The Ally

By Matthew Wilson

"For all of your activism, at the end of the day, you still get to go home and enjoy a good night's sleep."

 

Kyle Bridges is about to get pulled over and harassed by a racist police officer. Which is terrible and scary enough. But Kyle is white. And he just looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror and saw the face of a black man staring back at him, instead of his own. And it is probably no coincidence that he recently broke his cherished pair of rose-colored glasses.

 

This is just one step in the journey of a straight white male who's about to find out exactly what it means to be an "other." When this neo-hippie, who has lived his life by the credo of "power to the people," finds his beliefs challenged by the reality of what "the people" experience every day, will his convictions hold ... or will they shatter and give way to anger, cynicism and paranoia?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Wilson
• Release date: Jul 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393372905

Matthew Wilson

Matthew Wilson has been working as an illustrator and graphic designer since 2000, and is a former ESL instructor. A single father, he lives in Los Angeles with his girlfriend Victoria. The Ally is his first published novel.

Book preview

ZEALOT

Skin as white as a Klansman’s sheet

Birkenstocks strapped to his filthy-ass feet

Foe to any bigot that he just might meeeeeeet

He’s a zealot and he prays at the altar of us

His views and convictions are clear as a bell

All the Christians say that he’s going to hell

To which he just shrugs and he says Oh, wellllll!

He’s a zealot and he prays at the altar of us

Lends a helping hand to those in need

All of L.A’s homeless he’s happy to feed

Dates ladies of any race, color or creeeeeeeed

He’s a zealot and he prays at the altar of us

He don’t want nobody at the back of no bus 

At any homophobe he’ll spit and cuss

For your civil rights he’ll raise a fuuuuuuuussss

He’s a zealot and he prays at the altar of you and me and her and him

And Jung and Ruby, Vanessa and Tim

He’s a zealot and he praaaaays at the altar of us

Seditious Lies

Early live performance, Whisky a Go Go, 1996

PART 1

Rose Colored Glasses

I. Coalitions (July 1995)

1.

"F ree at last! Free at last! Thank God Alm-"

Kyle, face buried in a pillow and body cocooned in an unwashed bedsheet, reached out blindly. His hand found the alarm clock and pressed the snooze button. It was a unique novelty item, an alarm clock sculpted and painted to look like a miniaturized, big-headed and caricatured version of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., holding the giant clock face in front of himself. Kyle had found it at a swap meet and could not help himself. That had been over a year ago, and while the words were unmistakable, as were the cadence and intonation, the iconic civil rights leader’s voice had begun to take on a flat, wobbly quality in recent months. Kyle was certain the alarm function was going to give out any day now, but he would keep the clock anyway. It was just too cool to throw away, too ... too Kyle.

He peeled himself off the bed and made sure to not bump his head against the massive dream catcher which dangled directly over him, and decided to start the day. He stood, faced the window which allowed the sun in, stretched and greeted the day as he always did: with a smile. He lit incense and opened the window. It was definitely laundry day; truth be told, it had been laundry day for quite a while now. He turned the CD player on. John Lennon and his greatest hits were already in there, and he resumed Power to the People. Kyle took a quick shower, did a half-assed combing of his short, strawberry blond hair, and shaved his face, except for the spiky billy goat protruding from his chin. He then went to his dresser and opened a drawer packed with t-shirts, most of them folded, though not very well. He scanned through them and decided on one which featured a huge black and white photographic image of Cesar Chavez. He donned that, as well as some faded jeans.

He found his round, hippy-style glasses and put them on as well. The notable thing about these particular glasses, which were prescription, was that they were tinted a blazing pink. This was how he had worn them since graduating from college, and he saw no reason to wear them any other way.  Miraculously, the fact that he spent just about every waking minute looking out on a pink-hued world did not impair his ability to work as an illustrator and graphic designer. In fact, his color choices often drew praise, and whether his inspired palettes came about because of his monochromatic outlook or despite it, made no difference; he had a good eye, and that kept him working. At the same time, though, he could not wear a matching pair of socks to save his life, and today was no exception: brown on the right, argyle on the left.

He shuffled into the kitchen, where his housemate George was already fixing a spinach-stuffed omelet for himself, lightly dressing it with salsa, while at the same time talking on the phone with his mother, alternating between English and Spanish, reassuring her about his upcoming trip to Fullerton. Kyle opened the refrigerator, pulled out the box of Dominos pizza from the night before and put it on the large round dining table, making the executive decision that heating up leftovers was overrated this morning. He then poured himself a tall glass of cola and sat down across from George, who had finished his phone conversation and whose nose was already buried in one of many textbooks about the legal system. A pile of these books surrounded him like a fort.

