Circadian Beat of Hate

The march of feet stays in rhythm with the pulsing beat of club music more intoxicating than Jaeger, Jack, or Amarula. The surrounding people— more colorful than the neon sign— are just as affected. I watch their smiles, their dancing. Even the bouncers admit the free spirits in time with the music. Except a white bouncer, fairest of them all, who abruptly falls out of synch and marches past me to a different beat— a beat of urgency and rage. His fist meets a dark face that blends in with the brick wall, an African urinating quietly near the trash bin. The innebriate’s body lies in crimson blood gleaming in the dark alley. I sober up. This is hate. So this is what I see on tv, read in textbooks, what preachers caution. My immediate reaction is to gawk— at the scene, at my reaction.