Through the Window

“It’s really irritating, all his ‘racial appropriation’ stuff. So what, I’m white? It doesn’t mean I’m a bad person.”

“Exactly, it’s like the discrimination we receive doesn’t even matter.”

Nodding in eager agreement with her companion’s reply, Suzan Esky pursed both lips over a green straw and took a long draft of her lemonade, she clicked her beige nails against her plastic cup and cast a look across the restaurant, as if searching for a particularly interesting stranger to observe. Her eyes settled on an African American woman outside their window, talking to a vendor while she struggled to keep her little girl from running into the next door bakery.

With several finger snaps and an excited, closed mouth squeal, Suzan set her drink down and pointed them out to both her friends.

“See, look at that lady. That vendor isn’t refusing her service. He even gave her daughter a lollipop. Isn’t that sweet?”

She tilted her head and sent the girl a smile of adoration.

“I bet you he didn’t say one thing about her color,” said Bill, a contractor for her father’s company and a strong admirer of Suzan’s. His mouth come a bit unhinged as he watched her pull her thick blond hair over one shoulder and run her fingers through it, keeping his dull brown eyes dead set on her blue ones.

Bill would have agreed with her no matter what she said but this was one issue he felt strongly about (as, it seemed, did their other friend).

“Because it doesn’t matter,” he chipped in, shaking his head in disgust. “We’re all the same. They should treat us like equals and we’ll treat them like equals, simple as that.”

“Definitely,” said Suzan, peeling her eyes from the mother-daughter couple to give him a warm, appraising smile.

“How did you get to be so smart Alex?” She teased, swatting his arm.

Alex, his mahogany brown hair hanging just above his eyes and his red plaid shirt unbuttoned to his collarbone, gave a rather pathetic smile in return and shot Bill an apologetic look, which Suzan didn’t notice.

“Yeah, Alex is right,” said Bill, puffing his chest a bit and and trying to edge his face into her line of sight. “It’s dumb that I have to watch what I say just because someone might get offended. Racist jokes aren’t meant to be mean, they’re funny.”

Suzan nodded absentmindedly, rubbing her glossed lips together and sticking them out a little further (presumably for Alex’s benefit).

“Whiny little bitches can just lighten up about it,” he added hurriedly, a look of pain winding his face.

Suzan jerked back a little and blinked in surprise.

“That’s a little harsh Bill.”

Unseen by them, three Caucasian men sauntered toward the mother and child outside their window, eyeing the vendor up and down and talking heatedly to one another.

He shrugged.

“Whatever, it’s true. Why do I have to watch what I say when the people I’m talking about aren’t even around?”

He laid his muscled arm over the back of his chair and leaned to the side, propping himself against the window sill. Behind him, the men had reached the mother and tapped her on the shoulder. An angry conversation ensued, the vendor watching with wide eyes. She ushered her daughter backwards to shield her from them, keeping her hands against the girl’s shoulders. None of this was observed by the group in the cafè however, and their own conversation grew heavier.

“If they don’t want us to say how we feel they shouldn’t live in America,” Bill continued, smirking with self satisfaction at the way Suzan’s eyes remained glued on him. “Black people are the same as us, if they can make jokes about it, we can make jokes about it.”

Suzan’s forehead wrinkled as she lapsed into thought, staring at Bill as if she’d never fully seen him before.

“True,” said Alex, though with less energy. He watched Bill doubtfully from the corners of his eyes. “But just because we live in America doesn’t mean we have an excuse to be rude.”

“It’s not rude, it’s true. Think about it: slavery is over, segregation is over, what have they got to complain about? Their children go to the same schools as our children. They’re just stirring the pot.”

The vendor had just abandoned his stand, the man in front had just struck the woman down.

“I think you’re right,” Suzan finally said, peeking at Alex to gauge his reaction.

But Bill kicked Alex’s foot under the table and he stayed quiet, eyes down.

In the middle of a near empty street, three men jumped on a mother and her daughter: hands thrashing skin, fists smacking bone.

“I am right. I have no reason to apologize, just because I’m white. And I don’t feel very privileged. I’m a fricking construction worker. I grew up poor. My dad grew up poor. Our lives are not magically perfect because of the color of our skin.”

“Well, neither are theirs. They do have problems.”

Bill shook his head at Alex’s weak statement.

“That’s not our fault. They should stop blaming everything on us. The world’s going to shit, everybody’s so sensitive.”

“True,” said Suzan. “I know a lot of people who are having a tough time finding a job, and they’re not just the black ones. Plus they’ve got special programs that we don’t and they get special treatment.”

Bill scoffed in agreement.

“All those people who think they’re advocates. They’re not unifiers, they’re just whiners.”

“What, like Jesse Williams?”

“Yeah, sure. And anybody who complains about it to the media. I mean, yeah, sometimes black people do get unjustly attacked by the police but a lot of the time they’re armed and dangerous. Did you know that seventy-five percent of people in prison for drug use are black?”

Suzan shook her head in mute amazement.

“Wow...sometimes the stupidity of the world amazes me.”

Three Caucasian men split in different directions and trailed away, careful not to walk too fast. For several long moments, a beautiful African American mother stayed where she was: crouched above her daughter to shield her from the worst of the blows.

Alex looked a little surprised at the both of them, as if he hadn’t meant to take the conversation quite this far. But he only gave a half hearted nod and suggested he and Bill get back to work.

“I guess so,” Bill said, casting a glance at his watch.

“Do you, do you want to grab some dinner after?” Suzan asked, with a couple languid bats of her lashes.

“Sure.”

He kept his voice low and intimidating to mask his excitement and held the door open for her, oblivious to the fact that he’d let it close too soon--nearly smacking Alex in the face.

The three said their goodbyes and left the cafè through the back door. Not one of them noticed the woman tug her daughter to her feet, wipe the worst of the blood from her face, and limp down the lazy street.