How’s your Mom’s tomato garden coming along? Kyle asked.

I didn’t ask, and it’s disturbing that that’s a concern of yours, came the reply.

You’re a terrible son, Kyle commented before taking a bite of cold pizza.

Without looking up from his book, George commented, Breakfast of champions, I see.

Kyle’s eyes widened. Ooh, you just gave me an idea! He grabbed a fork, returned to the fridge and brought out a jar of kimchi. With the fork he then scooped out a few portions and carefully garnished a slice of pepperoni pizza with them.

George took a whiff of the fermented delicacy. Must be nice to have a cast iron stomach.

Kyle bit into his strangely concocted breakfast and savored the conflicting tastes in his mouth. Next culinary trend, amigo, right here. Mark the date, this is where it starts!

What, Kyle’s Korean Pizza?

Exactly! When you become a lawyer, can you help me copyright that?

His eyes still focused on his studies, George responded, You don’t need a lawyer to get something copyrighted. And you can’t copyright food.

See? You rattled that off without hesitation. You’re going to ace that Bar Exam because you are a legal genius!

George allowed himself a bite of his omelet, then answered, Don’t jinx me. I’m stressed enough.

We’ve been quizzing you the last two weeks, Kyle said as he dressed another pizza slice with kimchi. You know that shit inside out. I have every confidence in you, Jorge.

He finally looked up from the books. Kyle, don’t call me that.

What, your name?

For the millionth time ... George did not mind the name his mother gave him, but Kyle, although fluent in Spanish, gave it a profoundly Anglicized pronunciation; from Kyle, Jorge always came out sounding like Whore-hey.

Fine, fine, Kyle relented before taking another bite. They sat and ate in silence for the next few minutes while George read his book with pointed intensity. Kyle noticed the suitcase next to the front door. That made it real. The California Bar Exam was being administered in Fullerton, and George would be staying at a Best Western all three nights. Three days of testing, two hundred questions, six essays and two performance tests, which Kyle assumed meant George would have to write some kind of brief or analysis exactly as an actual lawyer would. Three years of study and two months of intensive test preparation, and now it was zero hour. This was really happening.

He looked at his friend, noticing George had only taken two or three bites of his breakfast. The guy was normally religious about his healthy regimens. Kyle never saw him not finish breakfast, except maybe when he was sick.

Eggs are gonna get cold, homie.

George said nothing.

Kyle could have eaten another kimchi-garnished slice of pizza, but decided to be good and stop at three. He put the box and the jar back in the fridge, rinsed his hands and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Returning to his room, Kyle gathered his assorted activist materials and stuffed them into his shoulder bag. A beat up old leather relic that looked like it could have been a horseman’s saddle in another life, the bag was littered with buttons emblazoned with a variety of social justice slogans that were first placed there during his college years. Hopefully his lunch hour would permit enough time to get in some petition-signing and drafting that letter to his congressman. He looked for a clipboard and found one on his bookshelf, wedged between Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club and Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States.

He passed through the kitchen, casually asking George, Did Dexter get us his portion of the rent?

Wired it to me this morning, as per usual.

The third housemate had not been seen for the last eight days, which, in this house, was not cause for concern. Kyle sighed and joked, So nice to cohabitate with an international assassin. Dexter’s comings and goings were random and often unexplained, but his housemates felt fairly certain he was no hit man. And even if he was, Kyle and George were not going to disown him anytime soon; the beautifully stained and recently repaired dining table at which George sat was just one small example of Dexter’s prolific talent as a handyman.

Without looking up, George remarked dryly, Mine is not to wonder why. Then he remembered something. Are you seeing Lawrence today?

No. Tomorrow, after the art festival.

Cool. Tell him happy birthday for me.

I will. Thanks. Kyle stopped at the shoe rack which sat next to the front door, and slipped into his trusty Birkenstocks. Next time I see you, you’ll be on the other side of this thing, and you’ll never have to think about it again. He gave a brief salute, as he did every morning before leaving, to the mounted photo of George’s deceased father which hung right next to the front door.

Let’s hope that’s true.

"Buena suerte, hermano."

Don’t jinx me.

Sorry. What’s the Bar Exam equivalent of ‘Break a leg’?

George looked up and shrugged. ‘So sue me’?

Sounds about right.

The phone began to ring – George’s Mom again, to despair about his brother Jimmy’s latest episode of personal drama – but no one picked it up.

Kyle left the house, piled into his dinged up, sticker-emblazoned Beetle, and began his day.

2.

T ake a seat, Kyle.

