“But that’s the point. People are hiding in their bubbles and ignoring problems, letting things get worse. They go watch football games and pretend that the men they cheer for aren’t killing themselves to entertain them. They think the League cares about players, when in reality they don’t do shit.” He no longer looks relaxed in the booth. Instead, every vein on his neck is bulging. His shoulders and arms are both stiff; no doubt he is trying to keep his words measured when he wants to yell. Serious conversations in public for the win! “And the racism! Every day when I turn on the news or look at Twitter, there’s a new hashtag. Another Black life lost, and for what? For trying to live? And then I go work for rich white men who bank off our backs. Buying us, trading us, throwing us away when we’re broken. Just to go back into a world that’s moving backward instead of forward. I’m supposed to be quiet and thankful that they threw some money my way? Take it and shut up?”

Whoa.

I feel like I’m doing cartwheels in a minefield, but not just because of Quinton. My own mind is running wild and I don’t like it.

“I don’t know. What you’re doing is messing with my head, okay? I think racism is the worst. But I’ve never known where I fit in this fight. I never felt like I belonged or was even welcome.” If I could get away with pouring the soy sauce on his head, I would. I just wanted to eat and he has me talking about this. He’s a jerk. A very hot jerk. “You’re making me think about things I’ve avoided thinking about my entire life. I try to ignore race, and what you’re doing is forcing me to examine things in a way I never have. I’m fucked up enough with everything else in my life without digging into the crazy parts of my brain.”

So, remember how Quinton kept his voice down and only let his anger show through the tense lines of his muscle-covered body? Well, I do not have that skill. And by the end of my rant, not only is the old couple Bobby said hi to staring, but Quinton looks like he’s about to laugh.

“So you’re saying it really has nothing to do with me taking a knee and everything to do with you?”

And even though the soy sauce dumping might be unacceptable, I make the executive decision that throwing an edamame bean at him is fine. So I do. And it makes me feel better . . . until he catches it and pops it in his mouth like I did him a favor. “I hate you.”