For the Record, I Am NOT a Racist, I'm Just Mad as Hell!

The middle-aged man standing next to his pickup truck two parking spaces over from me sputtered those final words to an angry worker who had just ushered him out of the takeout lobby of my neighborhood seafood restaurant. It was the end of a heated exchange I only caught the tail end of after pulling into the lot to pick up lunch for my family. As near as I can recall, this is what was said and how the next few minutes played out:

I was about to get out of my car when I saw the two men emerge from the building, both fuming. I heard the uniformed worker, a young black man, yell, "You need to pay for those drinks, sir!" Then, the worker mumbled, "Racist mother******." The middle-aged man, who was white, heavy-set, and appeared to be in his sixties, set the paper bag he was carrying on the ground, took a bill from his wallet, and shoved it at the worker. "There! Keep the change!" 

The man stormed in my direction. I stayed put in my SUV, fearing his wrath. He stopped and spun back around when he reached his truck. I sensed an impending fistfight, but the man just pointed his finger angrily at the young man, who was still near the door cursing under his breath, and said, "You need to watch your mouth, young man! And you people need to provide better customer service. And by you people, no, I don't mean black people. I mean everybody in this lousy restaurant. I don't care what the hell color you are, you could be purple and green for all I care! I am NOT a racist. I'm just mad as hell!"

The restaurant employee went back inside, and the man got into his truck. Just as he was about to shut the door, the bottom of the bag he was holding gave way, and a large styrofoam drink cup fell onto the asphalt. Some of the icy contents splashed onto his pant leg. The man lost it. He slammed the torn bag, which was barely holding a second full drink cup, onto the ground and began beating his steering wheel with both fists. He let out a roar so primal it set my heart racing.

I decided it would be safer to move my car to a space further away from this man before getting out. But just as I was about to put my car in reverse, I looked over at him. His truck door was still open, and he seemed to be hyperventilating. He had the palm of one hand on his forehead, and the other on his chest, and was gasping for breath. I turned my ignition off and watched as he slumped over and buried his face in the center of the steering wheel. Inwardly, I was saying, "Oh, my God, this man is having a heart attack right in front of me."

I jumped out of my vehicle, ran over to the truck in a panic, and asked the man him if he was okay. He had already been red-faced, but now I could see sweat dripping down the back of his neck and off his chin. He shook his head back and forth and said in a near whisper, "I'm not. I am not okay." I pulled out my phone and told him I was calling 9-1-1. He lifted his head and turned it toward me, really seeing me for the first time, and said, "No, don't do that. I'm not sick." And then the man started sobbing. Something in him gave way and he started bawling like a toddler who'd just broken his favorite toy.

I stood there awkwardly, not knowing if I should do or say something to comfort the man, or if he would prefer I walk away and give him some privacy. My first instinct was to pat him gently on his shoulder while saying something comforting, but after the exchange he'd just had with the guy from the restaurant, I wasn't sure how he'd feel about a black woman touching him, especially in such a vulnerable moment. So, I just said to him, "Is there something I can do to help?"

The man turned so he was sitting sideways on his seat. He took a deep breath and wiped his face on his shirt collar. Looking off into the distance, he said somberly, "Can you tell me where to get oysters? They didn't have my oysters." I was dumbfounded. Surely, this burly, big truck-driving man was not having a full-blown meltdown over oysters. He kept talking. "They said they had 'em when I ordered over the phone. Then, when I got here they told me they were out and asked if I wanted some shrimp instead. I went off. I did, that I admit." The man looked me in the eyes then and said, "They called me a racist. I'm not."

I wasn't sure what he expected me to say, so I just nodded. He went on. "Have you ever just been so pent up from so much going on, one catastrophe after another, it only took one thing, just the littlest little thing, to push you right on off the cliff?" I nodded. I did know. The man drew in a deep breath then and belched. "Whew! 'Scuse me!" he said. "I'm Frank, by the way. Sorry. I'd shake your hand, but it's nasty with tea, sweat, and a little bit of everything else now. And COVID, and all. Lotta folks don't like you touching 'em with COVID going around. I'm vaccinated, though. You got jabbed yet?" I told him I had and said he could call me Mia.

"Anyways, Mia, the whole reason I ordered was because of my daddy," Frank said. He said "daddy" like a kid. "He wanted fried oysters, and that's all he wanted. We got him back in the nursing home from the hospital this morning, and he said the whole time he was in there he was thinking if he ever made it out he was gonna get him some fried oysters. He'd been in there close to nine weeks. Many a time we thought we were gonna lose him, but he hung in there. A whole lotta people his age wouldn't have made it. He's going on ninety. I told him he was too ornery to die. I couldn't do not one thing for him while he was in the hospital, nothing but hope and pray, but what I could do is, once he was out, I could get my daddy some oysters. You know?"

Frank chuckled. I chuckled. He was really on a roll, and I decided to just listen. He sniffled and wiped his face with the back of his hand. Looking off into the distance again, he said, "Well, that was right embarrassing." I asked him what he was referring to, thinking he might be considering apologizing to the people inside the restaurant. He said, "Crying and actin' a fool in front of a stranger in a parking lot." I smiled and said, "Well, when you need fried oysters, nothing else will do." Frank laughed. It was a full belly laugh. "You're alright, Mia. You're good people, I can tell." I told him he was good people too, and I meant it.

I told Frank about another seafood restaurant I thought had recently opened a few miles away. I googled them and called. Yes, they were open, they said. And they had oysters. I gave my phone to Frank, and he placed his order. Satisfied and comfortable with me at this point, Frank said, "Tell me something, Mia. Why is it that some folks, if you're white and they're black, the first thing they go to these days is racist?" I told him I wasn't sure why in every case, but I think it's at least partially a habit we've fallen into, that all of us, no matter our race, ethnicity, religion, class, gender identity, or sexual orientation are really prickly and looking to be offended these days. 

Frank agreed, and we agreed it was a shame. He asked me to hold on for just a second while he got something out of his glove compartment. After a minute of fumbling around, he pulled out a bandana and what looked like a tattered business card. As he wiped his hands with the bandana, he said, "This is clean, it's just wrinkled from being in the glove box. I wanted to shake your hand proper like." Frank stood up and grinned. We shook hands. Then, he handed me the card. "I do landscaping. Got a small crew I just now could hire back. We do good work. You call me if you need something done, okay? I'll give you the family rate." Frank winked before climbing back into his truck and driving down the road to get his daddy's oysters.