Kyle did as asked, making himself comfortable in Carol’s office at Powers Capital Media, Inc. She sat down across from him, arms crossed and glowering from behind her desk. And although Carol only stood a squat five feet tall and had the adorable face of a high school freshman, Kyle knew to mind his P’s and Q’s around his quick-tempered supervisor, whom the other artists had affectionately dubbed The Tornado (a far more palatable alternative to the original moniker The Terror from Tokyo, which had been coined by an older and embarrassingly xenophobic artist who ignored the Reseda-born Carol’s Valley Girl accent, and who did not last long there).

He grinned. What’s up, boss lady?

I’ll cut to the chase. I just came out of Phaedra’s office, where I had my ass handed to me.

What for? he asked, legitimately oblivious to her concerns.

She took a deep breath in an attempt to center herself. Apparently you’ve been problematic of late, and I’ve been accused of not keeping you in line.

Kyle was shocked. What’s the problem? I thought I was doing a decent job. You’ve told me as much.

Well, it’s been a number of things, but let’s start with the work itself.

Okay.

Kyle, we are an advertising agency, which means we create advertisements for people who give us money to do so. Now, even though a client may occasionally say, ‘Oh, use your imagination, go crazy, sky’s the limit,’ that does not mean coming up with concept work that completely contradicts the client’s message.

For example?

"You cannot present imagery of a woman standing in front of a sports car, holding up a burning bra, armpit hair fully visible, and flipping us the middle finger, when the client is Chevrolet and they have specifically asked for a campaign that targets successful men, ages 28 to 38. I think it’s safe to say that an angry, liberated woman from the cast of Hair flies in the face of what the client wants to convey."

They said they wanted a sexy woman in front of the car. What’s sexier than female empowerment?

Uh, let’s see, Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer, Naomi Campbell, any of the hundreds of cheerleaders in the NFL, anyone who’s worn a bra in a Victoria’s Secret catalog, I could go on all day.

You’re describing women who are used as no more than playthings for some antiquated male chauvinist fantasy!

"Yes! Yes, I am! That’s exactly my point! Chauvinist fantasies are what this client is paying us for!

Let’s move on to Exhibit B. She produced a mock-up he had done. It displayed two men, one Black and the other Filipino, locked in a passionate kiss and embrace, a brilliant white chapel behind them, and along the bottom, the slogan God loves everyone.

Kyle smiled. I’m especially proud of that one. Simple message, conveyed clearly and, what’s more, powerfully.

Really? This is supposed to be an ad for the Mormons! The campaign is meant to run in Utah, and various spots throughout the Midwest. There are no brown people in those places, man! And just as important, they don’t love the gay folk! This is decidedly not the look they are going for!

I can’t help it if a church wants to use love as the thrust of its campaign but they don’t actually believe in love. I’m pushing their concept to its furthest reaches!

What you’re doing is pissing off upper management! Oh, and it doesn’t stop at the art. Your attire, your accessories ...

What about them?

The in-your-face political slogans you brandish as your own personal ad campaign ... it’s off-putting to a lot of people around here.

Like who?

I’m not naming names! It should be enough for you to know that not everyone believes the same things you do, and they shouldn’t be made to feel like someone’s trying to shove a particular agenda down their throats!

An agenda of love and justice is off-putting?

"Yes! Because there are people who see the ideology you parade around here and who perceive it a lot differently from you, and they shouldn’t be made to feel uncomfortable for that!

Aaand then there’s the tardiness and the no shows. A number of them.

Is this about me helping out the ‘Free Mumia’ folks with their picket signs?

Among other things, yes!

So when, say, a homeless family is out in front of the supermarket asking for a meal, I’m supposed to ignore them and pretend they aren’t starving?

There are times of the day to do that, Kyle, and the middle of your work day is not one of those times!

Carol, if I see people who need help, I’m going to help them!

Well, how much good are you going to do for them if you’re spending all day in the unemployment line?

Carol!

"Look, it’s as simple as this: we get paid to convey someone’s message, whether or not we agree with that message, period. So if we are told to show fat old Elvis chowing down on a greasy cheeseburger while gruesomely running over a gaggle of nuns with his diesel-spewing monster truck, then that is exactly what we will do! And if you cannot cotton to that, well mister, you can always go right on back to that inner city youth center, making less than minimum wage to play hoops with 13-year-old gang members, because hey, it fits with your strict moral code and you were doin’ it for the kids. And I know your housemates are just going to love you for making such a choice, especially when the rent comes due every month."

So in other words, go back to squalor or make a deal with the devil, is what this sounds like.

Hail Satan, baby.

He broke into laughter. Okay, okay, you’re right. Message received. I’ll do better.

Thank you.

Now can I ask you something?

Sure.

