Crash Moment

Matt and I saw Crash at the Byrd a few weeks ago. I sat in the theatre getting all worked up and uncomfortable, and gasping, and crying, and gaping, and laughing. Afterwards we just sat there.

On the way home I was frustrated. I suppose I wanted to be deep, or impress Matt (or myself) with my sense of openmindedness and integrity. I wanted, at least, to talk about what we had seen as I had found the movie very powerful. He didn't take me seriously (or at least not nearly as seriously as I was taking myself) and I just slumped towards the window, letting the seat belt dig into my neck as I silently commended myself for not being racist.

It was after midnight when we got back to my apartment and there were no opened parking spots near it. Matt had to park about a block east. As I emerged from the car a older black man wearing a leather hat passed by me and started up the steps to his house. He turned back.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi, how are you?" I answered.

"What can't you say 'hi' to a person?" he asked stepping back towards me.
I stood there wrinkling my brow, "I just did, sir."

"No, I mean before, I always say hi to you and you never say anything back. I started to think that you were some sort of racist or something. I even told people down the block, 'you know that girl with the black car? Well she is a racist!"

I looked back at the blue car from which I had emerged and stumbled over some words about how this car was blue and this car wasn't mine and that I had never ran into him before and if I did I would certainly say hello, and if I had ever not then I was sorry and I surely did not hear him.

The thought of being a racist is an ugly one.

"Well you just got out of that car didn't you?" He had moved towards me but hadn't advanced much and though he was getting firmer, I didn't feel threatened.

"Uh, it's his car." I said pointing to Matt who was standing there and hadn't said anything.

I felt like forever that I was locked in this altercation, but I imagine it was only a few minutes.

Matt finally clarified - explaining that this car was blue, that it wasn't mine, it was his and he didn't live here. They were the same things that I had said, or maybe I had gargled them up, or imagined them. Whatever, the man's mood changed entirely. He apologized, looked hard at me and said with a slight laugh, "guess I've got you mixed up with someone else."

I felt winded and tired. I felt guilty and retraced my past years worth of steps on Broad Street, looking for the man in the leather hat and for any unreciprocated salutations. I felt suddenly certain that I was a villain and I locked myself in the bathroom and cried.

When I emerged and joined Matt on the couch, he reassured me it really was a case of mistaken identity. When I could finally see the whole night clearly, I laughed at how scripted the evening had been. (Still, inside I cherished my soulfulness - I feel big.)

The next day we saw "the girl." She lives across the street from me and drives a black Honda. She's Asian.