How Do You Like Them Apples?

While riding the subway today, a man asked me if my apple was real. I had a nectarine protruding from my purse. It looked nothing like an apple. “Are you serious?” I queried. “And it’s a nectarine,” I added. He mumbled a string of words that were unintelligible for the most part, but I caught something about apples in Africa that look like peaches or nectarines or whatever it was I was carrying in my purse. He didn’t strike me as the type of guy who’s been to Africa, but you never know. Regardless, he was confused, I was confused, and I spent the rest of the ride trying not to make eye contact. To distract myself, I broke one of the rules of my celibacy pact and assessed the marital status of the attractive and age-appropriate guy whose chest was about three inches from my face. Not surprisingly, he started talking to a woman across the train shortly thereafter. Attractive, age appropriate AND single are almost unheard of in these parts.

A close friend’s husband asked me out last night. For about the 50th time.

As I walked through the front door to my building tonight, someone was posting a notice scribbled on 8.5 x 11” notebook paper. “Ladies free before 10 p.m. Always nigger free.” Presumably it was advertising for a bar. My eyes nearly popped out. In my book, the use of the “n” word is only acceptable for Blacks, and sometimes even that is debatable. The guy who was posting it was not Black. I thought about waiting to rip it off but knew that someone else would. The vast majority of residents in my building are Black. Am I missing something? Either his action was socially acceptable among a very select population, including most people in my building, or he is a complete idiot. I think it’s the latter, which means he has something in common with my friend’s husband.