How are you two doing?

Carol gave a long sigh and offered a polite, joyless smile. One day at a time. I think this time was actually harder on him, believe it or not.

Did the doctor offer any kind of insight?

Carol shrugged. To keep trying. Terrifying as that sounds. We’re both fertile, and nothing’s wrong with my plumbing. So, all he could say is we’ve just been really unlucky, and that there’s no reason to believe we can’t be successful.

Kyle nodded. Okay. As always, if you guys need anything ...

Thanks, she replied. Hey, Todd’s swinging by to go to lunch. Wanna come with?

Sure!

Just do me a favor and don’t bring up the miscarriage.

Of course not. I’ll just talk about the fascist dictatorship we work for. That should make for lively conversation.

That’s more like it, Carol said with a slightly warmer smile.

KYLE WOULD HAVE NEVER, in a million years, admitted out loud to feeling inferior to another man. But three gentlemen in his life made him feel exactly that. All of whom he held dear to his heart, but whom, nonetheless, he envied, just a little bit, for one reason or another. The first was his oldest friend George, whom he admired for his masterful self-discipline. Second was his other housemate, Dexter, who was ... well, who was just about the freest spirit to walk the earth. 

The third such fellow sat across from him at a dining table at the restaurant Spago’s, wearing a crisp, white linen dress shirt with a blue and yellow striped tie, both of which were understated but looked expensive. His hair was cut close to the scalp, its edges sharp and freshly trimmed. His face was always cleanly shaven; in fact, Kyle didn’t think he ever saw so much as a five o’clock shadow on the man. 

Once upon a time Kyle had nursed a crush on Carol and envied the fact that Todd was with her, but time and a brush with South Central rioters in 1992 had buried that hatchet for good. Now he had come to see exactly what she saw in Todd, and the man’s perfectly tailored appearance was emblematic of all those qualities: class, pride in one’s appearance and work, consideration and a calm, even keeled demeanor.

And there was nothing accidental about this. From an early age, Todd’s parents had drilled into him the notion which would serve him well up to that very day: that whenever he walked out of the house, be it to school, a job, or just to get milk from the corner store, he was an active representative of not only his family, but also his neighborhood, his faith and his heritage. While he never considered himself a peacock, Todd Johnson never let himself set foot outdoors without making sure he was, as he had once put it, presentable to God and everyone. Laundry got done every Sunday (both hers and his), and, while he was a disciplined spender, his dry cleaning bills approached outrageous. And it was all in the service of putting his best foot forward, an ethos that carried over into his schooling, through his years of service in the Army, and now in his soaring career as a financial adviser for Samuels & Nutter.

And right now Samuels & Nutter’s youngest senior adviser was all about his better half. He doted on Carol, made sure she was comfortable and ensured that their waiter got every aspect of her lunch order right. He barely knew Kyle was at their table. 

Did Curtis call you? Carol asked.

Todd nodded. I wasn’t at my desk, but he left a message.

He asked about the mail room position, right?

I think his exact wording was that he wanted ‘some entry level financial shit,’ something like that.

She chortled. Sounds about right. Are you going to help him?

Should I? Will I regret doing so?

Carol sipped her water and said nothing, letting her eyes wander about the restaurant as though they were not having a conversation in that moment.

Todd looked at Kyle, and nodded his head in the direction of his wife. You see this, right?

Kyle grinned. Does your employer have a community outreach program, focusing on at-risk youth? he asked in reply.

Carol shot Kyle a look. The hell? He’s no ‘youth’, he’s - we’re - gonna be 30 in a couple of years.

And looks 17, like you, and acts 12 ... unlike you, Todd responded.

And he needs a job! she blurted out. I just need someone to give him one so he’ll stop calling and hassling me about it!

Kyle interjected, Now wait. If he’s your twin, can’t he already detect how you feel about his neediness? Aren’t twins supposed to be psychically linked?

She pointed a straw at him, flicking water his way in the process. That is an old wives’ tale, and I am offended that you would go there!

Really, Kyle, Todd chimed in, "Stereotyping twins? They can’t help how they were born. I expect better from you, man. Tsk, tsk. So disappointed!"

Kyle laughed and held up his hands in a surrendering gesture. None of my business. See, Carol? I guess I can be as narrow-minded as some of our clients.

Todd looked at Carol. What’s he talking about?

She rolled her eyes. Phaedra had a chat with me this morning. Told me Cesar Chavez here was acting like a bucking bronc and that I need to rein him in more tightly.

Todd turned his attention back to Kyle. You stressing my woman out over there, man? Don’t get her into trouble over your foolishness, Kyle.

