Sally and I had just hugged goodbye after lunch at Saint of X over on 14th Street. I was chuckling because she’d told me some stories about how political correctness has run amuck in the world of social activism. The one about “micro sexist aggression” was the topper.

Still chuckling, I headed east on Florida Avenue toward the gas station. The one that takes up the whole corner on 15th Street. At first, I hardly noticed him. Twenty something black dude with a bulky sports bag slung over his shoulder. Looked like he might be a personal trainer. He was standing right next to the driveway of the station.

As I passed him, I nodded and said, “How we doin’?” He nodded back, but I could see something was gnawing at him. Took me a second to figure it out.

“Word is, when Obama was a senator here, they wouldn’t stop for him either.”

“I believe it,” he said as he shook his head and blew out some disgust.

“You want, we can do the drill.”

“Appreciate it. I’m kind of in a hurry,” he said as he ambled towards me.

“I know it sucks, but be better if you stood over there.”

“Okay.”

For a couple of minutes, I looked for cabs that were free. Didn’t see a one. Then I spotted this guy, probably Ethiopian, topping off the tank of his cab at the pump nearest to me.

“Where you going?” I said to the kid.

“Omni Shoreham.”

“Shit, that’s a pretty safe neighborhood.”

“Maybe not for me.”

I tried not to laugh but couldn’t hold it in. Kid showed a teensy smile and shrugged.

“Come on. This should work.”

The two of us walked slowly towards the cab. I gave the driver a big old smile and said, “Can you take the two of us over to the Omni Shoreham?” Guy hesitated a beat and then nodded. I opened the right rear door for the kid. As he got in, I said, “Have a good day, bud.”

“Yessir. And thanks again.” Driver looked a bit peeved. I threw him a wave and mumbled “tough shit pal” as I plodded off.

Couple of months later, I was coming out of the Woodley Park Metro at the top of the escalator. As I checked out the caboose on this comely gal maybe five years my senior, I hear, “Hey, man, that’s one of my clients at the hotel fitness center.” It was the kid.

“Well, young fellow, you’re to be commended for your good works.” I stuck out my hand. He gave me a two hundred watter and a shake that cracked my knuckles.

“Want to thank you again for helping me with the cab. Won’t forget that.”

“How ’bout I buy you a beer around the corner at the diner. We can sit outside. Might even see a few more of your clients.”

“That’d be good. But I’d appreciate a bit of subtlety if we do see some.”

“No worries. I’m nothing if not subtle. Any of my ex wives and girlfriends would attest to that.”

First time I’d actually seen him laugh. He told me he was Randolph; I told him I was Virgil.

We plunked down at a table next to the sidewalk along Calvert street. After the Coronas arrived, we soaked in the April sun and gazed at the tourists traipsing by. As one huge old gal waddled past, I said, “Randolph, I believe a lot of these visitors to our nation’s capital could benefit from your services.”

“That your idea of being subtle?”

“Well, yeah. Unsubtle would be me holding up a sign says, “IF YOUR ASS IS WIDER THAN THREE AXE HANDLES, YOU NEED TO COME SEE MY BUDDY RANDOLPH.” Luck intervened so the beer he spit out landed on the sidewalk and not on me.

After he composed himself, I asked, “You grow up here in DC?”

“Homey from Anacostia. You?”

“Redneck from North Carolina. Appalachia.”

“How come you’re so comfortable with black folks? Thought rednecks not supposed to have much use for us.”

“We got our share of bigoted assholes down there. I’ve gone round and round with a cousin or two used the N word when it wasn’t funny.”

“Good.”

“But another thing is, a good 20 percent of my kin have skin blacker ‘n yours.”

“I didn’t believe her when she told me about that.”

“Who we talk in’ about?”

“My gramma. She’s from Alabama. Nobody knows exactly how old she is. Probably north of 95. Lives with my uncle. Kind of comes in and out, forgets our names, stuff like that.”

“Got an aunt like that in Asheville.”

“Anyway, year or so back this UPS guy is delivering stuff next door. Gramma says, ‘Randolph, there’s your cousin Herbert from back home.’”

“I gently pointed out that couldn’t be because the dude was white. I mean, like never go to the beach white. But she insisted that a lot of our relatives down there were white or so light skinned they could pass.”

“Bet they don’t have trouble catching a cab.”