OPINION: Running with The Devil

The Auburn haired freckle faced white woman walked slowly past me picked up her towel, turned and asked, "Do you think O.J. (Simpson) is guilty?" It /was five weeks into my hellacious tour of duty as a summer camp counselor and these were the most words this woman had spoken to me all summer. I was never sure if Ms. J. liked me, but with the introduction of this question, I was to find out shortly. Ms. J. was waiting for my reply with big inquisitive eyes. I was seated next to two other male counselors both of whom were white. My mind was scurrying to come up with a response. I could hear "Taps" playing ominously in the background. There was no way I could beg off the question, I was trapped like a rat. She had asked me a flawless question traced with racial epistemology. If I gave an obviously biased answer I was doomed. My race with the Devil had begun. Ms. J. was waiting for her answer. And as tired mentally and physically as I was, it was time for me to put on my cap of "Academia" and wax philosophic. "Well Ms. J." I said, leaning back in my chair like a modern day Mark Twain in a futile attempt to show her how relaxed and smoothly I was going to answer her pitifully easy question. "Although, I find it hard to believe that a popular public icon such as Mr. Simpson would be foolhardy enough to commit such a tragic and sad act, if he is proven in a court of law to be guilty of these gross atrocities then he should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. And, if his trial is a fair one unlike the original Rodney King Fiasco, I would have no recourse but to accede to the final judgment of the American Judicial System." I used as many huge impressive words and phrases as my exhausted but finely honed mind could muster, but would it be enough? The kids were still splashing away in the pool, and for what seemed like an eternity there was a deafening silence in our little group. I smoothly turned my head to the other counselors in order to show them how unfazed and unbiased I was in my response. Then I turned back to Ms. J. and she was shaking her head north and south. That was a good sign, but I still was not satisfied since she had yet to utter a response. My mind was racing again, maybe I had gone a bit overboard with my Ivy League psycho-babble. I started to squirm a little because the silence was lasting way too long. Then one of the other male counselors chimed in, "There's no way he could have done it and left all that evidence laying around." I turned to Ms. J. and looked at her as if to say, "The white guy said it, not me." Then the two other counselors began to babble about how the prosecution was bumbling the case and O.J. couldn't have flown to Chicago in five seconds first class because air fare rates were at an all time high then and... blah! blah! blah! I wasn't interested in their liberalist post commentary. My attention was focused solely on the woman standing in front of me. Still, she gave no audible response. Now, I was starting to worry. She continued to shake her head as she walked away. My eyes followed her every painful step to the other side of pool. I had failed to articulate my thoughts properly. As we neared the home stretch the devil was kicking it into second gear. Throughout the summer, whenever I had pool duty I would always seat myself at the west end of the pool. She would always sit on the east end. Now she began sitting on the north and south edges of the pool, and frequently, passed by me while we engaged in perfunctory conversations. It was the next to last week of camp and I still was not sure how she felt about me or my reply to her question. Late one Thursday afternoon, I again had pool duty. She sauntered past, picked up a towel and began to dry herself off in front of me. I found this strange because she did not appear wet to me -- the sun was blazing and had more than dried her body off. At that moment, I decided to roll the dice. "Miss," I said, "Why do you need a towel, you're drier than I am and I haven't even been in the pool?" She looked at me and smiled weakly. She said, "What are you talking about, my hair is still wet." Then she made a feeble attempt at patting down her hair which was visibly dry. I asked her if she thought I was a nice person. She looked at me and said, "I guess you're okay, you could be a little nicer to the kids though." Hmmm? I think she liked me. "Thanks," I said. Again, she said nothing as she returned to her chair. But her movement away from me this time was somehow a little less painful than the first time. I was catching my second wind as I began bearing down on the devil at the homestretch. The last day, of camp was very eventful. Campers were saying their good-byes, exchanging phone numbers with me and the other counselors. But, the O.J. issue between Ms. J. and myself would remain unresolved. Ms. J. probably didn't even realize that her one little question provoked so much thought and anguish. I didn't take my shift at the pool that day and for the life of me, I can't remember why. It wasn't like I didn't want to see her one last time. I definitely wanted to know what she really thought about O.J./myself... or did I? The Devil had left me in his tracks as he easily crossed the finish line. Summer was drawing to a close and as I sat in the computer lab typing this piece, a gorgeous female computer lab assistant was verifying other students' ID cards. When she approached me, I realized I didn't have my ID, so I stated my concern to her. She smiled at me and said, "It's okay, I know you're a student here. I helped you retrieve a document you lost in the computer last semester, and you said you were going to write a column about me in the editorial page of the school paper." "That's right," I said. "You really saved my bacon last year. That fifteen page paper was due that day, thanks. By the way what did you think of the piece?" She said she searched for the column all that week and never found it. I told her I definitely submitted the piece. Again there was this deafening silence between us. My integrity as a Blackman had once again been questioned. She said she believed me, but her facial expression betrayed her hollow words. Mr. Simpson had allegedly committed murder, and now I was on trial with him, both of us indicted Black male liars. She moved to another terminal and I called after her. I said, "Wait, I'll prove to you I wrote that column, give me the first initial of your first name. Her eyes shot dagger's at me. I could see she was just about through with my lying behind. She disgustedly, blurted out the letter "C!" I was scurrying again, but this time my mind was fresh, not like this past summer when I was worn down. Besides, if I ever got this woman's name wrong not only would I be crushed, (she was really cute) I would never again be able to show my face in this computer lab. "Your name is, Ms. C.T." I said. She smiled, I had finally done something right this summer. Score one for the good guys. We then began an informal chit-chat. But, I still had not answered her question about the missing article. My guilt or innocence was still up in the air. DP here I come. I have to go now, Mephistopheles wants a rematch. And this time, I have a sneaking suspicion that this race is going to be much more competitive.