"Excuse me, sir..."
Another interesting thing happened during my run tonight. It seems like a surprise is waiting for me every time I lace up my Asics (which are now dirty and worn after five months of use).
I was about a half mile in when a black Corolla pulled up alongside me. I was running against traffic on the blacktop of a little dead end street (it’s not busy, so don’t go worrying about me — knock on wood) and the driver swooped in toward me. I thought he was playing with me, trying to make it look as if he was going to run me over. It didn’t work. I didn’t give him any attention until I heard a voice yell, “Excuse me, sir!” I kept running and heard another, “Excuse me!”
Sometimes people stop me and ask for directions. The Los Angeles area is a huge place and it’s easy to get lost. I always help people out because I know how overwhelming and confusing it can be; I was unfamiliar with the city once, too. So I slowed down and jogged back toward the Corolla’s opened passenger window. I stopped the timer on my watch.
“Yeah?” I said. I leaned down and saw a pasty teenage boy in a black shirt behind the wheel. A girl sat in the passenger seat and there were two still figures in the back.
“I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to the CPT,” Pasty said.
For a split second I searched the map in my mind for a “CPT,” trying to figure out what he meant and if I knew the directions. Then he said, “You know — where the niggas roll.”
Compton.
The girl in the passenger seat turned to him and said, “What?” The two kids in the back were silent.
It was one of those moments when I wish I could think on my feet. I can in certain situations but am hopeless when it involves speech. I don’t have any quick comebacks. I’m fine if you give me a minute or two to think things through, revise and consider my response. But on my feet, at the moment of truth, I have no clue what to say. This kid was obviously fucking with me, trying to impress his friends by toying with a pedestrian. I wanted to say something piercing and embarrassing — preferably something that included the terms “rich boy,” “cracka,” and maybe the hybrid, “rich cracka” — but nothing came to mind and I had no clue how to respond to something so stupid and racist.
I ginned and said, “Seriously?” I could give him directions if he really wanted them.
Pasty looked to the people in the backseat, gauging his audience. Nobody seemed impressed by the joke.
“Well,” he said. “Not really…”
“Aight.” I stood and jogged away, restarting my watch. Behind me I heard him drive away, but I’m not sure where.
I was about a half mile in when a black Corolla pulled up alongside me. I was running against traffic on the blacktop of a little dead end street (it’s not busy, so don’t go worrying about me — knock on wood) and the driver swooped in toward me. I thought he was playing with me, trying to make it look as if he was going to run me over. It didn’t work. I didn’t give him any attention until I heard a voice yell, “Excuse me, sir!” I kept running and heard another, “Excuse me!”
Sometimes people stop me and ask for directions. The Los Angeles area is a huge place and it’s easy to get lost. I always help people out because I know how overwhelming and confusing it can be; I was unfamiliar with the city once, too. So I slowed down and jogged back toward the Corolla’s opened passenger window. I stopped the timer on my watch.
“Yeah?” I said. I leaned down and saw a pasty teenage boy in a black shirt behind the wheel. A girl sat in the passenger seat and there were two still figures in the back.
“I was wondering if you could tell me how to get to the CPT,” Pasty said.
For a split second I searched the map in my mind for a “CPT,” trying to figure out what he meant and if I knew the directions. Then he said, “You know — where the niggas roll.”
Compton.
The girl in the passenger seat turned to him and said, “What?” The two kids in the back were silent.
It was one of those moments when I wish I could think on my feet. I can in certain situations but am hopeless when it involves speech. I don’t have any quick comebacks. I’m fine if you give me a minute or two to think things through, revise and consider my response. But on my feet, at the moment of truth, I have no clue what to say. This kid was obviously fucking with me, trying to impress his friends by toying with a pedestrian. I wanted to say something piercing and embarrassing — preferably something that included the terms “rich boy,” “cracka,” and maybe the hybrid, “rich cracka” — but nothing came to mind and I had no clue how to respond to something so stupid and racist.
I ginned and said, “Seriously?” I could give him directions if he really wanted them.
Pasty looked to the people in the backseat, gauging his audience. Nobody seemed impressed by the joke.
“Well,” he said. “Not really…”
“Aight.” I stood and jogged away, restarting my watch. Behind me I heard him drive away, but I’m not sure where.
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