on my way to my car
a black man in neo-nazi apparel
stops me:
"you have to listen to this," he says.
he adjusts the volume knob on
his late-eighties boombox and turns it
so that it is facing me.
soft fuzz mixes with the soft voice
of a
national public radio newscaster
and it occurs to me that
ten years ago
i might have questioned why someone
would still be carrying around a boombox
vs. now where it is expected
even though it's meant to be ironic
and by definition
i shouldn't expect it
the newscaster runs through the same
stories i've heard a million times before:
an inspiring tale of survival against all odds;
the heroism of an American soldier, reunited at last
with his young wife and young son after
three years in a foreign country;
class warfare in a developing country
"so what?" i say.
"this is the pulse right here. this is the times we live in," he says.
at this point i consider either walking away
or making it known to the unironic man with the boombox
that i really don't care and that he's deluded if he thinks
any of this is new or exciting
but he beats me to the punch: he turns around and walks off
with his boombox as if my refusal to participate in his
excitement made the whole thing never happen.