"Animals"

Rude hands shoved her roughly from behind, pushing her through the bus door. She stumbled forward, her breath spilling out in a timid noise of surprise before she recovered her footing. Threatening male voices sniggered at her, exchanging derisive words. Half turning to look behind her, a surge of fear and outrage rising within her, she realized who it was and froze. The two black boys she had watched from the bus shelter, laughing and casting wary looks about them. They loomed up behind her, shuffling forward to push her on again. Forcing her eyes ahead, she heard snatches of voices among the others in line. Tempers were flaring as they stood dripping in the cold downpour.

Lifting her eyes, she caught the driver's dispassionate stare. The driver, overflowing her small seat, bobbed her head meaningfully toward the change machine. Her eyes held no time or patience to put up with a white girl's complaints, out here alone in the deepening night. A hint of angry impatience rose in the driver's heavyset face, and somehow she forced herself up the steps, fumbling for her fare. Momentary panic struck as she groped for the coins in her pocket, buried beneath her rain-slicked coat. The heavy footsteps of the men behind her flustered her concentration. She dug out what coins she could find, dropping them into the slot in a flurry of clumsy motion.

"Thank you," she murmured to the driver, her voice small and barely audible even to herself. A slender fist clutched her purse against her, clinging to it. The driver merely grunted, looking down on her from the elevated seat, blandly annoyed eyes urging her on. Turning away from the driver, she tried to slip away into the bus, away from so many angry stares.

The pelting of the rain, rattling on the bus's thin roof, mingled with the unhealthy grumbling of the engine. As she moved in, wincing at the watery yellow light after so long in the dark, the boys advanced behind her, grumbling, to pay their fares. She felt them more than she heard them. It was all she could do to move ahead, terribly aware of all eyes focusing on her. Heads lifted from murmured, secret conversations, as she approached. The benches were full of strange and unsympathetic faces. Her eyes roamed hopefully in search of an empty seat nearby but the front was packed full. There was not a single space among the guarded and blank faces of those returning home after a long day's work. She averted her eyes, trying to look at no one while hunting for a spot, wishing they would stop looking.

Some wore stony faces. Others masked their eyes behind sunglasses, as if to hide the glares and harsh appraisals which she could feel running over her body like grubby fingers. A few sneered with open distaste as she made her way down the aisle toward the back. An old woman's smirk seemed amused at the irony in the situation - the whites being forced to the back of the bus. She couldn't stop thinking that it made them happy in a smug way to send her back there, alone. It was nonsense, of course, she knew that. Nonetheless, most of the riders in this neighborhood were poor. They worked hard at menial jobs, disgraceful to her tastes. And most of them were black. She found herself resenting them for those indifferent and self-satisfied looks. The yellow lighting gave them all an ill, eerie cast. They were so much like the faces she knew from work. Not friends, but coworkers, too distant to be friends. Brown and black, some old but mostly young. But these faces didn't smile or laugh or greet her politely. Their expressions betrayed - and offered - nothing of the sort.

She was the lone white woman aboard, alien and isolated. There were familiar faces in the crowd and she caught flickers of recognition in their eyes, but little more. She saw them regularly on the dull, lonely rides home, and sometimes sat beside them without conversation. And yet they were as cold to her as the others. This small, carefully dressed white woman was an intruder into their world. She didn't belong here with her rain darkened overcoat and discreet jewelry, lovely and more expensive than she could really afford. They huddled in their hard, discolored plastic seats in battered jackets and worn coats, watching her pass. As she moved to the back, she passed the sole white man on board. He was a weatherbeaten man in denim with a brushy beard jutting out, the nauseating aroma of alcohol and body odor rising off of him. In one hand he firmly gripped an army duffle bag, held together with twine. Grimy fingers tugged his knit cap over his skull as he looked up at her momentarily. She caught a glimpse of pale blue eyes before he looked down at his feet.

Thick, humid smells filled the air as she approached the rear of the bus and her nose crinkled in response. The air was sour, tasting of cold rain, stale sweat and unwashed bodies. It mixed with her own light perfume, the sickly sweet blend turning her stomach. Her legs ached after the long day as she stepped around limbs that lazily blocked her path. She spied empty seats in the back. Fixing her eyes on the far corner, she pressed on quickly. Away from these unsympathetic eyes.

