The T-Shirt said “Black Lives Matters”. It had been raining that morning and the traffic at the end of the line was mostly ‘White’. The rush hour’s end had afforded the stainless steel cars a peppering of available seats in the ‘New York Style’ arrangement of face to face, “I got my back covered.” That dookie smell of urine was gratefully absent. Traynor strolled in just after his phone which floated just ahead of him. “Say What?“, the expression of the sum total of the provision of his internal thought process. He sat down flashing his best case of aloof diffidence a seat a way from post-bangable soccer mom with small puppies who was vigorously massaging her I-phone so as not to see him. An old fat ass white racist muthafucka topped in an unexpectedly fly Kangol sitting like Jesus in shades the seat across. Traynor sat down matching the other fat fool’s ‘man spread’ with his own appropriation of a ‘yard and a half’ thumbing the tiny windshield of his own crappy phone. What up with these honky muthafucka’s? A couple of Tom’s in three piece monkey suits on either end of the car trying to look white enough to get past the man. It was a sad day! The pigs had offed another two brothers over the weekend out east. The hood in Charlotte was ablaze. And these fools were just sitting here silently freaking that the brother’s here on the West side would mind their manners long enough to let them all get downtown. He was pissed! Tall with red half downs and his own matched flipped Ivy cap he was sending a message to the world. The day was coming. Coming soon! That day when the black man didn’t have to put up with any shit anymore from nobody. The ofay across the way was looking over at the fat booty sista as she scribbled in her book. The busta had a tiny banger smaller than his dick clipped in his pocket of his new black Levi’s. Maybe he thought he was cool or something? He’d have popped the sucker’s mouth if he didn’t have to go down the the Cultural Center to dress up and play toy cop. He was sending out an all points bulletin to score some much needed cheddar from some of his ace boon coon’s that he had done a few favors for. Last month’s check had left the planet three weeks after it had landed and he was being paid monthly by the city. Ten dollars an hour! Damn! Our homey in DC hadn’t exactly come through after seven years of playing golf! That tiny bitch boating nigger from last week had chowed down all his green after he and his patna Harold had horse wanged her last Saturday. He wasn’t looking for a boo but he had to admit that she was fine.
The ancient fat faggot across from his was peering out of his shades just past him now. Good! Traynor reeled out his legs splaying them across the aisles to bust some chops. But the old geezer didn’t budge. A played out pig? “Who gives a shit?“, he thought. He better not be messing with me even if he was a gray grandfather of the man. Too bad that old fool wasn’t around to chase those two bare back’in faggot bitches out of the gallery the other day! They started touching stuff in the community outreach baby nursery where the black kids had posted their best shot with paper and pencil across the wall. He was just waiting for some sass from the two of them so he could call security and toss them out of the building. He didn’t care how much these two interior designers paid in yearly taxes. “Don’t touch the Charmin!” He knew that the gaze across the way was checking him out. Not playing chicken like some of those other younger skinny ass white dudes. The chip taken out of the bridge of his nose was itching big time from the heat. Damn! He had gotten banged walking into an open kitchen cabinet door eye high over at grandma’s. He had been getting some street respect and he let anyone who was curious think that he was doing a little gang banging. He felt his face melt down a little more into his toughest ‘don’t fuck with me’ expression. His friend across the way didn’t move a whisker. Traynor had to wonder if this guy though paunchy in the middle was for real? Certainly he had seen the message on his ‘T’. The old turkey looked like he didn’t even carry a phone to hide his attentions in? His two feet solid on the deck and the small black truncheon of an umbrella that got unconsciously nervous being passed from one hand to another. Was he side dreaming of how to stick it in the young black youth’s neck. Maybe years back he had done the Nam? He was as old as Traynor’s uncle Bill. It made him a bit nervous to think that his new white homey across the way was not. He fumbled for the other phone that he had boosted from his little brother’s dresser that morning. The one that mom had taken away for the week after this last report card. The little bitch had scored a brand new slightly used Samsung for his birthday for getting through math with a C+ at the end of Spring. He thumbed through some Android favorites, ‘Leap Day’ through to ‘Bejewled’. What was the point he thought. He had a job but how many burgers could he buy on $400.00 a week after taxes? The Muzzies and Chinkerbells were coming over to take all the jobs that were left. You couldn’t call up to complain without talking to some Punjabi. Sure there were some brotha’s hauling down some serious bread but the action on the street was getting terminal. That was the way that the white man had planned it! Destroy the Black race! The MSNBC Lemon had a much as admitted it about Trump. If Hell-ary didn’t get back into the White House then the game was over! And that old bitch was going to stir the pot at that with a bunch of camel jockeys that she was going to import after the election. It was tough enough to keep one’s head down not the street with the 911! What in the world could a black man do? Trust in Jesus?
The train’s white voiced soul chimed out the usual delay message at the Loop’s crossroads. The usual silent sigh of relief from all the white passengers evidenced in a less frozen sense of attentiveness to their immediate surroundings. Traynor could breath a little freer now that all the silent eyeballing had ceased. The old white dude was no longer in his seat but by the door staring at the scenery waiting for the train to pull into the station. The fat sista had gotten off the stop before. Traynor was still waiting impatiently for a return text to see if he could shacka-alacka a five or two for some much needed Dunkin. How the day would work out was anybody’s guess? The train started moving and the Ding Dong rang out with that faggot white voice again announcing to the world that his own stop was two away. So what in the fuck did a Nigga have to do to survive in this place for yet another day?