Sampson

It was little after 2:30 in the morning on a Friday night, and I couldn’t sleep. I’d had a few beers, and was watching “The Wire” on my computer upstairs in my duplex, when I heard a commotion through the window, out on the street. I was bored, so I went out on my front porch to investigate and smoke a cigarette.

“Why don’t you say that to my face instead of walking away!”

“Just go and leave us alone. Quit following us. We’ll kick your ass.”

My neighbors across the street, who often annoy the neighborhood by rolling into their driveway in a large truck blaring rap music at all hours, were heading into their house, trailed by a stumbling man shouting at them. They went inside and closed the door, leaving the stumbling man on the street, still yelling.

“You don’t know me! You don’t know who I am!”

My porch light was off, and I tried to remain hidden in the shadows of my entryway, but the glowing cherry of my cigarette gave me away.

“Hey man, you have an extra cigarette? Can I have one?’

I knew it was probably a bad idea to invite the intoxicated shouter to smoke with me on my porch, but like I said before, I was bored, and usually can’t refuse someone a cigarette if they ask. I nodded my head, and went inside to get my pack.

“Oh fine, just ignore me. Yeah, go back in your house, I don’t matter anyway,” he shouted.

I reemerged from inside, and handed him a cigarette. I gave him my lighter, but after several attempts, he couldn’t get it to work.

“They don’t know who I am, you know what I’m saying? I’m for real. I keep it real. Do you understand?”

I nodded. I told him my lighter seemed to have died, and gave him my cigarette to light his. He held it up for a second, then put his hand back down, the cigarette still unlit in his mouth.

“I work hard. I’m twenty-one years old, and I know things. They can’t just walk away like that. I keep it real.”

He stepped back for a second, near the split in the doorways between my neighbors’ and me, and laughed.

“Although if that girl wasn’t with them, they probably would have beat my ass.”
He laughed, and I laughed, although I’m not sure why. I was just trying to keep him at ease. When he talked, he emphatically ended his statements by yelling, tilting his head back and proclaiming it to the night, and I was worried he’d wake the neighbors.

“My name is Sampson”

I told him that was a strong biblical name, although he should be worried about women who wanted to cut his hair, but he didn’t get it.

“You know Jesus? He came to earth and died for the white people of the world. He had blonde hair and blue eyes, you understand?”

I nodded my head, weighing the value of telling this surly, intoxicated youth the historical inaccuracy of his statement. He probably wouldn’t remember any of this anyway, and I wanted to keep the shouting and disturbance to a minimum.

“I don’t know though. Sometimes I just hate everybody. Whites, blacks, Mexicans, it doesn’t matter, they’re all assholes.”

I nodded my head again, and said I understood. Maybe he was making some progress. Is it really being racist if you hate everybody equally?”

My cigarette had nearly gone out, and I told him he better light his before it extinguished. He lit it and handed mine back. I told him I had to go to sleep, because I had to wake up early the next day, which was a lie. He thanked me, and stumbled out across my lawn, disappearing in the night.