I am in the Winn Dixie parking lot. I am in the process of discovering that one thin grocery sack cannot adequately support the weight of three ten-pound bags of cat litter.
“What you looking at?”
The call comes to me from a dark corner of the parking lot. I look up. Four African Americans stand in a loose circle around a battered Volvo. One is a woman, with a kerchief tied around her head. The other three are lanky young men.
I give them a “Who? Me?” expression.
“Yes, you,” the woman shouts. “What you lookin’ at, you slave-driving cracker?”
The words stun me. I stand stock-still for a second or to, then continue to my car, climb inside, and drive away.
In the rear-view mirror, I see the four of them doubled over with laughter, cackling and slapping each other on the back.
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