Aftermath 12, 3169: The Day I Was Racist

It’s 6 in the morning, and I’m partially comatose from the evil influence of my warm, comfy bed. I’m standing in the cold of a bus stop in a transit mall, as I’ve done a hundred times before, hypnotized by the constant vibration of the comings and goings of all the buses. I’m practicing my finely honed skill of remaining mostly asleep, with just enough remaining consciousness to recognize the moment when my bus arrives.

A bus pulls away from the stop and my semiconscious bliss is shattered by a shriek.


I look up and see a very pissed off woman. “Huh?”

“That bus! I yelled at you to stop it, but you just stood there! Why didn’t you stop it?”

“I didn’t hear you, I’m sorry.”

Pure loathing shot from her eyes into mine. “It’s because I’m <i>BLACK</i>! That’s why you didn’t stop it.  You’re a fucking racist!”

My poor brain grinds its gears as it heroically, but hopelessly, attempts to rev up for action. My mouth, instead of issuing the expected sounds of tortured metal, quietly utters the words “I don’t think I’m the racist one here.”

Her eyes bulge in rage, and I recede back into my stupor. The shrieking voice fades with my awareness. “WHAT? <i>I</i> can’t be racist! I’m bla…”

I wonder how that fight ended.