He was having a difficult time reading them. The closest one was white, almost Opie looking. Vintage clothes, practically one of those scooter-riding hipsters, but without the holes in the jeans and the grease in the hair. He looked like he was about to fight back, but for the time was mostly quiet and attentive. He nods too much, in a thoughtful but disingenuous way. In the back of his distracted head, it is obvious, the gears are grinding.

Across the table, the other one was louder, accelerated, almost aggressive. But his bouts of quick jabs were tempered with the occassional right hook of squinted eyes and flashy, white teeth. That smile was his trademark; it was immediately obvious that it managed to both get him into and out of trouble – sometimes within the same minute. He was a Mexican. Or Laahhhteeenooo or Hispanic or whatever the fuck they call themselves these days.

But as he thought that he remembered his own cousin’s thrown up arms every time he called himself African-American. Nigga, how many times you been to Africa? You couldn’t find Africa on a map. Ain’t nothing African about you. You is Black. He started to miss his family back home. Funny, just a couple days and you’re missing the people you love to hate the most.

It was a business trip that brought him out here. Southern California … same concrete jungle, same little Chinese kids in their lowered Hondas, same paper chase. It’s a trip man, more you see in life, more it starts to all blend together.

This was his second night. Tomorrow, back to the frostbite. And the phone call he’d been putting off. Seeking distraction, he started to listen in.

“Come on dawg, are you telling me you don’t believe in justice? Let me ask you this, if you steal a candy bar and you get caught, what do you gotta do? You gotta give it back. That’s justice.”
“Putting a candy bar back and killing someone are two completely different things. Dude, that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Yes it …”
“Hold on man, here, let me tell you my main point … he was doing more good in jail than he’s doing now. That’s enough for me.”
“Dawg, what about justice?”
“What, an eye for an eye?”

Southern California … freeways, shopping plazas, and people rapping about the same shit. He could’ve been anywhere back in Detroit. Last night he stayed in the hotel. Room service, his first ever. Yeah, he’d contemplated going out. Read up on the club scene online at the office. But that’s what got him in trouble back home. The hustle. Tonight he had to get out of the hotel though. Driving the rental car, he stumbled on a Vietnamese restaurant, remembered his ex – banging body – who taught him how to use chop sticks, and decided to stop in. That’s when it ocurred to him: a black dude, a white dude, and a brown dude all eating Vietnamese food with chop sticks. It’s a trip man, more you see in life, more it starts to all blend together.

He decided to chime in.

“I’m sorry gentlemen, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just heard what you are … were talking about … you’ve got to consider this. If just one time, just once, if you just mess up one time, you’re taking away an innocent man’s life. And then, who pays the justice for that? Every single supporter of the death penalty – that’s on all of them.”

And the conversation went on. Slowly to start, as they sniffed each other out with humor and careful word choice. They went around in circles, contradicted themselves, and enthusiastically agreed when they found common ground.

He still couldn’t get a feel for them though and had to ask: “So where you guys at, like politically?”

It was the white guy who responded.

“I’m left, he’s right.”

He was caught off guard by how easy they owned up to political labels. No one does that anymore. These days he was really only interested in politics as a way of finding out more about someone’s psychology, their past, the things that make them tick. He remembered his days in the unions: the slogans, the mottos, the 30-minute rants by the corrupt bosses. Just another business like any else. He still had his beliefs, but wasn’t willing to fight for them so much like in his younger days.

“Me, I guess I’m somewhere in the middle. I like to call myself independent.”

There was a silence. The Vietnamese waitress was staring at the television and they all looked over to admire her curves. She pretended not to notice.

“How do you two feel about Wal-Mart?”

They both sat up in their chairs. Prize fighters at the bell. The Mexican was a good half foot shorter, he noted. A scrappy Napolean. He added the observation to his mental archive of political stereotypes.

And the conversation went on, round and round like a gospel choir.

It was getting late. The three had been talking for too long and though the buzzing, unanswered cell phones insured their masculinity, anything longer would have betrayed the secrecy of their loneliness. They each tipped the waitress too much, waved each other off without handshakes or introductions and went back to their lives. Same concrete jungle, same little Chinese kids in their lowered Hondas, same paper chase.