The unspoken risks of traveling to the South early in the pandemic
Our drinks were side by side, and we had ordered the same thing: Glenfiddich 18 on the rocks. But while he had a proper single, my glass seemed three times fuller than his.
I know why I got more than my coworker, Trent; I'm very handsome.
It was early in the pandemic. We were in Birmingham for a convention because I don't know if you know this, but the pandemic skipped the South.
Our coworkers decided to host a happy hour at the hotel bar the night before the convention started.
At some point in the night, three triple whiskeys in, I told Trent it was time to find a different bar. We talked to the bartender, and she told us Marty's was the place where all the bartenders hung out. It stays open until seven in the morning and serves burgers.
We had a place to go and I had alcohol-induced extroversion, so I started inviting everyone in the hotel lobby to bar-hop with us. Almost no one took us up on our offer except one stranger, another vendor at the convention.
We took an Uber, and Trent told me that when we arrived at Marty's, I ordered three shots of Buffalo Trace, followed by local IPAs.
I don't remember any of it, but I have no reason to doubt Trent, as we have been friends for a while and I know he never lies.
We sat at our table, and our new friend started talking about how brown he was inside, even though he was very white on the outside.
I wasn't sure what to make of the conversation.
So, not knowing what to make of this man's efforts to convince me he was just like a reverse Almond Joy, I left to introduce myself to everyone else in the bar.
I met an off-duty bartender, and I don't know why, but I told him how my wife had a water birth at home and how I received my daughter into the world.
But because I was also comforting my wife through it, I had only one free hand to grab the baby, so I sort of dropped my daughter in the water, which is a terrible cover of London Wainwright's song, "I Dropped My Daughter in the Water."
I went on to explain how it became a beautiful analogy for my efforts as a dad: "I may fuck up, but I will be there."
I rejoined my group, and at three in the morning, after eating cheeseburgers, we decided to head back. But there were no taxis, Ubers, or Lyfts available because of the pandemic.
Half an hour later, we asked the hostess for directions, and she told us, "Take this street all the way down to your hotel and don't turn left or you'll be in trouble."
As the three of us started walking, my bartender friend came out and asked, "What are you guys doing?"
He said we were lucky he caught us because we didn't want to be walking that way.
He drove us back to our hotel. It pays to overshare.
The next day, I had the worst hangover of my life. When I met with the rest of my group, I found out one of my coworkers had slipped the bartender a twenty-dollar bill so she would serve me triple shots all night.
It turns out I'm not as charming as I think I am.
I explained to them that I didn't know what happened because I had only three drinks. Trent told me three drinks was probably all I remember, but that more drinks were involved.
Then he told me something else.
Trent told me he never wanted to see our new acquaintance again in his life. As I befriended everyone at Marty's the night before, our "Reverse Almond Joy" told him he was a Klan member. As I told you before, I have no reason to doubt my friend, as he never lies.
So, the only one who could've lied was the man.
But who lies about being part of the Klan?
When someone tells you that they are part of the KKK, you have no other option than to believe them.
Then, the strangeness of the night hit me.
While accepting my drinks, he tried to convince me he was like me on the inside, when he was part of a group that hates everyone who looks like me.
People cringe when I tell them this story.
They tell me I must have felt horrible.
They tell me the night must have been a punch in the gut.
But why should I be the one who feels bad about that night?
If he had told me he was part of the KKK and then offered me a burger, and I would've eaten it regardless, then I should have felt bad about that night.
But that's not what happened.
I was friendly to that man regardless of his race.
I paid for the cab.
I ordered the drinks.
I picked up the tab.
I never lied about who I was.
He should be the one who feels bad.
Because he had to lie when his Grand Dragon asked about his weekend. He told the story of my generosity, but in the story, I was six inches taller with blue eyes and blonde hair - the perfect Aryan prototype.
He should be the one who feels shame, not only because his values are grounded in hate and ignorance, but because his values are worth less than a cheeseburger, two IPAs, and a shot of Buffalo Trace.
