“And there goes the damn neighborhood,” Monica spoke to her co-pilot, a little dachshund named Kosher. As subtly as she knew how, she rolled her minivan in front of the neighbors’ place, just to watch them. They were brothers, they were big, and they were very black. She sat there for at least fifteen minutes, watching them load their car with beach equipment. “Do African Americans even swim?” Kosher pressed his nose against the glass. “I bet they’re on their way to some kind of drug deal…”
They weren’t. They were going to the beach. They both wore tank tops, and swimming trunks, sporting muscles that could land them on the front cover of any fitness magazine they wanted. Monica stared them down, waiting for them to show off their weapons. She saw nothing that confirmed any of her preconceived notions, until the younger brother came outside with a jug of grape drink. “Aha! I knew it! I bet they’re going to go turn that drink into drugs…”