Honey, it’s fine, she reassured him, Nothing I can’t handle. That crazy bitch doesn’t scare me.

That makes one of us, her husband replied, I met her just the one time? Made my skin crawl. I used to think that was just a meaningless old expression. I don’t think that anymore. He then took note of Kyle’s choice of wardrobe. Cesar Chavez, huh? Kind of taking your life into your own hands, aren’t you?

What do you mean?

Well, walking into your job, which is not unionized, wearing the face of one of the biggest icons of the labor movement and labor unions. Anybody give you any rough looks today?

Just Phaedra, but she kind of always has a sour look ready for me.

Carol teased, Oh, Kyle, she’s just got a big old crush on you and you know it!

Kyle shivered and commented, Yeesh, don’t put something like that out into the universe. Not even in jest.

Chuckling, Todd said, I just had this very brief visual of Kyle being sexually harassed by that woman, and I think a little piece of my soul died as a result.

Carol and Kyle busted up laughing. Then she got half-serious. Alright, my darling, speaking of hostile work environments, are you going to get my brother a job or what? If not, you gotta tell him.

Why me?

Because he’s grown numb to me telling him ‘no’ all the time; it won’t mean anything. But he likes you, calls you his homie.

Please don’t say that, Todd replied, recoiling.

Now there’s a crush, Kyle commented.

Okay, how about I give him the number of my mechanic? Curtis knows the inside of a car, yes?

She shrugged. I think.

Let me do that then, because I don’t think I can face a future of bumping into the evil male version of you every day and being called ‘homie’ every time.

Kyle commented in a small voice, I used to call you ‘homie.’

My point exactly! He then changed the subject. Speaking of, what’s on the activist docket for this weekend, Joan Baez?

Kyle’s eyes lit up and, without a shred of irony in his voice, he obliged Todd’s inquiry. Well, I’ve been gathering signatures every evening this week to get a measure on the next local election ballot that would make Day Of Reconciliation and Kinship an official, printed-on-calendars holiday!

Todd looked like he had just been spoken to in Swiss-German. Day of what, now?

Carol put a hand to her face. Here we go ...

So, Kyle launched into his oft-recited spiel, imagine a day, just one day out of the year, when people would be free to just ... you know, hug each other and start up conversations with each other in a symbolic act of cultural reconciliation. For example, an old white guy approaching you and apologizing for slavery and segregation, or an old lady approaching Carol and apologizing for and renouncing the WWII Japanese-American internment camps. People holding modern be-ins where they can just all ... just hang out with each other and see past each other’s gender, race , religion, sexual orientation, physical condition, whatever, and just recognize each other’s common humanity.

Todd was silent for several seconds, and asked, That’s it?

Kyle looked from him to Carol and asserted, Yeah! Wouldn’t that be fantastic?

There is ... so much to say in response to that, I don’t even know where to begin. Sounds like it will require quite a few contrite senior citizens, though.

Carol commented, Who is clamoring for this thing?

What do you mean? Kyle asked.

I mean, this event that you’re so passionate about, do you know anyone else who is also passionate about it? Or is this just something that you think would be cool?

He shrugged. Just me. But I’ve collected over 20 signatures so far.

Yeah, well don’t you need, like, at least 100,000 signatures to get something on a ballot?

I’ll get there, Carol, I’m in no rush.

You know what this is, don’t you? Todd asked Carol.

The college thing? she ventured.

The college thing, he confirmed, all over again.

What college thing? Kyle asked.

Todd sighed. Kyle, the college thing was years ago now, man. You have got to let it go.

I have literally no idea what you’re talking about!

Kyle, hun, Carol said, we don’t judge you or your lifestyle, and we’ll always care about you. But that was ... people move on when things fall apart. You gotta move on eventually, little bro.

TODD HAD PICKED UP Carol and Kyle in his ‘96 Lexus, and had almost got them back to the ad agency when he saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. A second later came the garbled voice over the megaphone: Pull over.

Really? Todd said under his breath.

Carol, in the passenger seat, looked behind them, to get a glance at the squad car. It is the middle of the day in L.A. traffic. You couldn’t be going any slower if you tried.

Kyle, sitting in back, grew alarmed. What the hell is he doing? He also looked back at the black-and-white cruiser.

Todd found an empty spot on the curb and pulled over. He rolled down his window, shut off the engine and asked Carol, Can you get my registration and insurance out of the glovebox?

Yeah, she muttered, and quickly got the paperwork out of the box and handed it to him before the police officer approached his window.

Kyle watched, dumbfounded, as Carol handed off the documents to her husband, Todd placed them on top of the dashboard in front of him, added his driver’s license, then kept both hands on the steering wheel while Carol placed hers on the dashboard in front of her. This was clearly a well-rehearsed drill.

