SCENE & HEARD

Thursday, August 10, 2006

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