Which reminds me of another knock-on-wood
memory. I was cycling with a male friend，
through a small midwestern town. We came to a 4-way
sTOP and sTOPped， chatting. As we started again，
a rusty1 old pick-up truck， ignoring the sTOP sign，
hurricaned past scant2 inches from our front wheels.
My partner called， Hey， that was a 4-way sTOP！
The truck driver， stringy blond hair a long fringe
under his brand-name beer cap， looked back and yelled，
You fucking niggers！
And sped off.
My friend and I looked at each other and shook our heads.
We remounted our bikes and headed out of town.
We were pedaling through a clear blue afternoon
between two fields of almost-ripened wheat
bordered by cornflowers and Queen Anne's lace
when we heard an unmuffled motor， a honk-honking.
We sTOPped， closed ranks， made fists.
It was the same truck. It pulled over.
A tall， very much in shape young white guy slid out：
greasy3 jeans， homemade finger tattoos4， probably
a Marine5 Corps6 boot-camp footlockerful
of martial7 arts techniques.
What did you say back there！ he shouted.
My friend said， I said it was a 4-way sTOP.
You went through it.
And what did I say？ the white guy asked.
You said： 'You fucking niggers.'
The afternoon froze.
Well， said the white guy，
shoving his hands into his pockets
and pushing dirt around with the pointed8 toe of his boot，
I just want to say I'm sorry.
He climbed back into his truck and drove away