The officer approached Todd’s side of the car, inspected everyone inside, and said, Good afternoon.

Afternoon, Officer, Todd replied, his eyes remaining forward.

Can I ask where you’re headed?

Of course. I’m dropping off my wife and her coworker at their job. We just finished lunch.

Kyle’s outrage grew exponentially. What business was it of this guy where Todd was going? And why hadn’t Todd asked the policeman the reason for pulling him over?

Alright. License, registration and proof of insurance, please.

Here you go. Todd handed over the requested documents.

Why did he pull us over? Ask him, Todd!, Kyle screamed in his head.

The cop took a long moment reviewing Todd’s papers. A police dispatcher squawked something unintelligible in the communicator that was fastened to the guy’s shoulder. The officer grabbed the CB, pressed a button and mumbled something none of them could hear. He then returned the device to its harness. 

Alright, Mr. Johnson, I’m gonna need you to step out of your car.

Oh my God, Carol said under her breath.

That’s it!, Kyle decided.

Officer, what has he done?

Carol turned to look at him, panic in her face. So did the officer, his expression unchanging.

Kyle, quiet! Carol scolded him.

No! I wanna know why Todd has to set foot out of his own car!

Sir, The officer said, do not interfere with police business. Let me do my job.

"Which is what, exactly? What is the charge? We have a right to understand why we have been pulled over, and I demand to know what that reason is, because you’re making us all late for work!"

Sir, you need to calm down.

Officer, our hands are all visible, mine are on my lap, it is broad daylight and you are not being threatened. I have asked you a reasonable question, and we all have a right to know what, if anything, my friend did wrong. Now can you please answer that question, he eyed the man’s name badge closely, Officer Sharpe?

The policeman stood there and eyed Kyle, then Todd and Carol. He took a step away from the car, grabbed the CB again, and once again uttered something into the radio that was impossible for them to hear. Without looking him directly in the eye, Sharpe handed Todd’s documents back to him.

Please mind your surroundings as you merge back into traffic. You have a pleasant rest of your day, folks. And he walked back to his cruiser. Todd handed the insurance and registration papers back to Carol, who returned them to the glove compartment. He waited for Officer Sharpe to drive away. When the patrolman left, Todd still sat there, not turning on the engine. He remained silent for a long moment. Carol folded her hands in her lap and also kept quiet.

Kyle was both confused and unnerved by the silence. Is ... everything okay, guys?

The Johnsons kept quiet.

He’s gone now. He’s not harassing you anymore. That’s ... that’s what we wanted, right? Guys?

Todd shifted in his seat to face Kyle. Look, he said, We’re not ungrateful for what you did back there. We know you did what you felt was the right thing.

"What I felt was the right thing? In what way was standing up to injustice not the right thing?"

Is that what you thought you were doing? Standing up to The Man? Let me ask you something: how many times have you been pulled over for no reason and harassed by police? Hmm? Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Kyle was silent.

"That’s what I thought. Myself, I’ve had this happen five times before today. Once by that guy. Twice, Carol has been along to witness it. Most of those incidents happened at night. This tiny little nondescript nick on my chin? That’s from getting my face shoved into the side of my own car because I didn’t respond fast enough to a cop’s orders.

"So, you’ll forgive me if your little speech back there struck me as a little comical. Like you were Kevin Kline in Cry Freedom or something. 

"It is the middle of the day, in broad daylight, on a busy street in ethnically diverse, metropolitan Los Angeles. That man was going to do nothing. But if I had spoken to him the way you just did? Please. My ass would be on the pavement. Or imagine if the setting were different. Imagine if I had spoken to him the way you did, at night, on a quiet, deserted road out in the middle of nowhere.

I’m sorry, but you accomplished nothing, Kyle. You proved nothing, other than the fact of your privilege to go wherever you please, and speak however you please, with zero concern for your own safety or, he gestured toward Carol, your family’s safety.

Todd turned back toward the steering wheel and started the car. He chuckled, and said, Maybe that’s something you should be gathering signatures for. A bill that gives every Black man a white guy to follow him around 24 hours a day, to get in between him and the cops. I’d sure breathe easier if I had one of those.

3.

Dexter strummed his acoustic guitar as he hummed Strange Brew by Creem. Bringing the guitar turned out to be a smart move. So was bringing his portable Discman, which contained a demo CD of the latest recording sessions by his band, Seditious Lies. He even brought a pen and notepad so he could jot down notes while he played and listened. Dexter was glad he followed his instinct to bring all this gear, because otherwise he would be bored. Eye-gougingly bored. 

