another chance: "But if we get one more letter from a prisoner telling us how great you are, you're out the door, Mr. Starke!"

I got back to the office and told Dangerous Dan about my ordeal. He was tugging on one of the newspaper box handles, trying to tighten it without success. He smiled and shook his head. "Welcome to the world of newspaper circulation Raiford," he said, "it's a jungle out there."

Then he took off out the door. Said he had to go to Just Handles, over on Griffin Road in Davie.

© October 3, 1997, The Seminole Tribune