Those were the words printed onto a black T-shirt, covering a man whose cigarette smoke I smelled before he appeared. And when he did, you couldn’t miss him – a wiry, white guy with buzz-cut hair, forearms painted with black tattoo ink. As he approached the facade of the Sacramento Natural Foods Co-op, he spoke to no one I could see, though another man I could spoke to him as easily as his next-door neighbor.
“You want some of this?” asked an older, dreadlocked Black man who’d been sitting in the shaded area of the outdoor dining area before I sat to eat my lunch in the sun. Before him were two clear containers of honeydew and cantaloupe – pricey and organic – full and fresh. His belongings were spread on the ground and across two tables, he charged a phone through an outside outlet, and a security guard sauntered over only to saunter away again.
I shoveled forkfuls of arugula, spinach and cilantro chicken salad into my mouth, in the outfit I wore to the office this morning – form-fitting blue jeans, a black blouse punctuated with red and white flowers, with a long-sleeved, black blazer atop my shoulders. I thought about my own mental state, how delicate it can be, how you never know how close you are to the Great Unknown, or hearing voices unheard by others.
I looked up and the Black man had vanished. His food had moved a couple tables over, to where the man in the T-shirt, cigarette in one hand, stood, eating a piece at a time.
Do I Look Like a Fucking People Person? The word Fucking was the only word in red, the rest were white.
At least he’s warning us. A couple tables away from me, an older lady with a walker stood to assemble her bags. I noticed her notice the bus she wanted, roll right by. I pulled myself away from myself, got up and asked if she needed help.
“They went right by without stopping,” she said, hustling as fast as she could, which wasn’t very fast. “I usually give them a cookie when they pick me up here.”
“No pickup? No cookie,” I said as I realized I needed to flag the driver down instead of making conversation.
“We aren’t allowed to pick up over there anymore,” the bus driver said as the bus came to a stop near the bus stop littered with people and garbage and the door opened. More words were exchanged, the heated ones were hers, and I walked to my car as she boarded the bus.
Hopefully this helps. Hopefully the man with the dreadlocks helped the man with the cigarette and shirt. It’s a ripple effect. Everything is. This was the reminder I needed.