The angry young men were drawing up behind her in search of their own seats, driving her ahead. She sensed their eyes on her as she neared an obese young mother sprawled out across the aisle in back. In the baby stroller beside her slept a frightfully tiny child, swathed in second hand blankets and clutching onto a careworn teddy bear. Her mother casually rested a large brown hand on the handlebar of the stroller, garishly long fingernails tapping out a faltering beat. The woman gave her a bored glance before nudging the carriage aside with her foot to let her past, never looking down at the child.

Her lips formed the words "thank you" again, but it faded in the back of her throat as the other woman turned away. The men behind her exchanged short murmurs, very close to her ear. She could imagine them ogling her from behind, appraising and mocking her and the clothes that she wore. A hand shoved against her shoulder, pushing her ahead. Closing her eyes, she tried to swallow down on the edgy nausea in her stomach. It unnerved her to be so exposed, so visible, when she was so often lost in the crowd. The dank smell only grew more potent as she approached the very rear, the back seats nestled up against the bus's thrumming engine. Brown and yellow stains spattered the dingy blue floor here, and a few discarded pages of newspaper were strewn about.

Enfolding herself tightly in her coat, she slid into the warm, discolored seat with a momentary pause to assure herself it was clean. Or reasonably clean. Too many times she had rushed to a seat to avoid the crush of people pressing in all around her. More than once she'd wounded her pride, ruining a skirt or staining a dress on the way to work, and being ashamed of herself for the rest of the day. In the dark glass of the window she saw the threatening shapes of the two men, advancing with their shuffling, self-important gait.

Sagging into her seat, she bowed her head as it throbbed with the heavy pulse of her heartbeat. A wave of chestnut hair tumbled forward across her eyes which she swiped at, brushing it back behind her ear self-consciously. She was proud of her hair, but it was out of place here among these other women with their black, sculpted hair piled rigidly on their heads. Like the paleness of her skin, it felt like a "kick me" sign built into her to say she didn't belong.

Lifting her eyes, she watched the two black men - boys, really, who couldn't have been more than seventeen - coming down the aisle toward her with heavy, purposeful footsteps. They shone in the yellow overhead lights from the moisture beading on their jackets. One was a weasel faced youth with bristles of treated hair flattened against his skull. He sneered at her with a childishly mean smile, his teeth startlingly white against his brown face. But he was just the follower, and her gaze drifted upward to the imposing shape of his companion. There was nothing childish or about him, a broad-shouldered colossus in a bulky NFL coat. He had to be well over six feet tall and his head grazed the ceiling. The hood of his jacket was up, rivulets of water trickling down the sides, and its shade obscured his eyes in the weak light. She saw a gleam as his eyes bore down on her, but little else. He gripped the guide bar above him as he approached, flashing gaudy gold rings on thick fingers. She swore that he would be able to crush the bar with one hand, like Superman. And crush her just as easily.

She cast her eyes down to avoid looking at the two of them. Her body grew rigid as they drew close to her. The heat from the engine was stifling, thrumming unpleasantly against her narrow back. It was like sitting on a hot plate. Her fingers dug into the fabric of her coat, kneading it fitfully, as she fought to keep her gaze averted while watching from the corner of her eye. They exchanged a few words, unintelligible over the noise of rain and engine, and the weasel gave a short, barking laugh. It seemed all but certain that they would sit on either side of her and press close with unspoken threats.

Shifting uneasily in her seat, she tried to dismiss such thoughts as absurd. They were just boys, impatient and impudent, playing games with her. The boys she had known in high school had been much the same, taunting and boorish, scaring her for kicks. With her small size and shy demeanor, she had always been the target of such behavior. Especially from the black boys, who treated her as an uppity intruder. After all, she had been alone. A woman, and a target for mischief, but nothing so desirable as the black girls around them. Never mind that she had been as poor as they, and that she worked hard.

