I’m sitting in my room typing away on my laptop when suddenly I hear tires screeching outside my house.

“I fucking hate niggers!” a male voice screams. “I fucking hate them!”

I leap out of my chair and run to the window. My first thought is some black guy walking down the street’s being harassed by a wacko cracker. But when I look down at the street there’s not an African-American in sight.

“I fucking hate them!” the voice cries out again, drawing my eyes to a rusted out shitbucket waiting to make right turn onto the street in front of my house. I can’t see the driver, but the guy on the passenger side of the car has his arm is hanging out the window with a lit cigarette in his hand. I can hear him laughing.

One of the things I’ve been trying to do to exercise my cerebral cortex is memorizing license plates. As I’m driving down the highway I’ll pick out three cars, deposit the numbers and letters into my brain and note the make and model of the car. Then when I get home I see if I can remember them all by writing them down. So far I can always remember two of the cars. But there’s always one where I can only recall a partial plate. I have to work harder.

I look at the offending car’s license plate. But before my eyes can focus the car screeches away. Damn.

But the again, what could I have done if I had gotten the plate number? Call the cops? Maybe they could bust them for disturbing the peace. But then again maybe not. I’m sure they have more pressing things to worry about then some idiot spouting off vituperative nonsense. But I’d like to see that jerk try pulling that shit in Harlem.

I sit back in my chair and resume typing, saddened that a little bit of the world’s darkness did a drive by in my neighborhood.

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