WHITE TRASH
(C) Doug Smeath, 1996

The tall preacher's knees shook behind the deteriorating hardwood pulpit. They shook not so much with fear or regret, but instead they seemed to protest against the weight they were expected to support. He was by no means a fat man. On the contrary, his ragged black suit seemed to be clinging to his thin body for dear life. A pile of white hair lay on the top of his long head. It had a strange orange hue to match the similarly tinted bags of skin that hung from his face in much the same way that his clothes hung from his body. Beneath the nose sagged a melancholy white mustache. As he spoke, the shaking of his knees slightly intensified.

"My friends," he moaned, his southern accent trying to portray an air of importance and dignity. "We come here t'day to recognize, remember, and eulogize our dear friend, neighbor, son, comrade, and associate, Michael Hart, taken in his prime from our presence, with so much life still to live. Michael meant a lot of things to a lot of people. So, without further ado, we will allow some of you a chance to tell us who Michael was to you."

As the preacher sat down, the black woman rose from her seat behind the pulpit to speak. She worried that the minister's poorly-written clich‚ speech seemed to invite people from the audience to stand and speak like one of those funerals from TV. She had hoped he would announce, "We will first be hearing from Debra Morris" or some other similar indicator, but she was denied it. But she knew that she had been asked to speak, so she approached the stand and began to, as the preacher had said, eulogize.

"I loved Michael," she slowly began. "I-" She broke into sobs of pain and guilt. She had debated with herself over this issue many times since Michael had died. She thought she had convinced herself that none of this was her fault. But here, in front of the critical eyes of a scornful audience, she was flooded with the stabbing sense of cruel responsibility.

Wiping her eyes, she nervously shot glances between her neatly-typed eulogy and the hateful onlookers. Her eyes fell on those of Michael's mother. Despite the terrifying instinct she had to pull her gaze away from this woman especially, her attention was locked on the giant blue eddies of Mrs. Hart's biting eyes. Tears bubbled from the crevices of the old woman's corpulent cheeks like so many lazy geysers. She was wearing an enormous purple dress, spotted with multi-colored flowers. Worst of all, she was actually wearing a veil, which she had lifted to wipe her eyes and had failed to let go of because she, too, was staring at Debra.

Unable to contain herself under this burning scrutiny, Debra broke down. "I am the one who killed Michael!" she cried. "It's my fault those men killed him; they killed the man I love!" As she glanced with horror at the stunned spectators, she resembled the preacher's knees. "Michael always told me that the most important thing in life was to be yourself. He said that! 'Express your emotions, hide nothing. Be yourself.' He told me that all the time, and I loved him for it! So what else was I to do but show my love for him?!" She hung her head but quickly lifted it again when she heard the disgusted pounding of her own heart. She frantically embarked once again on condemning herself aloud, for she knew no other way to drown out this thumping sound. Somewhere, she thought of Edgar Allan Poe, and for the first time she understood the horror of his stories. "I held his hand. Oh, I should have known! But I held his hand anyway, and they knew, everyone could see. They hated him for it. I am sure they hated me, too, but they really hated him for it." The shame sent her mind into a brutal reliving of that night.

It was a cool night, or at least as cool as can be expected of an August evening in Alabama. As she and Michael emerged from the noise and confusion of the busy restaurant, they were greeted by an eternity of stars. The subtle breeze coming from the river reminded her of why she had left Chicago and headed south. As she happily and hungrily partook of her surroundings, she excitedly grabbed Michael's hand, and they continued their journey home.

As usual, Michael had plenty to say. They cuddled like a high school couple as they chattered like the chipmunks that kept scurrying hurriedly away. Then, out of nowhere, the horror began.

As they were rounding a corner, the light of the full moon revealed three approaching figures. None of this was uncommon, but she felt nonetheless uncomfortable. Clinging tighter to Michael, she suddenly quit her gibbering and bit her lower lip. But Michael went on chatting happily, completely unaffected by their visitors. She had always loved his optimism, but now it seemed like a curse to her.

As the men passed, one reached out and tripped Michael. Michael, taking it as a drunken joke, picked himself up and reached out to grab his girlfriend's hand. Another of the men grabbed his outstretched arm and yanked with all his might. Michael tumbled into the trunk of a tree. As Debra screamed out in panic, the three white men commenced kicking Michael until he was near unconsciousness. His quietly alarmed gasps and cries were now replaced by an excruciating moan. It was then that the smallest of the offenders, between racial slurs and sneering laughter, produced a knife from somewhere and thrust it into Michael's head. Running off, the fattest turned and yelled, "After you bury him, find yourself a colored man and ruin his life instead!" She hadn't heard anyone referred to as "colored" since 1968. She ran to the side of the road and vomited in a ditch.

But now she was confronted with a whole room full of hateful white people. A mother who had warned her son not to mix with "them Negro folks." A business partner who didn't know the first thing about how to run a business alone. A sister whose husband had been killed by a black man. As she scanned the room, she thanked God none of these people had a knife. She despondently left the room and carried herself to the home she and Michael had shared. She packed everything she could fit in one suitcase and left for Chicago.

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