A Friendly White

Originally published in the Comic’s Log.

"So what'd you do this weekend?"

I had been reading a book in an attempt to avoid conversation or eye contact with him, and until now, it had worked.

His voice was garbled and he spoke into his hands, so I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me or to himself or someone had turned on a garbage disposal full of marbles. The way he moved his mouth when he spoke made it sound like he was more focused on not dropping an imaginary cigarette from his lips than on enunciating his words.

A few minutes ago I'd walked into Natty Green's Pub & Brewing in Greensboro, North Carolina. I was in town for the North Carolina Comedy Festival, which I was excited to be a part of. It was an opportunity to perform and network with other comics, and it provided a chance to meet industry—the term for agents, managers, club bookers, and anyone else who works in a gatekeeper capacity. But I was also looking forward to this trip because it was a chance to get outside the little Manhattan bubble I live in and experience life in a small town far away from big city life.

Natty Green's was the only restaurant open on Labor Day—one of the features of a small town—so I entered and found a spot on the short leg of the L-shaped bar. There was an empty stool to my left, and just beyond that was a man eating his fries the way an archeologist might inspect relics he's uncovered from an excavated site the size of a dinner plate. He carefully selected each fry from the heap, held it up for a brief visual examination, then dipped it in ketchup before placing it in his mouth. Even his chewing was studious. With each bite he looked like he thought hmm, early Mesolithic...no...late Paleolithic! I was surprised he didn't have a leather-bound notebook to journal his food findings.

There were maybe another 10 people seated down the long leg of the bar, presumably so they could see the TV perched on the wall a few feet above my head. It's human nature to think you're the center of attention, but I've been under other TVs in other bars before, and I can usually tell when people are looking a few degrees above me. Even knowing that, I still felt like everyone was looking at me. Not quite watching me, because that would require something more focused than the blank-faced stares these people wore while the game was on. That's one of the nice things about sports, you can turn on the television, turn off your brain, and for a few hours forget how great or terrible your life seems and focus on how great or terrible your team is doing.

I'd been seated just long enough to get my beer and open my book when another man straddled the empty stool two to my right. Now, I make it a habit to not judge people by their appearance, or at least I make it a habit to say that I don't judge people by their appearance. But I do. I mean, can you blame me? When you've seen enough people in enough places, you notice traits they share in common to draw conclusions about their behavior.

Take this man, for instance. He wore a denim hat in the shape of a railroad engineer's. The hat matched his denim overalls, which he left unhitched on one side. Sartorially speaking, the denim was a nice contrast with his white underwear, fully visible on account of the fact that he'd opted to forgo a shirt. I didn't see a No Shirt No Shoes No Service sign on the door and neither did he. Maybe he was making a statement. A woman can show some sideboob, why can’t he? The elastic band of the underwear was flipped over, which I assumed had less to do with hiding the Hanes label and more to do with losing a fight against his paunch.

"What'd you do this weekend?" he asked again. What he lacked in sophistication he made up for in perseverance, and I don't care how judgmental you are, you can't ignore another human trying to start a conversation. Plus I’d come here looking for a small town experience and this looked to be my best bet.

"Oh, not too much," I said, walking the fine line between being rude and inviting further conversation. Where I live, you can say not too much and people understand. This guy isn't feeling chatty. I turned the page in my book to really drive home the point.

But this wasn't where I live. "I went trawling for junk," he said, "that's what I did. Got a bunch of coins. Neon signs. Damascus steel. Now, you can't leave that stuff in the driveway or it'll rust." He added the last thought as if the driveway were a perfectly normal location to store things that weren't Damascus steel.

"Sounds like quite the haul." My knowledge of Damascus steel is limited, so I didn't have much to contribute.

"What's the meaning of the book?" he asked.

"I beg your pardon?" It's not that I didn't hear him—by now I could understand his garble—I was just surprised.

"What's the meaning of the book? Every book has a meaning."

Of course, how stupid could I be? “It's a collection of essays about Christmas," I said, realizing how silly it must look to be reading a book about Christmas in September. And then, in a half question, "So I guess the meaning of the book is...the holidays?" I felt like it was the first day of sophomore English class and I hadn't done the summer reading. Why are my armpits wet?

He mumbled something about books, took a sip of water and made a loud ahhhh noise, and then barked at the bartender. "You got my order, hun?"

"You didn't order from me, but I'll see if I can find it."

"Thank ya, darlin." He turned to the guy to his right. "So, what do you do?"

"I'm in banking," he said, which surprised me. This is something I hear daily in Manhattan, but wouldn't have expected it here. Though on second thought I shouldn't have been too surprised. He wore a nice white button down shirt made of a soft material. It was well tailored, stretched taut across his shoulders and chest. He was also black. Which made the next question all the more uncomfortable.

"You look like you play ball," the man said. "Did you ever play ball?"

As a friendly-faced white, I have the kind of face other whites feel comfortable saying racist things around. One woman, a white, once told me that when she took her daughter to tour Stanford "all we saw were these black and Asian kids. And I just thought where's my little Lizzie going to find friends?" I wanted to say "probably at a rally" but just smiled as if what she said was a perfectly normal thing to say.

Another time, another white told me about a bunch of kids misbehaving in the quiet car of a train. "They were causing quite a scene. And I don't have to tell you what color their skin was." But you just did!

This isn't the kind of conversation I'm lucky enough to eavesdrop on in Manhattan, so while I pretended to read my book I leaned in and turned my attention to them.

"Yes," he said. "I played in college. Ole Miss."

Okay, so maybe I was being overly sensitive. He didn’t seem to have a problem with the question, so maybe I shouldn’t either. Maybe I judged the weird guy a little too harshly.

They talked football for a few minutes and I ordered another beer. When their conversation petered out, the guy turned back to me. "Got into a little fender bender on my way back from hauling. This lady hit me. She was was only going 25, but..." And then he leaned in close. Whenever a white speaks with another white around a nonwhite, and they lower their voice and lean in, you know whatever's coming next is going to be a doozy. "...she damn near flew out the windshield. Pretty lightweight for a n----r." [Author's note: The character used the actual word, but I've prioritized self-preservation over veracity.]

And then, as if he hadn't just dropped that bomb, he hopped out of his stool with a smile. "Welp, I'm gonna go hit the head."

A moment later, the bartender brought his food. "Where'd he run off to now?" She rolled her eyes and sighed.

"I think he went to the bathroom," I said, still a little stunned.

She shook her head and set his food down. “Whatever.”

The manager came by and picked up the man's sunglasses.

"He just went to the bathroom," the bartender said. "Or did he move again?"

"I threw him out. Guy wasn't even wearing a shirt. Super weird... Either of you two want a sandwich?"

Only in a small town, I thought. I'd never be able to meet a crazy kook like that in NYC.

"So where are you from?" I asked the banker.

“Manhattan.”