Sharing a time I lied, and I am proud of it
deciding to share after reading How a saleman lost a sale
It was very late. I do not know if it was just after 4 AM, when bars closed on Friday nights in NYC in those days, or somewhat earlier, when they closed on Saturday night. That doesn't matter.
I had closed out a bar on E. 79th Street and hailed a cab to take me home to Brooklyn Heights.
I got in the cab, which in those days had no partitions between driver and passenger(s) in the rear set. Then driver started up.
He offered a string of racial epithets, claiming this and that about the N*%@ERS! This went on for more than 5 minutes, until he finally paused to take a breath. The rest is pretty much how remember the exchange.
Me: Hey, mon, do you know what an Octaroon is?
Him: No, is that some kind of cookie?
Me: No, mon. That is a person who is 1/8 black. My father's paternal grandmother.
I heard him let out air as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. I could see through the gloom that he was looking intently in his rearview mirror, trying to make out my face, but he could not. He kept glancing up, not saying a word - probably given his racism expecting me to slit his throat.
I had him stop a bit away from my apartment, gave him no tip, and walked away.
Somehow I hoped he might be a little more careful about offering his racism in the future. At least a little.
It was very late. I do not know if it was just after 4 AM, when bars closed on Friday nights in NYC in those days, or somewhat earlier, when they closed on Saturday night. That doesn't matter.
I had closed out a bar on E. 79th Street and hailed a cab to take me home to Brooklyn Heights.
I got in the cab, which in those days had no partitions between driver and passenger(s) in the rear set. Then driver started up.
He offered a string of racial epithets, claiming this and that about the N*%@ERS! This went on for more than 5 minutes, until he finally paused to take a breath. The rest is pretty much how remember the exchange.
Me: Hey, mon, do you know what an Octaroon is?
Him: No, is that some kind of cookie?
Me: No, mon. That is a person who is 1/8 black. My father's paternal grandmother.
I heard him let out air as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. I could see through the gloom that he was looking intently in his rearview mirror, trying to make out my face, but he could not. He kept glancing up, not saying a word - probably given his racism expecting me to slit his throat.
I had him stop a bit away from my apartment, gave him no tip, and walked away.
Somehow I hoped he might be a little more careful about offering his racism in the future. At least a little.