Chasing a Bigot

A crime mini-story taking a look at bigotry and current events.

            ‘A person who is utterly intolerant of any differing creed, belief, or opinion’ �" that was Siri’s response when I asked her to define the word bigot. I suppose I had an understanding of the word already, but I wanted to be absolutely positive that I did. Being a crisis negotiator is nerve-wracking, or so I’m told, so I’ll welcome any edge I can have to keep calm. Even though I’ve had the title for three months, this is the first time I’ve been called to actually perform its duties; not much happens in the little town of Sterling. Criminals are in the minority, and those citizens who are not in that exclusive group generally shun them.

 

            Immediately upon pulling into the driveway of the seemingly innocuous split-level on Justice Street, I could tell just how serious the situation was. Police surrounded the house as if they were a pack of wolves encircling prey.

 

            The noontime heat was practically unbearable. This heat doesn’t drive people out to beaches and movie theatres, but downwards. They are forced into their basements where the heat is less severe and, when the temperature inevitably decreases, they resurface as they initially were.

 

            I spotted a man in the center of the pack that seemed in charge and approached him, hoping for information.

           

            “What’s going on here?”

            “I can tell you,” he said, “but I doubt you’ll like the answer. It’s sickening. I don’t know what’ll happen to him now, but I tell ya, he already filled up the meter on a parking space in Hell.”

            “It must have been a horrible crime.”

            “Yeah, it was the worst of them all,” he said. “The guy was in a phone booth, and he told his brother that he thought minorities were worse than whites.”

            This remark gave me pause. “I don’t understand, what crime did he commit?”

            “Kid, do you have ears?” he barked impatiently. “Look, I’m fine with storming the place and taking care of business, but I’m letting you do your thing just to get some practice. Talk to the guy, then let us do our job, okay?”

 

            I didn’t quite understand. Racism is horrible, but when did it become a crime to think racist thoughts? My fingers shook like cymbals hit during a rock song as I dialed the number handed to me. How was I supposed to convince this man to come out peacefully and discuss his crime when a crime hadn’t been committed?

 

            “Hello,” said the voice on the other end, waking me from my thoughts. He had a bit of fear in his voice, like a child afraid of a punishment.

            “Sir, are you and everybody else in there okay?”

            “I’m fine,” he responded, “and I’m alone”.

            I looked at the man I was just speaking with (who I discovered was a sergeant) as if I was hoping he didn’t hear.

            “I’m glad to hear that.” I paused, because I didn’t know what to say. “Sir, you did a bad thing.”

            “But where is the crime?” he had pain in his voice, and anger, and fear. “What law did I break?” He paused. “I said something, and some people didn’t like it. Now I’m persecuted because of something I believe.” A train horn sounded off in the distance.

            “Sir, what you said was wrong.”

            “But I have a right to say it!” The anger and pain in his voice were never more present. He was practically shouting at this point. “People like me, we scare these people. We poke our heads out and remind them that we still exist, and then they panic and attack us like it’s a game of whack-a-mole, and what can we do? We have to hide our thoughts, pretend they’re not there, but they don’t go away.”

            “You’re listening to him?” barked the sergeant as he snatched the phone from me. “You can’t listen to these guys, you have to attack them.” He put the phone to his face. “Listen to me, dirtbag. You’re scum, do you hear me? a waste of space. You’re not worth the oxygen you’re breathing, you lousy �" ha! He hung up.”

            “That’s not a victory!” At this point I was angry. “You want him to come outside, not stay in there and grow angrier. There are hostages! (I felt that the lie was necessary)

            “Look, I get where you’re coming from,” he said, “but this transcends hostages. That guys a racist, remember?”

            I was livid. “What the hell do you think this is accomplishing? You’re attacking him, not his racism. His thoughts will still thrive if you go after him, they’ll just thrive beneath the surface instead of up here.”

            “Kid, that’s a nice theory, but �"“

            “Give me the fricking phone, or I’ll have your head on a platter.”

            “How do you plan on doing that?”

            I spoke in a hushed but angry tone. “Watch me.”

            He looked me up and down. “You have five minutes.”

I dialed in the number again. I panicked as it rang a third and a fourth time, but he ultimately answered.

            “What do you want?” he said angrily.

            “That guy you just spoke with is gone. It’s just me now.

            I heard him sigh. “I can’t stand guys like that.”

            Neither of us said anything for about ten seconds. “Sir, I disagree with you. You know that.” I was wracking my brain for the proper thing to say. “But that doesn’t mean we need to try to eliminate each other. We can talk, openly and honestly, maybe try to work it out, but it’s not the end of the world if we don’t. You can believe what you want so long as you’re not hurting anyone, and I can hate your belief without hating you.”

            He didn’t say anything. Seconds went by, but they felt so much larger than seconds. Eventually, his door cracked open. The man appeared with his hands over his head. He had fear on his face, but he seemed calm. Suddenly, I heard a crack, and he winced in agony as his hand motioned towards the red stain on his shirt. Then another crack sounded, and another, and suddenly it was a chorus of cracks, and the man fell to the ground, clearly dead.

            The policemen cheered like their team just scored. As they did so, I walked up to the sergeant and forcefully grabbed him by the arm. “Why did you do that? He was coming out to talk! We were going to work everything out!”

            The sergeant took me aside. “Look, that man was a racist. If we don’t eradicate these people, their virus spreads.”

            I was now whispering. “You killed one. But there are more. They’re here, hiding. If they don’t come out, then how can you expect to cure them? How can you expect to eliminate that hatred?”

            I walked away in disgust, and anger, and especially grief, grief for the man on the floor and grief about what his killing represented. Those bigots dug deeper down with each bullet fired, and us bigots are the ones to thank when the virus surfaces stronger than ever.