Bigots

As the door to the citrus packing plant closed behind him, Chet heard a feminine voice ask, "What's the matter with you?"

Chet turned to his questioner seated at an order desk. It was Carol, his sole office confidant. Looking at the attractive dark-haired woman, he asked, "What do you mean?"

She straightened some forms, removed her glasses, leaned back in her chair, and said, "Well, you look like you have been shot at and missed. I saw you in the retail store talking to old Lenny Stein. Is something wrong?"

A phone rang. Carol reached for the telephone on her desk, but a woman at a desk across the room took the call, answering, "Windward Groves, Delray office." In an office dominated by the telephone, it was a favor and Carol waved her appreciation.

Chet moved a box of citrus samples labeled "Florida Sunshine" from a chair and straddled it, his arm folded over the back. "No problem," he said. "I asked him about the Spielberg program you and I discussed, and ......

"You did?" she interrupted him. "You've got a lot of nerve, a bigot like you."

Knowing exactly what she meant, he asked, "What do you mean, a bigot?"

"Don't raise your voice. You know what I mean. You're always complaining about the damn chiseling Dot Heads, or the lazy goddamn Blacks, or the shifty Wetbacks. That's what I mean. Approaching poor Lenny Stein, who has endured prejudice all his life!" She shook her head, and added, "You are something else."

"Nah," Chet said, settling in his seat. "That's just me complaining when I'm agitated. It's a long way from genocide."

"Is it? How far? Where's the line? Your young charges learn it from you, and their kids learn it from them. That's how it's perpetuated."

"I suppose you are right," Chet said, "but, I bet Stein complains about Orientals and Blacks. In this world, everyone despises somebody."

"I don't believe that."

Chet spread his broad hands in a gesture that said, believe it or not, and said, "Believe me, thirty years in this business, I've worked with all kinds."

"Well," Carol asked, 'What did Mister Stein have to say about the TV program?"

A smile crossed Chet's tanned face. "You'll love this. I was standing in my usual spot near the front doors where I can see the crew in the plant, and still greet customers coming into the retail store, when I saw Stein's Cadillac pulling into the lot. You can't miss that chrome monster.

"He parked in a handicapped slot, as usual. I guess he's entitled even though he doesn't have a permit. I mean, it makes me wince just watching him move, as bent over and twisted as he is. That's life for you - he's older than dirt and has more money than God, but he's a wreck."

"Anyway," Chet continued, warming to his story, "I watched him come in. He damn near tripped over a palm frond that had blown onto the walk, but he made it. He is something to see, with his bony knees, black knee-high stockings, and glasses balanced on his nose. He's always got a pocket full of pens. Probably uses them to keep track of the fruit he buys for the ladies in his condo.

"Stein started, as usual, by accusing us of selling seconds at inflated prices. It's a good thing I know him; I just give it right back. When we were done with our ritual jibes, I asked him if I could get his opinion on something. 'Sure,' he said.

"I told him I had seen a TV show with Steven Spielberg as a guest, and about Spielberg's project, documenting interviews of holocaust survivors. I asked what he thought about it. I thought Stein might pass out. He grabbed the rail and his knuckles turned white. I was sorry I'd asked the question."

Carol shifted in her seat, her eyes widening.

Leaning forward, Chet continued, "Finally, Stein said, 'You you ask that as a serious man, so, I'll answer in a serious manner.' He took my hand, and led me to those chairs by the vending machines.

"Stein sat quietly for a time. I thought maybe he had changed his mind, then he began, 'My back is not bent by time and disease alone. As a small boy, I worked in the garment lofts in New York City, moving bundles of cloth and racks of dresses. In our family, with six children, there was never enough to eat. if you wanted a second bowl of corn flakes, you had to save the milk from the first, squeeze it from each spoonful. Never enough milk."'

Listening to Chet, Carol looked entranced.

"'Later, in my own business, I worked around the clock. I schemed and failed. Worked and succeeded. By taking risks and persisting, I made money.' Stein shook his head. 'But, you know,' he said, 'Some people that think it was given to me. They imagine some secret Jewish cartel, some banking conglomerate that gives money to Jews and guarantees their success.' Stein paused to wipe his glasses, then he said, 'The worst part is the hatred, thousands of years old, an insidious hatred. Why? How does it continue? Who perpetuates it? Parents? Teachers? Priests protecting their myths?"'