Turning away from them, she looked into the window, pretending - even to herself - that she was looking out at the slick streets, cars sluicing by in the downpour. Really, her eyes were only on them. Their ghostly reflections traded meaningful looks before sliding down to sit near her. For a moment she completely froze, her breath caught in her throat. The weasel flopped onto a side bench before her, flicking his grin between her and his partner. The leader settled into the seat opposite him, blocking any escape, and her mind sped up, trying harder to convince her that there was no danger, that she was projecting her fears onto them. They were just boys.

Hesitantly, she brushed her fingers back through her hair, trying to look and feel casual. A sweat was building over her body from the heat against her back, making her plush coat very uncomfortable. Moving almost robotically, she played as if she didn't notice the two of them, watching the people and cars outside. Her own wan reflection floated before her in the dark window, lips pursed and brow furrowed.

The engine startled her as it coughed, rumbling against her, and settled into a steady hum. Above her, the speaker squawked nonsense as the driver spoke, the words lost in the din of the engine. For a moment, her hopes lifted with the thought that the little apartment she called home was not too far away now.

And then, adding to the riot of feelings that rushed through her, the lights blinked out, plunging the interior into darkness. She pushed herself back as she glimpsed the weasel edge closer to her. Just as suddenly, the light returned, making her jump. He flashed an oh-so-innocent grin that was all teeth. Without knowing why, she felt a forced smile plaster itself on her face before she looked away, incredulous at herself.

Swallowing down on the surge of anger which rose in her throat, she mentally kicked herself. She gripped the seat, only to yank her hand away in disgust at the dirty, oily feeling there. Rubbing the balls of her fingers together, her face pinched in revulsion at the slick and gritty sensation. Nauseated, she tried to wipe it away onto the chair, the handrail. Anywhere but on her. It left a dull smear on the plastic as she brushed it off, freezing in place for fear of getting any more on her, on her clothing. It was their grease, she thought with a flash of loathing. Oily hair and skin, a thousand gels used to keep it in place, the grime of unwashed bodies.

She stopped dead. She couldn't think that way. What a horrible thought! They were just people, many poor and struggling to get by. They were really not too different from her. It wasn't right to blame them when so many people rode these buses. Of course a bit of grease and oil would collect.

The two of them were observing her plight, her appalled attempts to cleanse herself. From across the aisle, the leader fixed her with a baleful stare under his sagging hood and her attempts to cleanse herself faltered. She wanted so much to wipe her hand off onto her coat, to get this nasty feeling from her fingers, but she couldn't. She felt soiled, frightened of spreading it further, frightened of his glowering stare. It was stupid of her to look back, a deer dazzled by a car's headlights, but to look away would show her fear, wouldn't it? Submission? Who was he to do this to her?

Sucking in her breath, she remained caught by his eyes as he lifted a large black hand, a fat gold ring prominent on his finger. He looked like some kind of primitive god, eyes gleaming from beneath his hood, flashes of gold on his fingers, at his stumpy neck. Slowly, he drew back the hood to reveal the severely shaved dome of his head, brown and shining in the dreary light. A knotted brow loomed over large, angry eyes. They seemed monstrous, white and glimmering from his dark face. There was a pinkish scar along the side of his broad nose. His rough face bristled with the beginnings of a beard, and his large, full lips pressed together into a hard line above a square jaw. This was a hardened man, a 200-pound gorilla, glaring at her, the interloper in his domain. He remained still as a statue, black eyes burning at her. Her face twisted, and she pressed her back flat against the furnace of her seat. She couldn't look any longer into those eyes, hate washing over her like the heat from the engine. She tore herself away to the darkness outside, the land whisking by in a rainy blur.

Their reflections remained before her in the glass, haunting her, and her own face reflected there began to harden, delicate brows coming together, lips pressed tight. She tried to focus on the half-seen landmarks outside, longing for home. But she found herself hating them for injecting her with fear. Her body quivered, her neck and shoulders aching, as she held herself rigid. Home was not far away.

The weasel began rapping loudly with his knuckles and palm on the seat beside him, tapping out a heavy, unrelenting beat. His toothy grin mocked her in the glass as he banged the beat out louder and more insistently. But she refused to move an inch, to give them that pleasure. The heat against her back was intolerable, and the warm humid air smothering.

