Patrick Trotti

Posted on December 12, 2011


Editor’s Pick


I made up my mind that I was going to give him a dollar before he even reached me. Not because he asked but out of guilt.

I’d like to think that it was because I was ashamed of my expensive outfit. It really was because I was white. I was the only one on the train. I’d heard of white guilt before, in some book that was required reading for a Sociology class back in college.

The guilt didn’t dissipate after the charity. It only intensified. Nobody else paid the man any attention. Instead they glared at me. They saw through my act of “kindness” for the despicable, misplaced act of sympathy that it was.

I didn’t think things could get worse. He tucked the money in his pocket and took out his new iPhone and texted someone before glancing up at me. He smirked in my direction. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

I got off at the next stop, rushing out the doors as soon as they opened. I left my bag on the train and disappeared into the city night.


Patrick Trotti is a writer, sort of.

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