Garneac Zeraji, contributor
“So,” Terrence said, “about Bill Cosby.”
A dangerous phrase, so far as Isaac was concerned. He leaned closer to his terminal, as if the information up on the computer screen was simply too fascinating for him to be distracted by anything else.
No such luck.
“About Cosby,” his coworker repeated, in a slightly louder voice. Slightly meaning he was on the verge of shouting.
Isaac turned to him. An admission of defeat, really. Open the gates to the conquering enemy, let them raze the town and just hope they’ll be gone by sunset, or within five minutes in this case. “What about him?”
“Do you think he’s guilty of any of those sexual assault cases?”
He thought about it. “It’s definitely possible.”
“What?”
“Did I stutter?”
“Come on, now. It’s Cosby!” Terrence uttered with religious zeal. “You think that old nigga would do something like that?”
Isaac frowned. “To be perfectly honest with you,” he went on. “I don’t think much about Cosby at all. If they find he’s guilty of the stuff they’re accusing him of then he should be punished accordingly.” Formal, careful speech, ever the defence of the harassed.
“But the man donates millions to charity.”
Pause. “Meaning what, exactly?”
Terrence gestured, irritated. “You know what I mean.”
“Thing is, yeah, I think I do,” Isaac stared at him. “And that in no way makes it okay for what he did.”
“Supposedly did.”
“Like I said, I don’t follow the news, but he’s being investigated, isn’t he?”
“Supposedly,” Terrence repeated. “And yeah, it does make it alright.”
There was a stapler on the table, just by Isaac’s right hand. He studied it. More to cool off the sudden spurt of anger than to seriously consider using it as a weapon. Besides, the large scissors were better suited. And it was still morning, far too early in the day for violence.
“Cosby’s a black man who donates God knows how much money to charities, so I don’t get why—”
“I’m sorry,” Issac interrupted, “but what does him being black have to do with anything?”
“Everything.”
Isaac closed his eyes. When he opened them the other man was still there. Pity.
“You know how it is,” Terrence continued. “People always tryna bring down the black man.”
A curious thing, racial solidarity. Isaac was Ghanaian; Terrence, Jamaican. Like night and day in temperament, interests, and personality. Yet anyone could make a call to kinship, to brotherhood, to a shared history through colour. Powerful bonds, but also dangerous reductionism.
There was also the fact that he had never liked Terrence much. He always smelled of cat piss and argued with everyone at max volume.
“Cosby made it, you know? He’s successful. He made it as a black man so they’re trying to get at him any way they can. And, again, he donates to charities,” Terrence blinked. “Bruh, are you okay, you don’t look so good.”
Isaac looked as if he was mentally doing long division, and every answer he came up with was fucked. He pulled out a smile from somewhere and hitched it on. Sloppy, inelegant, but it would do in a pinch.
Point in case: Terrence nodded and returned to his own work.
In hindsight, of course, you could always come up with a better argument, that crushing line of inquiry that made the other person see the objective light of your beautifully worded reasoning. Isaac went through the paces: how he could have better stressed that any accusations leveled against Cosby had to be investigated thoroughly, no matter what; how to use good works as an excuse for reprehensible behaviour was to uphold and promote the continuation of similar cases; and how race was real, undeniable, but that it should never be used as a get-out-of-jail-free card, that to do so preyed on historic wrongs, fears, and that it widened the gap between peoples when it should instead complement and unify.
Hesitation: he could play devil’s advocate to all those points, if pressed. Important to admit that to himself.
Time for lunch, however. Some kind soul had ordered pizza for everyone and Isaac heard rumours of there being cheesecake.
