SCENE & HEARD

Life is composed of accidental moments. They are glimpses of who we are and where we live.

You Can't Get There That Way

Sometimes, even the most hard-boiled reporters just don't want to ask.

It was one of those 90-degree-plus evenings we had last week. On a residential Capitol Hill street, a well-muscled young man was pushing a beige late-model car, maybe a quarter of the way up the block.

"Stop," yelled the woman in the driver's seat.

He did. He drank some water. He took over the driver's seat.

And then -- remember, it's 90-plus degrees, with humidity that would politely be described as soupy -- she starts pushing the car.

In reverse .

A quarter of a block later, he yells "Stop!"

They do. They both drink water. She gets into the driver's seat.

And then, he begins pushing again.

Forward .

-- Maryann Haggerty, staff writer

The Many Layers of Prejudice

Walking up Connecticut Avenue through Dupont Circle one night recently, I spotted a sidewalk saxophonist. Amid his free-form meanderings, I picked out some Brubeck. The busker was a black man, and looked about my age.

I was about to say something friendly to him about "Take Five" as I approached, but he beat me to the punch. He locked eyes with me, stopped playing and said, "After 42 years in this life, I learned one thing: White people suck!"

It's rare to be confronted with such unprovoked, in-your-face malice, at least for a white guy. I was stunned and kept walking. But I was so angered, so offended, that I shot back -- without really thinking -- "[Expletive] you!"

"You can't," he yelled after me, as I walked away, "you gay [expletive]!"

Wow. He had proved himself a racist, homophobe and misogynist in only two sentences. An impressively efficient display of condensed hating. I left it there because I didn't want to be caught in a cussing match. No winners there. His lifetime of being a black man and my lifetime of being a white man had collided in their worst natures during one 15-second encounter.

Ten minutes or so later, I approached him again, walking back toward my car. A middle-aged white woman dropped a dollar in his sax case on the sidewalk. He stopped playing long enough to hurl a racial slur at her. She staggered in response, as if shoved. His seemed an odd business model.

I briefly thought about "accidentally" dumping my soda into his sax case. But then I thought, nah, keep walking. Leave him to his hate. Not to mention: Brubeck is a white guy.

-- Frank Ahrens, staff writer