across town?” The man had moved on to his grits. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “There’s dozens of places to eat closer than this dive.”
Smith smiled. “I know. But I like the hash browns here. Speaking of which,” he said, shifting his attention from his seatmate to his soul mate, “could I get a number five, girlie?”
Cat glanced up from the cash register. “Sure.” There wasn’t a hint in her voice that she knew Smith, let alone that she was sleeping with him.
The guy seated next to Smith elbowed Smith in the ribs. “Make sure you get some brown sugar with that.” He cackled and then inhaled another spoonful of grits.
Cat Wilson placed Earl Smith’s order on the counter in front of him. The number five was Smith’s favorite: two eggs over easy, two link sausages, a double side of hash browns, and two of the Waffle House’s eponymic waffles.
Again, not a hint of recognition came from the waitress. “Enjoy” was all she said. She returned to the cash register.
The guy seated next to Smith nudged him again and said, “I know I would.” He was leering at Cat’s fabulous ass. It put Beyonce’s to shame.
Smith didn’t say a word. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cat, though. He never could.
The guy seated next to him picked up on it. “I didn’t think the Klan got hot for nigger women.” Food crumbs dotted the guy’s whiskered face.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey. Mellow out, Earl. I’m just messin’ with ya.” The guy spun on his stool and announced to his coworkers scattered around the diner, “Earl here don’t like it when you say he’s got the hots for the nigger waitress.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” Smith sprang from his stool. He grabbed the guy by the collar and shook him like a bottle of ketchup.
The guy broke free from Smith’s grip and lurched to his feet. He was a full six inches taller than Smith, which suggested that Smith was thinking with his heart rather than his head at the moment. “You stickin’ up for niggers now, Earl?” The guy shoved Smith hard into the counter.
Smith stumbled back a bit but quickly regained his balance. His eyes danced around the room. He counted four klansmen in attendance. He reminded himself that he needed to be careful. Even grand dragons had been killed for less than what he was being accused of. He said, “Of course I ain’t stickin’ up for no nigger. Niggers ain’t nuthin’ but trash.”
The klansmen who were present said, “Akia. Kigy.”
Smith nodded to each of them. His eyes met Cat’s.
Her eyes weren’t locked on his for long, but it was long enough to let Smith know how hurt she was.
CHAPTER 20
Billy Joe Collier tossed his lunch pail and thermos onto the table in the break room. He was halfway through his shift at the Taylor Tires plant on the west side of Charleston. He snatched the copy of the Charleston Post and Courier that one of his coworkers had left behind. He couldn’t read well, but the pictures told the story: gruesome front-page photographs of the black man and white woman he had murdered for simply being in love. Most of the black man’s face was gone, smashed with a golf club like a discarded jack-o’-lantern. The white woman hadn’t fared much better.
Collier smiled. He always got a kick out of seeing the results of his handiwork. He snapped open his lunch pail and pulled out a bologna and cheese sandwich. He unscrewed the lid on his thermos and poured a cup of Dr. Pepper. He settled in to read the story. He was careful not to spill food or soda on it. He planned on adding it to his scrapbook.
The racism of men like Billy Joe Collier was crude. Its most overpowering element was the conviction that blacks and whites were utterly distinct. A person was a black or a white, just as a truck was a truck and a pencil was a pencil. Race was an absolute category and the presumed characteristics of a member of the racial group were taken as God-given and unalterable. Blacks,
Smith smiled. “I know. But I like the hash browns here. Speaking of which,” he said, shifting his attention from his seatmate to his soul mate, “could I get a number five, girlie?”
Cat glanced up from the cash register. “Sure.” There wasn’t a hint in her voice that she knew Smith, let alone that she was sleeping with him.
The guy seated next to Smith elbowed Smith in the ribs. “Make sure you get some brown sugar with that.” He cackled and then inhaled another spoonful of grits.
Cat Wilson placed Earl Smith’s order on the counter in front of him. The number five was Smith’s favorite: two eggs over easy, two link sausages, a double side of hash browns, and two of the Waffle House’s eponymic waffles.
Again, not a hint of recognition came from the waitress. “Enjoy” was all she said. She returned to the cash register.
The guy seated next to Smith nudged him again and said, “I know I would.” He was leering at Cat’s fabulous ass. It put Beyonce’s to shame.
Smith didn’t say a word. He couldn’t take his eyes off Cat, though. He never could.
The guy seated next to him picked up on it. “I didn’t think the Klan got hot for nigger women.” Food crumbs dotted the guy’s whiskered face.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Hey. Mellow out, Earl. I’m just messin’ with ya.” The guy spun on his stool and announced to his coworkers scattered around the diner, “Earl here don’t like it when you say he’s got the hots for the nigger waitress.”
“I said shut the fuck up!” Smith sprang from his stool. He grabbed the guy by the collar and shook him like a bottle of ketchup.
The guy broke free from Smith’s grip and lurched to his feet. He was a full six inches taller than Smith, which suggested that Smith was thinking with his heart rather than his head at the moment. “You stickin’ up for niggers now, Earl?” The guy shoved Smith hard into the counter.
Smith stumbled back a bit but quickly regained his balance. His eyes danced around the room. He counted four klansmen in attendance. He reminded himself that he needed to be careful. Even grand dragons had been killed for less than what he was being accused of. He said, “Of course I ain’t stickin’ up for no nigger. Niggers ain’t nuthin’ but trash.”
The klansmen who were present said, “Akia. Kigy.”
Smith nodded to each of them. His eyes met Cat’s.
Her eyes weren’t locked on his for long, but it was long enough to let Smith know how hurt she was.
CHAPTER 20
Billy Joe Collier tossed his lunch pail and thermos onto the table in the break room. He was halfway through his shift at the Taylor Tires plant on the west side of Charleston. He snatched the copy of the Charleston Post and Courier that one of his coworkers had left behind. He couldn’t read well, but the pictures told the story: gruesome front-page photographs of the black man and white woman he had murdered for simply being in love. Most of the black man’s face was gone, smashed with a golf club like a discarded jack-o’-lantern. The white woman hadn’t fared much better.
Collier smiled. He always got a kick out of seeing the results of his handiwork. He snapped open his lunch pail and pulled out a bologna and cheese sandwich. He unscrewed the lid on his thermos and poured a cup of Dr. Pepper. He settled in to read the story. He was careful not to spill food or soda on it. He planned on adding it to his scrapbook.
The racism of men like Billy Joe Collier was crude. Its most overpowering element was the conviction that blacks and whites were utterly distinct. A person was a black or a white, just as a truck was a truck and a pencil was a pencil. Race was an absolute category and the presumed characteristics of a member of the racial group were taken as God-given and unalterable. Blacks,
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