It was rare for him to have a day where he had absolutely nothing going on. But Kyle had asked him for some help in transporting his merchandise, banner and easily-assembled store facade. Dexter saw no harm in helping, and besides, he hardly ever got to hang out with the guy outside of the house they shared. Kyle was taking his merch to a monthly art fair held in the parking lot of a museum in Downtown Los Angeles’ arts district. He had paid $20 for a spot at the fair, and the spot came with a table and two chairs. The fair ran from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. on the third Saturday of each month. This particular Saturday was a bright and hot one, it being July.

Crowds milled through the fair space, shuffling from one booth to the next. Many of them were window shopping, and some were there just to be outside for the day.  The $20 was the only requisite to have a booth, and all the art exhibited there was not considered equal. Some artists enjoyed a steady stream of attention, while others could not even get arrested. 

Kyle had exhibited there every month, for the last year or more. And he normally was fine going by himself. His set up was not complicated and he enjoyed the gentle hum of the throngs of potential patrons. Once he was all set up, he would occupy himself with either his sketch pad or whatever book he was reading at the time. He would even bring a cooler so he could have a lunch and some snacks.

Dexter was not wired that way. He required constant movement. Static scenarios were anathema to him. He had, admittedly, misjudged the way this day would go. But at least he had his guitar.

On this particular fair day, Kyle needed a second person for a very specific reason. He had managed to land an interview at a prestigious art gallery not far from where they sat. The gallery, called Pseutopia, held a special exhibit twice a year showcasing up and coming new artists. This interview would involve a portfolio review, so Kyle had prepared four leave behind copies of his own portfolio, one for himself and one for each of the three people who would be talking to him. And the interview was scheduled for 1:30, right in the middle of the art fair. So he needed someone to mind the stor" while he interviewed at Pseutopia.

Sitting there at the booth, they were a textbook study in contrasts: Kyle, pale, ponchy and pear-shaped, sporting his short, spiky, slightly tousled strawberry blonde hair, sitting back in his chair, wearing a No Justice, No Peace t-shirt, corduroy pants, and his signature Birkenstocks and pink glasses, with a serene smile while he doodled in his sketchbook; Dexter, brown, lean and muscular, his long, wild mane of curly dark hair tied back in a ponytail, leaning forward in his chair, feet planted, his loose, moss-green tank top revealing two extensively tattooed arms, a beautifully tanned leather bracelet worn on his wrist, with the name Nina burned into it (and which he never took off), his oversized Lakers basketball shorts revealing multiple scars from a lifetime of skateboarding and dirt biking, his an expression of intense concentration while he practiced some guitar riffs.

Once they had completed setting up and had settled in for the day, Dexter took an interest in the actual thing Kyle was trying to sell. It was the latest edition of a smallish comic book, maybe 5 by 7, black and white pages with a full color cover. Kyle had the copies printed and stapled at Kinko’s. The comic was entitled Juror 13, and its cover featured a hooded figure in a purple and black cloak, getting the drop on a bald, chalk-white skinned fiend wearing a red robe festooned with criss-crossing blue straps and giving the impression of a Confederate flag design. This was issue number eight. Dexter leafed through the pages and liked the style and flow of Kyle’s visual storytelling. He used to read comics once upon a time, so this little funny book put a smile on his face and made him nostalgic.

Hey, man, he asked Kyle, Do you put out one of these every month?

I try to, Kyle replied. Being busy, or not having enough money to print the pages, makes that a challenge sometimes.

Dexter nodded and said, Does he have any superpowers or is he like Batman and just has all the cool gadgets?

More like Batman, but with a little Iron Man thrown in there.

He shook his head. I’m not as familiar with Iron Man.

Well, Juror 13 is actually a brilliant scientist and inventor whose most dangerous inventions were stolen from him, to be weaponized by neo-Nazi supervillains. They blew up his lab and left him for dead. He survived, but his girlfriend died in the explosion, and he was left paralyzed from the waist down. Kyle leaned over to point out something on the cover of the comic Dexter was holding. See that armoring around his legs, looks like leg braces?

Dexter nodded.

One of his unfinished inventions was an exoskeleton which could interface with the central nervous system and enable a paralyzed person to walk again. So he set about finishing that project and used it on himself.

Alright, so here’s a question: if it works, why doesn’t he share that discovery with the world? I’m assuming he doesn’t because that sounds like something a comic book wouldn’t get into.

Because it’s not perfected. In fact, it’s very flawed. If he wears it for too long, the strain that the exoskeleton puts on his brain will be too much and he might go insane, or become a vegetable. I mean, he’s already kind of driven mad with grief that he lost his girlfriend and wants revenge. But if he wears this thing for any longer than 24 hours, he’ll suffer permanent brain damage.

