Dude, where's my bigot?
An awkward conversation with an awful person
“I think as you get older, it gets harder to find your car,” I heard an old woman say.
I was on the sidewalk getting some exercise. She was on the sidewalk getting frustrated. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know me. We were strangers, but I got the feeling she needed help, so asked, “What color is your car?”
Ignoring the question, she seized on the word color.
“My manager is a black woman,” she said. “And do you know what she did? She pushed me. She just pushed me. Now, I went to a black bible college, so that’s just a little about me, OK.”
Here’s a little more about the stranger: she was white, in her sixties, and she wore an employee shirt from a Mexican fast food chain.
“My last day is in a month,” she continued. “Then I’m out of there.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I’m SAG-AFTRA, so I’m going back to acting.”
That seemed like tough pivot at any time, but especially tough in Hollywood these days. The pandemic, the strikes, and the streaming bubble had really fucked a good thing. But what did I know? I’m not SAG-AFTRA.
“Of course, they’re not going to fire my manager,” the old woman continued. “That would be racist. They fire white managers, but not black managers. Sooner or later, all the managers are gonna be black. That’s reverse-racist.”
I wanted to find a way out of this conversation, but words failed me. If I was a younger, more athletic version of me, I might’ve taken off running. But I am the older, klutzy version of me who is prone to ankle injuries. If I ran, I knew, I might fall; if I fell, I’d be stuck there on the pavement listening to god knows what for god know how long.
“Sometimes there’s a white manager they want to fire, but they can’t come up with a reason, so they transfer them far away, so they have to commute for hours. My old manager was white. They transferred her to La Cañada Flintridge. She quit. That was the plan.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I mumbled.
“They want me to quit, but I won’t. I’m going to sue them for age discrimination. That’s my plan. It’ll take time — lawyers. But I’ll be fine in the meantime, cuz I’m SAG-AFTRA.”
My head was spinning. In a matter of minutes a lost car had escalated to racism, agism, a lawsuit, and a remarkable amount of faith in the power of SAG-AFTRA. I wanted to confront the old woman about her racism, but I guessed that she probably wasn’t a compassionate listener, despite having attended bible college.
“Well, I hope you find your car,” I said, trying to stop the madness.
“It’s a Chevy. I buy American. Of course, there are so many foreign parts these days that the damn thing probably isn’t even American.”
“Why don’t you just hit the clicker and see which car lights up?” I asked. “That’ll help you find it.”
“No clicker,” she said. “A friend of mine is a car thief. Most car thieves are Mexicans, but he just happens to be white. Anyway, he told me that it’s actually much harder to steal cars that are manual-everything, so no clicker for me. That’s why the Mexicans steal all the fancy, new cars.”
I glanced at the fast food logo on her shirt. For some reason, all I could think about was this racist woman working behind the counter. What were her interactions with customers like? Would she tell them about management’s racist attrition and promotion policies? Would she enlighten them as to the heritage of Los Angeles car thieves? Would she humble-brag about being SAG-AFTRA? Or would she keep things professional and just up-sell the guacamole?
“There’s my car,” she said.
As advertised, it was a Chevy.
“Goodbye,” she said. “Nice talking with you.”
“Nice talking with you.”
It was a lie, a rhetorical reflex. It was awful talking to her. The whole conversation made me want to scream.
I almost did.
“Adios!”
Is what I wish I would’ve said.
But I’m not kicking myself about it, as the way things are going, there’s always next time.
Support Absurdist Acts of Journalism
The news is getting weirder and weirder. I believe that when the going gets weird, the weird turn semi-pro. To wit: I’ve eaten a burrito from the middle and found the courage to tell the truth about Courage Bagels. Now, it’s time for my next act of absurdist journalism: goat yoga.
What is goat yoga? It’s yoga with goats — duh.
The plan is simple: combine my reporter skills with my yoga practice to blow the lid off of goat yoga. Is it legit, or is it for the birds?
A session of goat yoga costs $50. If the situation normie community funds it, the goat yoga story will happen. Are you in? Send any amount via PayPal.
Stick around and chat!
I ask, you answer (if you want to)
The title of this piece is a reference to the film Dude, Where’s My Car. I’ve never actually seen the movie. Have you? Should I see it? Explain.
How do you say goodbye? Non-English answers only!
Are you SAG-AFTRA? Does membership solve all your problems?
Have you ever lost your car? How did you find it?
Do you pay extra for guacamole, or are you a fool?
“A friend of mine is a car thief. Most car thieves are Mexicans, but he just happens to be white."
Perfect take. No notes.
2025's gonna be a long-ass century.
4. I lost my car for a second. A couple weeks ago I parked in an almost empty lot near a walking trail. After exercising I came back to my car and tried to get in & the door wouldn’t open. Wasn’t my car. Someone parked their identical car, down to the same amount of dirt and dings, right next to mine. No way this wasn’t on purpose and I looked around expecting I’d been punked. I almost waited to see who my car twin was but then I got scared that they would also be my doppelgänger or future me come back to warn me of some terrible thing I must avoid.
And if they’d ended up being some racist asshole, I’d have to sell my car.