Chet pressed his hand to his chest and asked Carol, "He was asking me this? I watched him as he talked. With one hand, Stein massaged the fingers of the other. Spittle accumulated at the comers of his mouth. He had a distant took. I was sorry I'd asked the question." Chet lowered his voice, "I thought he was going to cry. Then, Stein said, 'I think Mister Spielberg has been sent by God.' I was speechless. We sat there, uncomfortable with each other. Then, he said abruptly, 'Well, I better get some oranges for the ladies. He got up without another word, and went into the store. That's when I came in here."

Carol opened a desk drawer, pulled a tissue from a box and blew her nose.

Squirming in his seat, Chet said, "'Well, you asked. Everyone's got a story. That's his."

"How can you be so callous?" she asked, glaring at him.

"You're such a Girl Scout." Leaving his chair, Chet walked to an observation window of one-way glass and gazed out into the plant.

He saw Mose, a forklift operator, at a vending machine., his black thumb pushing coins into a slot. Mose withdrew a cola. He sipped from the can while watching customers in the retail store. Mose appeared to be interested in Stein who was clutching a plastic bag full of oranges and talking to Rosita, a cashier.

Chet turned to Carol. "Come here," he said, 'Watch this, you'll see what I mean."

Curious, Carol rose from her desk and joined him at the window.

Mose set his cola on a table, and, reached into his pocket. He retrieved several coins. Sorting through them, he found three pennies. He tossed the bright copper coins onto the floor by the exit doors.

"What is he doing?" Carol asked as Mose took his drink, sauntered to his forklift, climbed into the seat and spun away.

Side by side at the window, Carol and Chet watched as Mose pulled alongside another forklift. Mose leaned to the driver, said something, and pointed to the exit doors. The second driver, perspiration creating a sheen on his ebony face, grinned broadly. They both turned their machines to face the doors, and put their feet up to wait.

Carol moved uneasily. At the counter, Stein shrugged against the pull of the heavy bag. He turned slowly toward the exit doors, his rubber soled leisure shoes squeaking on the tile floor. Nearing the doors, he spied the copper coins. He paused, and set his bag of fruit gently, down. Bending, he retrieved the pennies one by one.

Carol grasped Chet's arm. "Oh," a gentle gasp escaped her lips as she witnessed the gathering of the pennies. Uncomfortable, sensing her anguish, Chet remained quiet.

Across the concrete expanse, Mose and the other black driver gave each other high fives.

Hand to her cheek, Carol said, "That is despicable," After a moment, she turned to Chet, and accused, "You've seen this before."

Chet shrugged, "It's just Stein's turn. Tomorrow he'll be abusing his Mexican gardener."

"How can you think like that? The life he led, he can't possibly be like that."

Chet sighed.

Two weeks later, Carol, halfway through a morning of complaints about market conditions and prices, was interrupted by Chet opening the door and inviting, "Coffee break?"

Placing her glasses on the desk pad, she closed her eyes tightly, trying to force the clamor out of her head, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Arching her back, she stretched and said, "Sure, no coffee though. I promised myself juice instead of coffee at least once a day."

Together they left the office and strolled their practiced way to the beverage counter.

"Tough morning?" Chet asked while pouring juice.

"No more than usual."

Drinks in hand, they turned to see Lenny Stein come through the entrance. His appearance reminded Chet of the scene they had witnessed. They watched Stein's deliberate steps as he approached.

Seeing them, Stein greeted Carol, "Hello, Good Lookin', want to dance?" He winked at Chet.

Chet noted his gnarled hands had a slight tremor as they clasped Carol's. Chet asked, "Where've you been? Haven't seen you in a while."

"On holiday."

"Oh, anyplace special?"

"Yes," Lenny smiled. "My wife twisted my arm. We went on a cruise with a group, and got a tremendous bargain. It was such a deal, we couldn't turn it down."

Noting Carol's captured hand, Chet asked, "Aren't you a little old to be holding hands?"

"Never too old," Stein replied, releasing Carol's hand.

Chet asked, "Did you get to the windward islands?"

"Seven days and six nights. All the islands. It was beautiful."

Carol said, "It's obvious you enjoyed it."

"Oh, we did," Stein said, taking Chet's shirt sleeve, and pulling him close. He stepped closer to Carol so that their heads were together. After glancing around, Stein brought them closer, including them as fellow conspirators. "But, you know, "Stein said, lowering his voice, "on those islands-they're all Niggers!"

Carol's jaw dropped. Mouth open. she turned to Chet, who had I-told-you-so in his eyes. "Men," she said, fury in her words, "you're all alike."