FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #3

I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. Well, I wasn't really reading the paper...I was looking at it, in an attempt not to engage a bedraggled homeless man who was asking people for change. A woman seated to my left made the mistake of meeting his eyes, and I smiled to myself as the man began talking to her. One born every minute, as the saying goes.

What I happened to read (as I took all of this in my periphery) was this: "The U.S. Department of State warns U.S. citizens of the risks of travel to Kenya." I scanned the rest of the article, getting the broader gist of it. I find that news is often unnecessarily wordy...where style is concerned, as regards reportage, often seems only the most vulgar attempt to lay bait for a Pulitzer. Call me a purist, but where facts are concerned, embellishment is rarely needed. In the pursuit of perfect objectivity, I find less is always more -- and motivation is always secondary. And anyway, I've always found verbal one-upsmanship to be incredibly tedious.

But I digress. The article went on to describe occurrences of "violent and sometimes fatal criminal attacks" against American persons, including (but not limited to) U.S. Embassy personnel. And that said Americans "should remain alert in residential areas, at schools, and at outdoor recreational events, and should avoid demonstrations and large crowds." All of this, in addition to the omnipresent and ever-looming threat of "terrorist attack". What gave me pause for thought was a single line: "This restriction does not apply to travelers not associated with the U.S. Government, but should be taken into account when planning travel."

Now, who, apart from those associated with the U.S. Government, have any business being in Kenya? This, being a rhetorical question. It should appear obvious to anyone that, vested Government interest notwithstanding, we have no business whatsoever. Though I'm sure it's a lovely place. But who would've thought to make a vacation destination out of Paris or Berlin during World War II? I mean, really.

By this time, the homeless man had moved on (a few dollars richer), and I felt at ease enough to put away my paper. I was pleased to find it had distracted me sufficiently to reach my destination. I took a more circuitous walking route than usual to my office, in order that I should take in the air (as well as my favorite barista in her place of business).
I don't normally drink coffee, as it adversely affects my digestion, but I sometimes make the odd exception.

I considered various topics of conversation as I neared the cafe...it was an oddly blustery morning for the time of year. I doubted she'd want to hear about the Dow Jones or my recent victory on the squash court; though I have no doubt she would have greeted such topics of discussion with undisguised (and, I think, unfeigned) enthusiasm.Such was her personable nature, and I tipped accordingly.

I was pleased to find only a few other customers seated inside at the far end of the room. I always feel awkward knowing people are listening to my public conversations, however trivial (and however surreptitious the listener). A curious quirk on my part, considering my formidable (yet personable) management technique. I'm also known for my tremendous humility (ha, ha).

She smiled broadly as she recognized me, and I felt an immediate (and involuntary) flush of my cheeks. "Every Tuesday!" she said, and I laughed.

"Nobody pours like you." I said, the words somewhat hurried, catching in my throat.

"I put a little love in every cup," she said. She then said, a little quieter, winking, "A little extra for preferred customers."

My hands had become busy, so I discreetly shoved them in my pockets.

"Cold weather for the time of year, huh?"

"Not too bad...but then I'm from Minnesota."

"Minnesota, huh?"

I heard the door open behind me and inwardly cringed. I didn't like feeling hurried, made to accommodate the next customer -- in fact, she inspired an amenity that made me hardly feel like a customer at all. But such was commerce, and I motioned as if to reach for my wallet.

"No, you don't...it's on the h--" she paused, her brow furrowing a little. She was looking beyond me, to whomever had just entered. "Ma'am?"


"I'm sorry, I just wondered..."

I could tell before I turned to look at her that the woman was black. African American. And from what my other senses told me, homeless. Indigent. She was dressed in mismatched clothes -- sweatpants, cotton blouse, oversized winter boots. Her hair, what there was of it, was ratty and uneven. She cut a fairly comical sight, and I smiled inadvertently at her appearance. She looked at me with momentary confusion, then turned back to the cashier.

"I'm sorry...I was wondering if I could use your bathroom?"

"Oh. Sure..."

The barista handed me the key to the restroom, and I relayed it to the woman, who now stood uncomfortably close beside me. She thanked me quietly and shuffled away. I turned my widened eyes to the barista, and we both laughed.

"Sorry, let me get your coffee."

"No hurry. Don't worry, no hurry!" I said, rocking back on my heels. I always talk in a kind of singsong rhyming when I'm nervous, which is not terribly often.

