Ever since I read about this little cross-burning between consenting adults that took place last night in North Carolina, I've been thinking about it.
I thought about it while I was walking around.
I thought about it over coffee.
I thought about it during a washroom break at Calgary's wonderful 'Ship & Anchor' tavern when I joined a conversation already in progress between a fella that looked like he could be frontman material for a ZZ Top tribute band (Z) and a scrawny dude that looked like the hillbilly kid from 'Deliverance' all growed up (D).
D- "I'd wish there was some rasta nigga here--I want to fight."
Z- "Har har har!"
D was pacing around the can like he had fire ants in his pants; I began reconsidering taking my penis out in such colourful company.
D- "The bigger, the blacker, the better. Fuck yeah!"
Z- "You better hope some big guy carrying a 'Red Stripe' doesn't set out of that stall and kick you in your teeth! Har har har!"
Posing a potential threat to his remaining four teeth did not seem to be 'top of mind' with this fellow--if he didn't sweat the first twenty-eight, the fate of these brave leftovers was, I feel, already sealed. Heaven only knows whether his first twenty teeth as a kid went under the pillow from natural causes.
(By the way, you gotta love a beer company that picks the slogan "It's beer. Hooray beer!")
I went ahead with my original plan of seeing a man about a horse; if trouble broke out, I wanted to have most of my urine in the proper receptacle.
D- "Fuck him! I hope he does! I've been to jail for whoopin' ass; some nigger would be worth it!"
Z- "Har har har!"
D started to preen in front of the mirror. One supposes that even a racist dresses for success when going about his bigotry; a wet, flat palm smeared over the part in his hair did not make him appear: 1) 'more professional'; 2) 'less deranged'--take your pick.
The stall door opened--moment of truth--and I wanted Mean Joe Green, or Refrigerator Perry, or Mike Tyson to come blazing out, fists swirling and Red Stripe bottles shattering, and punch a hole clear through this pathetic ex-con.
A frightened teenager slid out like a slug and made a dash for the door like it was his mother's arms.
And I didn't hear him flush.
Z and I washed up while D dried his head under the hand blower--insert obvious 'hot air' remark here--and we three merry gents left the John together. As D bounced out to the street I noticed him snag a waiter by the arm and ask to get some water brought to a puppy sitting by the patio railing. I could see his singles ad in my head:
SWM: 40's but looks 20's. Lovely hair; winning smile. Hates Negroids. Loves puppies (both kinds). Seeks same for intimate relationship and more?