Small Bytes

camper. My conversation with Wykcoff had left me irritated and on edge, in part because of the sloppy way he’d handled the investigation into Terry Pendleton’s murder, but also because of the man’s intolerant attitude. It’s one thing to be stupid, but when you combine that stupidity with ignorance, you have a truly deadly combination. What was bothering me most, though, was the fact that old Carson had just assumed that, because I was white, I would naturally share his prejudices. I run into this attitude way too often, especially since once is way too often. The bigots of the world seem to think that if you’re not one of “those other people,” then of course you’re “one of us.” I’ve never had any patience with that viewpoint, and I find, as I get older, that I’m becoming even less tolerant of it. There was a time when I would simply do my best to avoid people like Carson Wykcoff, but more and more these days, I find myself confronting them, exposing them for what they are. It’s not that I expect to change their minds, because I know that isn’t going to happen, certainly not because of my getting in someone’s face. I guess I do it mainly for my own mental health. But if that was the case, why was I still so upset?

Food. When all else fails, eat. Or exercise. Since I didn’t feel like exercising, I headed for my kitchen. On one hand, I’m not helpless when it comes to cooking. On the other hand, I’m far from being a gourmet chef. I don’t especially enjoy preparing meals, and my schedule sometimes doesn’t allow me the time to do so, anyway, so more often than not, I order out or eat at one of the many local restaurants. I do make an effort to eat healthy meals, though, avoiding all those fried foods and greasy combinations that taste so good but are so bad for you. Once in a while, I’ll splurge at a McDonald’s, but usually I behave myself. No sense doing all the running and lifting if I’m just going to negate everything by scarfing down a high-calorie, high-fat meal every night. I stay in shape partly because of my job. Sometimes I have to deal with people who insist on physical confrontation, and I don’t like losing those confrontations. But, to be honest, there’s some vanity involved, too. I don’t look my age, and I don’t ever intend to.

My refrigerator held the usual: one quart of 2% milk, a container of leftover spaghetti from a couple of nights ago, half a bottle of Lambrusco, some orange juice, Diet Coke, chipped ham, eggs, lettuce, broccoli, carrots, Granny Smith apples, etc. In the freezer section, I had some yogurt, a couple of boxes of Girl Scout cookies I’d bought from a kid down the street several months ago, frozen strawberries, several one-pound packages of ground sirloin, a bag of plain bagels, and a box of pierogies.

Nothing appealed to me, so I threw on a jacket and walked to Shadyside. It was close to ten o’clock, and there wasn’t much still open, but I knew that Starbucks didn’t close until eleven. When I walked in, I saw Irv behind the counter. There weren’t any other customers, so Irv and I had time to chat while I had a plain scone and a latte.

“You run into many racists here?” I asked him.

He raised an eyebrow and then said, “Since this is planet Earth, yeah, we get our share. You thinking about anyone in particular?”

“I just had a conversation with a guy who assumed that since I’m a white male, I must share his feelings about black people. Why is that, you suppose?”

“Why do racists assume that everyone else is a racist, too? Probably because of the ignorance factor. They’ve never taken the time to examine their own belief system, so why should they assume you’ve examined yours? They hang around with other people like themselves, which just reinforces the idea that everybody they know is just as racist as they are, only they don’t think of it as being racist. To them, it’s just an acknowledgement of the obvious: blacks are basically lazy lowlifes who have gotten ahead in this country because of welfare programs, affirmative action, etc. Oh, and you can substitute Hispanics for blacks in that formula, too. Plus, variations of it work for women and Jews and anybody else you’d care to discriminate against.”

“Seriously, Irv, give this a little thought, okay?”

He laughed and said, “Hey, during the slow periods, I gotta lot of time on my hands. It’s either think about these things or sneak in a TV and watch the soaps.”

“I think you made the right choice there.”

A few minutes later, I got up to leave.

“Thanks for the food and the friendly ear, Irv.”

“What’s this guy’s name, JB, the racist?”

“Wykcoff.”

“Well, for whatever it’s worth, keep in mind that things could be worse. At least you’re not this Wykcoff dude.”

“Yeah, but which one of us will sleep better tonight? I’ll be thinking about what a jerk he is, and he’ll probably be out before his head hits the pillow.”

“Maybe, but whether he knows it or not, he’s still a jerk. And you’re not.”

“Something to that, I guess. Goodnight, Irv.”

“Take it easy, JB.”

*      *      *

By the time I got home, I’d convinced myself that thinking about all the Carson Wykcoffs of the world wasn’t going to do me any good, at least not tonight. I showered and climbed into bed and read for a while. Unlike many fictional private investigators, I actually enjoy reading detective books, and I wish I could say that I always figure out whodunnit way before the end of the story. Unfortunately, I don’t. Hell, sometimes I don’t get it even when the culprit has been revealed. Tonight, though, I spent a few minutes with P.G. Wodehouse, who wrote all those books about Jeeves, the butler. Uncle Leo got me