Back in the day (as my undergrads used to say back in the day) I was in the head in the Greyhound station in like, IDK, Winnemucca, Nevada? Cold as all get-out. Riding the bus east from Seattle to Boston after Christmas break. See: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GONmFCkCGCc Black kid is using the head also. Then this cowboy staggers in through the swing-door. Older guy in jeans, boots, sheep-skin lined jacket, real Stetson. So, a real cowboy. His saddle is probably in the luggage compartment under a bus bound for Casper. He’s holding a fifth of some amber colored fluid and I don’t think it was green tea full of whatever green tea is full of that’s supposed to be good for your health. OTOH, it’s in a regular “factory whiskey”–as Henry Fonda said in “Grapes of Wrath”–bottle instead of a Mason jar, so you probably won’t wake up two days later, blind and in a culvert. Anyway, who was I? Oh, yea. The cowboy sees the black guy and says “Hey darky, help me get this thing whipped” and holds out his jug. Black kid is just frozen. He knows the guy meant it in a friendly way. He knows that he isn’t going to do some Man-Tan “Nossuh, Ah don’t drink no whiskey” routine. He knows that he should fight for being called “darky.” He knows that there isn’t another black person around for 250 miles—unless there’s a train stop and some old porter named Ulysses Grant Weems is aboard.
Once every five years or so, I think about those two guys and wonder how it shook out after I left in embarrassment for all three of us.