Thinking.

My father is an affable guy. He treats everyone with friendly courtesy, ma'am and sir included. He's set in his ways: he knows the driver of the Metro bus he usually takes to the subway, the people at the dry cleaners where he takes his shirts, the guards at the buildings where he works. He knows that the bus driver has five kids and plans to retire in the next few years. He knows what the man wants to do when he retires, but I've forgotten. He doesn't forget. People talk to him, and he remembers.

He's always surprised to learn that I don't know these details about everyone in my life. Of course I should know the name of the owner of the bodega, and whether he has kids, and whether the woman who sometimes works there is his wife. I should know the names of the men who run the convenience store where I go when the bodega is closed. They're only two blocks away. How could I not?

Tonight, I walked to the convenience store and stood at the counter to ask for a basket. You have to ask for a basket. I don't know why that is. A hopped-up pimp type was arguing about something with the man behind the counter, something about a lottery ticket or coupon. The man behind the counter finally turned to me, and after I asked twice, I was handed a basket.

I picked up my necessities: Pirate's Booty, jam for toast, cat food. The pimp lost his argument and left. The man in front of me bought cigarettes and left. I put down my basket and was face to face with Jabba the Hutt.

His was not the darkest skin I have seen, but close, and his broad, flat, impassive face registered flickering distaste and flashes of naked hate. At my white skin? What else about me could he possibly hate on sight?

I greeted him politely. He didn't reply. He picked the items out of the basket one by one, dropping them into a plastic bag as he went. When the basket was empty, he fixed me with a stare. "What do I owe you?" I asked. He didn't move.

I picked up the basket and put it down on the unused part of the counter. I leaned forward to see the total and handed him some bills. He popped open the drawer, heaved a dramatic sigh at the inconvenience I was causing him, and dropped my change into my hand without touching me. Then he dropped the bags on the counter between us, stepped back, and resumed his indifferent, but somehow unfriendly stare.

I thanked him reflexively, in a mumble, and escaped to the cold, fresh air. And I started thinking about my father, who knows the name of his bus driver.

And you know what? Friendliness is a two-way street. The reason people treat you badly, Mr. Flat Face, is because you treat them badly. I was nice to you and you were rude to me. What goes around comes around. It's not the color of your skin. It's the content of your character.