The Siege

It began with an innocent ring of the doorbell and went badly, irretrievably wrong immediately.

I had a lap full of contracts and other paperwork so Michael went to answer it. In a matter of seconds, it went from Can I help you? to Get off my lawn, niggers!

The man and woman had arrived on the bus and rather than wait for the property manager who was to show them the apartment, came through the gate and up to the front door, asking for “the housing commission”. Michael told them they had the wrong address but they were insistent, seeming to believe that he was lying. They cursed him and called him white trash and he reacted with typical temper, calling them no account niggers and ordering them off his property. They responded by calling him an HIV fag. After that, there was no turning back. He was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.

He snatched the telephone to call the property management people and let loose a firestorm of hatefulness and threats. Midway through that conversation, the hapless rental agent arrived and was subjected to an even more racist rant. She tried to point out that housing discrimination is illegal but he shouted her down with a promise that they'd damn well better start discriminating or there'd be dead niggers in the driveway. Horrified and appalled, she stumbled into her SUV and frantically drove off, thinking I'm sure, that she'd encountered a raving, bigoted lunatic. It wasn't all that far from the truth, I thought. The coloreds, he likes to lecture me, are naturally shiftless, ill mannered, and prone to crime and violence. They're too lazy to work and their poverty is self-inflicted. Given the opportunity, they'll steal white folks, the government, and each other blind. Being too stubborn to learn, they're ignorant by choice, always in search of a handout or a welfare check. This is venom he learned practically before he could walk and it's been reinforced his entire life. I can't change his thinking so I've learned to ignore him or leave.

Back in the now, I give him several minutes to regain his mind and composure before suggesting he take a deep breath and consider his blood pressure. He has found his Hollywood prop gun, a wickedly realistic looking firearm and he's pacing between his office and mine, holding it in a deathgrip.

HIV fag! he snarls, Called me an HIV fag in my own driveway! Motherfucking niggers!

Well, I tell him calmly, You have to admit it's creative.

He stops, gives me a quick glare that rapidly changes to a sly sort of grin, lowers the gun.

What  do you think gave it away? he wants to know, The fag part, I mean.

Beats me, I tell him with a shrug, Now put that damfool thing away and get a grip before you have a damn stroke. You know perfectly well that housing discrimination is illegal and no reputable property management company is going to risk going to jail because you're a raging racist who doesn't want to rent to blacks.

Well, they should, he mutters defiantly.

Well, they won't, I say just as defiantly, now get over it. I can't change you, hell, I've given up trying, but for Christ's sake, keep it to yourself. The way you're going, somebody's likely to aim at you and shoot me.

After a day or so, he manages to step back a little – not far enough to suit me but enough to get a grip on his temper, his emotions, and his language – and life resumes its odd but normal track.

Racism has a way of wearing a body out.