I idled around the counter, looking at scones and muffins under glass, reading the covers of the free weeklies. As a matter of habit, I always ordered something in addition to the coffee, if only to give me a reason to once again reach for my wallet, in order to tip the girl. This may seem incredibly formal of me, but I feel that manners are paramount.

As I ordered a cranberry scone, I heard the restroom door open again. The woman came shuffling back and placed the key on the counter, her smell now augmented by the ersatz floral reek of handsoap. Though I sensed her close by, I didn't turn to look.

"How much?"

"Three-sixty."

I reached for my wallet, feeling (and smelling) the indigent woman's breath. I took a slow step slightly to my left, away from her. Still, I felt my arm brush against her as I took out my wallet.

"Excuse me...sir?"

I handed a five dollar bill -- all I had apart from this were twenties -- to the barista. My smile felt strained, and I could tell from her expression that she could see that. She returned a smile that appeared equally strained, and her eyes kept darting away, somewhat nervously, almost self-consciously. I made a placating gesture, all the while feeling the decrepit woman pushing closer against me. I refused to look at her;I knew where this was going.

"Sir?"

The girl opened the register, and began counting out my change. I stared straight ahead, though by this point the baglady was practically pawing at my shoulder. The barista made as if to hand me the change, butI put out my hand, palm-down, and shook my head.

"No, you keep that. I insist."

"Sir? Could you please look at me, sir?"

"I insist."

"Thank--"

"Look at me, I said!"

I felt the warm spit from her mouth on the side of my face. My hand raised involuntarily, wiping. I fought the urge to express the sudden sensation of utter revulsion, though I couldn't help making a groaning noise in the back of my throat. I did a quick about-face (to my left, away from her), suddenly confused as to where the exit was.

"You can't even look me in the face?" she was nearly shouting now, following me with every step. "What the fuck is wrong with me that you can't look me in the face?"

"I can't..." I mumbled, suddenly sick and dizzy and hot with panic. I gripped my coffee so tensely that it sloshed out over my hand, scalding me. I saw that the other two people in the shop were staring at me; at us. "You'll have to excuse me." I told them.

"A nigger don't mean shit to a white man!" she screeched. "You got the nerve to not even look me in the eye! A nigger don't mean shit!"

I was inexplicably outraged at her use of that word, as though I had cause to be personally affronted by it. I groaned in acute pain at the realization that I'd left my newspaper on the subway. I was sure that if I could just manufacture some kind of pretense for avoiding her eyes, to turn my back on her...maybe she'd move on, latch on to someone else. But she kept at me, always moving, trying to get in front of me. I started to reach for my wallet, but caught myself before I did, thinking somehow that I might only egg her on by giving her money now.

"For God's sake!" I shouted, appealing to the others. Why me? What had I done?

"What do you want?!"

"I ain't good enough for you to look your nose down at?"

"Let go of me!"

"Nigger bum's not worth your time?"

"I voted for Obama!"

"Niggers don't mean shit!"

"Stop it!" I screamed, suddenly incensed. Unaccountably, I felt that her use of that word was an implication -- that I should feel shame at its use, at its invention. At everything it implied. This word that I had never once uttered in all my life. I was amazed that it should hold such power over me.

She stood between me and the door. I had a sudden vision of this never ending...of being interminably berated and harangued and spit on by this insane degenerate harpie, without hope of relent or release. Of our clumsy, mad dance going on and on, endlessly. And then I realized, the key...the magic word, that would loose me from this curse. It came upon me like a revelation, almost genius in its simplicity.

"Is that what you want? You want me to say it!"

I took a breath that seemed to exhale with the words:

"You disgusting nigger cunt!"

And then, as though suddenly frozen in time, everything became quiet. Nobody moved, nobody breathed. Her eyes were still wild, her face a mask of undisguised rage, but her mouth was now silent. A perfect peace, that I knew would be upset at the slightest noise or movement. Whatever I did next, it had to be done quickly and judiciously and it had to be decisive. It had to be diplomatic.

In a jerky, sudden (and wholly involuntary) movement, I threw my coffee at her. As she doubled up screaming in pain, time once again sped up and I dodged past her and through the exit, making sure not to touch her. Her screams -- among the outraged screams of the others -- faded quickly. I didn't look back.

As I said before, in the interest of perfect objectivity, I don't care to get terribly analytical (or moral) in describing these facts. As a rational being, this is my nature.

I did, however, make a mental note as I hurried breathlessly to work, not to return to the coffee shop -- not because I was particularly ashamed of my conduct or actions, but rather the simple fact that there is a coffee machine on my floor, which would naturally expedite the process in the future, should I care to drink coffee again.

back to Contest #3