Waiting to Get on the Q35

By Nicholas Stix

Sunday, September 2, 2007

“Why do people not want to ride the bus?” asks The Boss, rhetorically.

We’d just gotten home from buying school clothes for our second grader. Things had gone fine at Kings Plaza, the black-dominated Brooklyn shopping mall where we’d shopped. The store clerks who’d helped us – a 20-something, Jamaican-born black cashier in Macy’s; a 19 or 20-year-old black female cashier (her face looked West Indian, and her lack of American black accent suggested as much, but it didn’t occur to me to ask) at Kids Town, who is attending Borough of Manhattan Community College full-time while working full-time; and a Spanish salesgirl at Kids Town who is going into her senior year in high school – were most gracious, and none of the other customers bothered us. Of course, my experiences at Kings Plaza without my West Indian wife present have sometimes been much less pleasant.

We had to wait 20 or 30 minutes for the city bus home, and by the time it came, there must have been at least 25 people at the bus stop, no proper line, and the bus driver pulled up to where the last stragglers were standing. A sort of limited anarchy ensued, such as I have often seen in the hell of Far Rockaway, and the results were similar to what I have experienced there, as well.

“Stop pushing me, motherfucker!,” says a Hispanic kid, 18-20 years old, about 10 inches taller than me. (Quotes are for the punk’s part of the dialogue; my responses are without quotes.)

Who do you think you’re talking to?

“I’m talking to you, motherfucker.” Raises left fist. “I’ll fuck you up.”

You’re not going to do anything, you racist piece of shit.

“I don’t even know your nationality.”

Yeah, right.

“Yo, suck my dick.”

Try and make me.

“Shut up!”

You shut up! Who’s going to make me? You and what army?

You lookin’ to go back to jail, convict? You punk. You pathetic punk.

You’re not going to do anything to anyone.


Postscript, October 12, 2010:

As I have many other times, I wrote down what transpired while sitting on the bus, moments after it happened, and later typed this up at home. I have called a racist black a “racist piece of shit” a number of times, going back to the ‘90s, but this was the only time I ever called a punk “convict,” and asked him if he was “lookin’ to go back to jail,” and will probably be the last time.

In truth, the kid did not look to be a convict, but rather a lower-middle class racist who wanted to play tough, in order to impress some (black or Hispanic, I can’t recall which) girls who were either with him, or in the vicinity. Anti-white racism and criminality are so fashionable that blacks and Hispanics of all social strata commonly engage in them.