Time became a seemingly endless drone of rain and engine roar, punctuated by her fitful glances at the two of them. Now and then the bus would slow and lurch to a stop to release someone into the rain before sailing on. But the weasel pounded on with his tuneless rhythm, louder and louder, until she could feel the seat vibrating. No one else turned to look, to reprimand the thoughtless boy. His partner was like a rock, unmoving, burning a hole in her with his resolute glare.

The stiffness in her neck was radiating pain throughout her shoulders, and a sympathetic headache was building to join it. And still the boy was pounding away senselessly, his grin only getting bigger and bigger. She wanted to shout at him to stop, grab his wrist and hurt him, but neither words nor actions would come. He was larger than her, his lean frame betraying hard, wiry muscles. She couldn't let them lure her in that way, not when she was so close to home. That was how they got their kicks, how they all did.

The number of people on the bus was dwindling away as each climbed off at their stops. She followed each one's departure, clinging more and more tightly to her purse. Pain was spreading through her lower back where the heat focused in a sweaty ball. The heat from the engine had soaked into her coat and she was burning up now. Grotesque thoughts swirled through her mind as she watched each landmark go by outside. They would wait until everyone else was gone, perhaps get off with her. And then, alone, there were so many things they could do to her. Maybe they would just rob her, beat her the way the weasel was beating out his rhythm, and just leave her there, so close to the safety of home. Make the white girl pay for her audacity. Isn't that what they all wanted, to turn the tables?

The Chevron at the end of her block floated by outside and her heart leapt into her throat. She jerked forward awkwardly, reaching for the button to signal her stop, which was so close to the weasel's head. The sudden movement was dizzying, and he stopped his rapping just as suddenly. She grazed the button with her fingernail first, and he grinned. He almost seemed to gnash his teeth. She yanked her hand back, afraid for a moment that he would bite her with those too-white teeth of his, but dove in to give the button a solid slap nonetheless.

The massive, rattling frame of the bus shuddered as it lurched to a slow halt by the side of the road. Growling, the engine noise reached a crescendo before dampening to a throaty hum. As she struggled to make her body move out of the seat, the noise of the pelting rain outside reemerged. It rattled like hailstones on a cheap tin roof. Every languid movement was followed by the dreadful stare of the leader, his roughly shaved chin jutting out defiantly as her willowy legs found strength to propel her forward. Trembling, she shoved her purse underneath the folds of her lovely coat, which she wrapped around her like a shield. She couldn't help but glance into their faces, her gaze darting back and forth between them and the rear door. There was something animal about them both, narrowed eyes and focused faces pacing her. As she moved away, they shifted in their seats as if to rise, but held back. They seemed like wolves, preying upon her fear and insecurity. Setting her face resolutely, she gave them each a cold, hard look to prove to them that she was unafraid, even as her heart was hammering in her ears. Before she had even realized it, she had come upon the rear door of the bus, holding them at bay with glares of her own. Tossing her head to clear a tumble of hair from her eyes, she pushed her way out the doors as quickly but fearlessly as she could.

Outside! Her breath gushed out in weak laughter as the doors closed behind her, hysterical with relief. It was a tumult all around her, the wind kicking up mist and sheets of rain in the downpour. Holding her coat closed tightly, the rain pelted her face and hands as it bore down with a vengeance. It flattened her long hair against her skull until it dangled about her in wet ringlets, but she laughed anyway. Eyes burning with a spill of tears, she coughed another weak laugh, wiping at her forehead as water trickled down her face. Shielding her eyes against the rain, she looked up toward the low, muddy hill on which her apartment complex rested. The dingy yellow lamps which lighted the buildings had never seemed such a wonderful sight, comforting and familiar.

Being on the outskirts of the city, a poor area where developers and dreamy businessmen had yet to come, the area was sporadically wooded and poorly lit. All around, the air smelled of moist earth and trees. The muddy earth which led up the hill toward the complex was dissolving in the rain, thick streams of water running down the sides, dislodging thick clumps of earth and sludge. Her breath was clouding before her as it came in quick, shallow gasps. They had been just boys after all, she thought with a hiccuping laugh, as if emerging from a dream. Cruel and intimidating as they were, they had only been boys.