Dexter chortled, "Well, that’s damn inconvenient!"

Tell me about it! Makes story writing a bit of a challenge because I have to make sure he’s always mindful of how long he’s had the exoskeleton on, and he has to make sure he’s never too far from a power source or his wheelchair, both of which are stored in his high tech battle van that he uses to travel across America and root out and vanquish the high-tech super villains and other assorted perpetrators of hate crimes.

Is it always hate crimes he goes after?

Maybe.

It’s always hate crimes! I know you, motherfucker.

Kyle laughed. Guilty as charged.

So you’ve got a superhero with a disability, and I haven’t seen his face so I’m assuming he’s a person of color.

Colors, actually.

Oh? A Heinz 57?

If that’s what we’re calling mixed-race folks now, then yeah.

I’m going to be vain and assume he’s based off of me. I’ll be taking 25 percent of your profits in that case, thank you very much.

That’s a little steep. I’ll go no higher than ten.

Dexter strummed his guitar once, fiercely. Done! Seventeen!

"Hey, can you play the theme from the Christopher Reeves Superman?"

The John Williams score? Sure. And he then proceeded to play the familiar, high-flying melody. While he did this, he added, But for Juror 13, I think Danny Elfman is a little more appropriate, don’t you? And he then launched into the low, moody riff from Batman, but gave it a romantic, flamenco flavor.

A couple of young women came up to the booth, drawn by Dexter’s fancy fingerwork. 

Hey ladies, he addressed them, still playing the caped crusader’s theme music, "Next great graphic novel sensation, right here. Juror 13, greatest comic story in a generation. Juror 13, right here, forget your Watchmen, forget your X-Men, forget your Spaaawwwnn, this right here’s the next big thing in graphic novels. This is the artist and author right here, Kyle Bridges, visionary, prophet, the voice of a generation. Pick up yer Juror 13, supplies are truly limited." By this point his playing had segued from the big-screen Batman score to that of the kitschy, small-screen Adam West incarnation.

The girls each picked up a copy and perused it. Dexter nudged Kyle with the head of his guitar and nodded in their direction.

Uh, let me know if you ladies have any questions about the comic, okay?

One of them noticed something on the cover that had escaped Dexter’s commentary: Juror 13’s rainbow-colored tunic. Is he gay? one girl asked.

Dexter interjected, If that’ll get you to buy the book, then hell yes, he’s gay.

Kyle clarified, Bisexual, actually.

The second girl asked Kyle, Is he based on you?

Kyle looked at his own gut and asked her, Do I look like I have a superhero’s build?

Still playing, Dexter cut in. He’s based on me, actually. Sexually, racially, the whole nine.

She asked Dexter, You’re bi?

Again, if it gets you to buy the book, sure, we’ll go with that.

The first girl pulled a five out of her pocket and said to her friend, under her breath, Come on, I’ll let you have this when I’m done with it. She handed the fiver to Kyle.

Thanks so much, Kyle said. Enjoy the book.

Dexter then ripped into an improvised ditty, strumming as he sang:

Juror 13! Traumatized and mean

‘Bout the baddest vigilante you ever done seen!

Protects the good, condemns the bad

The worst sentencing you ever done had

Lost his girl, his job and his home

Now across the US of A he’ll roam

Juror 13! Traumatized and mean

‘Bout the baddest motherfucker you ever done seen!

His musical outburst drew a few more curious customers in their direction. Kyle made another $15 over the ensuing hour.

Kyle said, I should bring you here more often!

Seventeen percent, kemosabe, he replied, still strumming.

A short while later a scrawny but pot-bellied white guy with a tense, anxious look on his face approached the booth. The guy was deathly pale, wore thick Coke bottle glasses – thicker than Kyle’s – and had a face marked by pits, the telltale sign of someone who had picked at his acne during adolescence. His hair was combed awkwardly and, in spite of the July heat, he wore a beige Members Only jacket. He picked up a copy of the comic and closely scrutinized it, frowning. He eyed both Kyle and Dexter with something resembling derision, and commented, "Guess everyone gets a superhero now, huh?" And he put the comic back down.

Kyle responded, I don’t follow?

The guy shook his head and muttered, Nothing, it’s fine, and he walked away.

Kyle and Dexter exchanged a quizzical look.

Dexter commented, Guess he’s mad he didn’t think of it first.

Kyle agreed, Guess so, and then looked at his watch. Shoot. I should go. Are you okay here?

Go on. I’ll hold down the fort.

Thanks, he said, grabbed his shoulder bag and took off.

KYLE RETURNED