The man in the rap seat looked like mystery meat, tall, masculine in a lurching, lumpy way, and awkwardly yearning to belong, laughing out loud at a comment the bus driver made about the police who shined their searchlights into his windshield and waved him on. Mister Mystery Meat, speaking with a slight Mexican accent congratulated the driver on disrespecting the County Police, to which the driver, a dreadlocked man who is forever kind to this old paleface, responded, “Oh, I have my own police force to back me up. The MTA police and County Police are known to go at it. If they stop me, they better have good cause.”

Mister Mystery Meat, about six feet tall and nearly as pale as I am, got into the spirit, “You know, I was attacked by like twenty dudes in my neighborhood back during the riots. The police responded to the call a while later. I was okay, had fought my way clear to home. You know, all that cop—a white cop—wanted to know was what race I was kept asking me my race, and I just didn’t understand the rel, rel, rel, rel…”

At this point Hotep Jackson emerged to take charge. “Slow down brother. Take your time. I’m listening.”

Eventually the man of many races said, “I’m Indian and white at least. But what does it matter. I work and bother no one, I, I, I, I, I…”

Hotep Jackson then carried on an admirable monologue, only bits of which I have been able to recall in his words, which I shall set down as his theory of humanity which remained vague and searching but is addressed best in some of what I can recall, nodding in and out as I was on a nearly empty bus, rocking slowly along to keep the schedule despite the lack of stops.

“Most people do not realize that race is very important to those who rule the world for their own ends. We also fail to realize that most so-called whites, or Caucasians, are not among the ruling caste of whites…

“If Africa is mother to us all, how come this continent is so important? From the Olmecs—with their African faces in Central America, to the Eskimos, to big-nosed Indians with their Caucasian facial lines, it is clear that all peoples have been here since before so-called recorded history. You have to ask yourself, why is the U.N. and the most powerful nation both in this land? Columbus—who wasn’t white—knew what he was looking for, knew it was here.

“Look at me, I have black [meaning wooly] hair, red skin and white features. I’ve traced my ancestry through photos. I don’t trust that DNA stuff and those who administer it. You know there were 700 tribes in this land [he is very close] before the white man supposedly showed up.”

I interrupted by ringing the bell and stepping to the front standee line, and my most recently discovered magic negro said, “Have a safe night, sir.”

He kept the bus idling at the stop until I put my pack on, looked around and hefted my cane. He then saluted and rode off.