Her stiff shoulders sagged as she stumbled the first few steps on the sidewalk toward home, swaying slightly with exhaustion. There remained a dreary walk through the cold before she reached the warmth of her little home, but she was alone. Even here in the storm, it was peaceful, away from the stares and harsh eyes. And when she got home, she could shed her soaked clothing and crawl into bed to stay, huddling up in the warmth. She laughed once more, wearily, as the rain obscured the world around her in mist. Just boys, she thought with an inward twinge, cringing as the thunder crashed above her.

"Hey," a deep voice called behind her, and she froze where she stood. Rain water ran down her nose in rivulets, trickling through her hair. It tickled as it crept over her, making her skin crawl and tingle, such an absurd sensation. The rain was soaking her to the bone, her aching body succumbing to the numbing cold, but her head throbbed painfully. She turned her head hesitantly at the sound of splashing footsteps pounding heavily through the muddy earth toward her. Her breath caught in her throat. Please leave me alone, she wished. Please just go.

"Hey," the voice insisted, closer now, echoed by a petulant, nasal voice. Her stomach churned, and it felt as if something was coiling up inside of her, wanting to tear its way out. Acid rose in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut, as if to wish them away, and she kept walking. Arms falling listlessly to her side, she lowered her head and pressed on, trembling. Every part of her felt as if it were shaking, about to come apart. She thought she might dissolve in the rain like the hillside, never to be seen again. The footsteps splashed up behind her and she dug her fingers into her coat, trying to walk faster. Her fingers began to hurt as she gripped the cloth tightly, squeezing the material into a tight ball in her fist. Her stomach was boiling and she felt the urgent, impatient need to vomit, to let this out of her now. Why wouldn't they just leave her alone?

"Hey, now," the lead voice grumbled, sounding angry, and she felt a meaty hand grip her narrow shoulder. It felt like a vice, wrenching her back slightly. His fingers dug into her shoulder, biting her skin, and out of the corner of her eye she saw his dark hand glittering gold. She thought it must have been what it felt like to have a dog clamp into you with its jaws, dragging you in. He turned her toward him with a hard grip. "Why don't ya-"

Her throat felt ripped raw, but she never heard her own shout as she turned and spat a shrill curse at him. That moment came only in a haze of exhausted fear and instinct. She knew that she was yelling at him, demanding that he let her go, that they both simply leave her alone. All that she saw of him, the muscular leader, was a dim blur. Black eyes registering surprise and then anger as she snapped herself out of his grip and slapped his hands away. She felt his skin, hard and rough, as she clawed at him with her fingernails, trying to shove him away. But it was like pushing a mountain and as outrage rose in his face he shoved her away from him hard, sending her stumbling. "Bitch!"

Dizzily, she spun away and tumbled to the ground, skinning her knees on the concrete. Even as they advanced, the leader raising a fist and shouting at her, she was pushing herself up and forward. All she knew was that her fingers hurt and that suddenly she was running, stumbling over her own feet, through the pounding rain. Matted hair fell into her eyes but she ran anyway, pushing her way through the air, with tears running down her face.

"Fuck you!" Their voices shouted after her, "Bitch, we were just playing with you!"

"Animals" was the first short story I wrote for my Creative Writing class, during my last year of college. It is based on an actual (and frightening!) experience I'd had one night, heading home. The idea for turning it into a story had rattled about in my head for some time, as a way of examining racial tensions and as a character study of the paranoid main character.

The story was meant to be a bit disturbing, and a little provoking. I'm wary, even suspicious, of many "reverse discrimination" claims. But I know that racism isn't the exclusive domain of caucasians, or anyone else. Hatred breeds hatred in return.

It seems to me that many people pretend race isn't an issue anymore, that it's been solved. Even those who know better often make only feeble stabs at talking about racism and discrimination. But everyone has a natural tendency to fear or dislike those who are different, especially when they feel vulnerable. The greatest stumbling block to real progress, I think, is that few people admit to these feelings. Instead, most people hide their feelings and try to be good. If we don't own up to our feelings though, we'll never be able to get past them.