Recently, a radio talk show host lost his job for some things he said on social media.
Those who know him well say he isn't a racist.
All I know is he reminds me of many guys I grew up with on Long Island.
This story is about one of them.
The names have been changed but the story is true.
I call this...

Stan stood outside the club jump-starting a new Marlboro. He pinched the butt of the previous smoke between his thumb and middle finger. With a theatrical flourish he extended his right arm and flicked the smoldering cigarette in a wide arc out over the parking lot, where it landed on the hood of the Savage Four's Dodge van. Don, lead singer of the Savage Four, owner of the Dodge Van, stopped in mid-sentence to watch the ash burn a black circle into the white paint. "Excuse me," he said to Tyja, his girlfriend, before stepping over to where Stan held court.

 
"That guy's a fucking asshole, buddy boy." Stan addressed everyone as "buddy boy" sooner or later. It was not a term of endearment but meant he couldn't be bothered remembering your name. Or that an insult would follow. Puffing himself up to his full six feet two inches, Stan jabbed his right index finger into Glenn Silverman's chest, saying, "That guy's an asshole and YOU’RE an asshole, Silverman!" Glenn grinned and laughed nervously. The five or six hangers on laughed, too. John turned to me and said, "Jesus! Why do people let him talk that way to them? I don't get it!" We stood twenty feet away, leaning against the hood of my lead singer Rich's Pontiac. We'd been talking about guitars, humbuckers versus single-coils. John is in The Condemmed, also on the bill. There are about fifteen bands on the goddamn bill.

"Why do people let him talk that way to them? I don't know. He's always calling people assholes, even to their faces. I guess everyone thinks he's just kidding. You can say almost anything if you smile while saying it."
 
"You mean they know he's a blowhard and they come around to be outraged?"
 
"They think he's Johnny Rotten. They don't know he's just a mean motherfucker. A real bastard. Just add beer. Which is why I hate getting to these gigs so goddamned early. We've been here since four just to get a fucking SOUNDCHECK. The longer we hang around, the more of that cheap shit Red, White & Blue beer he consumes."
 
"Jesus, how can he drink that swill?"
 
"Not only does he drink it, he drinks it WARM, motherfucker!"
 
"You're shitting me!"
 
"Dude, he pounds that stuff down one right after another. He's finished half a case already." Don stepped through Stan's fawning admirers, clapped his hand on Stan's shoulder and laughed. "Hey man, you trying to ruin my fine paint job?" Don's van was infamous in the scene for its sheer ugliness. Not a square inch was untouched by graffitti. Not the creative, interesting kind either but FUCK YOU and SUCK ME and YOU BLOW in big, blobby Day-Glo letters. He'd make half-assed attempts to cover it up, only to be undone by a fresh batch a week later. Once he got pulled over on the Palisades Parkway by an ignorant trooper who claimed he was carrying "advertising" and the van was, therefore, a "commercial vehicle".  Don talked for months about fighting the ticket but I think – in the end – he just paid it.
 
"What ARE you talking about Donny?" Stan said, peering in the direction of the van. That thing's a piece of shit!" Everyone laughed. So did Don. "And who's that leaning on your hood?" Stan asked. "Your girlfriend?"
 
"Yeah. That's Tyja. You remember her."
 
"Oh, right. I didn't think you'd let just any nigger lean on your van." Stan said, tossing another cigarette butt. Everyone fell silent. You could hear the wind blow in all the way from the Meadowlands. Don stood there, his mouth hanging open, then said, "Hey man, that's TOTALLY uncalled for. You know, people put up with a lot of shit from you. But that's bullshit!" Stan slurred, "What are you gonna do about it, PACIFIST? You ARE a pacifist, aren't you, DON? Real fuckin’ SAVAGE."
 
"Shit, I better get over there..." I said to John. "Hey man, I wouldn't get involved if I was you!" I turned and yelled, "We're supposed to go on after those guys! I haven't been hanging around Dover all day for this asshole to blow the gig!" I step between Don and Stan, who hisses "And what the fuck do YOU want?!" I try the non-chalant approach. "Hey man, come on. Let's go inside and see what Rich's up to. I saw him with that blonde chick." I try to grab Stan's arm but he waves me away.
 
"Yeah, I said it. 'Nigger'. What are YOU gonna do about it?" Don, a good foot shorter than Stan and fifty pounds lighter, stands frozen to the spot. The Savage Four is all about non-violence, about turning the other cheek, about peace and love. Their name is supposed to be ironic. What the fuck they’re doing on a bill with our band, Nature's Mistakes, is anyone's guess.
 
Tyja stepped over to Don, tugged at his pants, said, "Come on. This guy's just an asshole."
 
Stan finishes off another Red, White & Blue. "Yeah, I'm an asshole." He points at Don. "But he dates niggers."
 
"Okay, okay. Stan, that's enough." I push hard with both hands against his chest. He staggers backwards. "Stay out of this, you fat fuck!" Stan throws his beer at me. "You're not a Mistake. You don't even know what it means!"
 
"What are you talking about?! I came up with the name! The whole thing was my idea! You didn’t even know how to play your bass! I fucking TAUGHT you!" My bellowing draws patrons out of the club. Soon an audience of fifty or so punk rockers are watching us. "Yeah, well..." Stan says, "...you're just a nigger-lover. So FUCK YOU!" He punches me in the face, catching me above my left eye. I hit the sidewalk. Stan looms over me, aims a boot at my head. Then Rich is there, yanking Stan's leather coat, hauling him backwards. Stan falls on his ass., Rich yelling, "Whoa, whoa, whoa - what's going on out here?"
 
"Your bass player is a fucking asshole." Stan sits holding his stomach, laughing maniacally. I feel above my eye for the blood. John comes over, helps me up, says, "Dude, I told you not to get involved." Stan keeps laughing. Rich finds me, says, "You okay?"
 
"Yeah. I'm okay. But I think this gig is fucked. I'm not going on stage with that guy." Rich helps Stan to his feet, saying, "I can't leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?" To Tyja he says, "He's drunk. He didn't mean it." Tyja turns, walks with Don back inside the club. Rich leads Stan to the Pontiac, shoves him into the passenger side. Stan, his head drooping on his chin, mumbles, "Niggers. Fucking niggers. Fucking goddamned niggers. Niggers..."
 
I press a bandanna to my cut. Rich waves me to the driver's side window: "Listen... I'm driving him home. He's in no condition to drive."
 
"Rich, he's in no condition to live." That was our last show.