White Nigger
We’re caught in this weird haze of post performance repose. We’d won. My comrades and I delivered what felt like a genuinely well executed celebration of the Insane. In an Irish Pub in a small town, we’re throwing back whiskey, Budweiser and psychedelic 60s rock with guys I honestly felt like I’ve been through war with. In my mind, because I always evaluate my life through the prism of cinematic theatricality, it felt like the credits to a coming of age film that no studio would ever produce. There were wrong decisions, mistakes and words uttered that I’ll never be able to take back — all splattered against the halls of my mind. But, as Gimme Shelter crescendoed and my Wolf Man Brother spins like a top in front of the bar, my Star Trek Tome of Knowledge Compatriot kisses his girlfriend goodbye like a rock star and the man who introduced me to it all queues up the next song…
A Mexican I antagonized during my set grabs me.
“Hey,” he slurs through a heavy accent, poking me.
“Hey man,” I reply happily.
“Why you say. When I come in,” he makes a conservative tripping motion. “Why you say, I Mexican. I no Mexican. I SALVADORIAN.” he enlightens me, his hand now on my lapel.
I’ve got a ear to ear smile, riding this One Funky Day High, and say politely, “I’m sorry man. I hope you had fun though.”
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“I know, what you are. A White Nigger!” he hurls at me.
An older gentleman sitting next to us, a regular of the Beacon Scene, a man whom I’ve come to really enjoy hears the comment and smiles. He slaps me on the back and he barks with a boisterous appreciation for living, “Don’t worry. I’ve been called worse!”
I believe him.
“Ey look. Everyone, ey look. He’s…WHITE NIGGARRR!!” screaming as if he were Doc Brown after the DeLorean sped off on its inaugural journey.
The Mexica — Salvadorian continues to regal me with all the minutia of what a White Nigger is and eventually I drift away because not even this little mans sensitivity will dislodge me from the day dream I’m actively living out.
Later, The Mexidorian is screaming, “AMBULANCE!!” in the doorway to the Irish Pub. He clutches his heart and adds, “HEART ATTACK!” like Fred Sanford clasping for Elizabeth. I sip my Budweiser and stare at him flatly. From the other patrons, there is some lethargic response to his pleas. I see desperation and terror in the Mexidorian’s eyes. I see wrong decisions, mistakes and words uttered he’ll never be able to take back rumble through his strained consciousness as he lurches against the doorframe.
I stare at him, not with anger, but with a nocturnal slowness that prevents me from doing anything other than mumble in an offensive accent only I can hear, “Why you call me white niggar?”
