Natasja’s work friends are friendly, and the conversation flows effortlessly. The group quickly bonds over tales from the conference, and memories about Natasja’s and my life and friendship back on the east coast where we used to live nearby. Timmy makes the group laugh with tales of growing up on Sunset Cay, and he’s keeping his stories amusing, but also not over-the-top.
It feels weird to think about it this way, but I’m almost proud of the way he’s behaving. Like he realizes Natasja is an important person in my life, and so he’s dressed up nicely and he’s still being himself, but perhaps a more dialed-in version. It’s the kind of night that feels effortlessly fun, and like nothing can go wrong.
After finishing our drinks and tapas, we’re all still enjoying ourselves and not ready to end the night so early. Someone suggests heading upstairs to the market to get a second round of snacks to enjoy in my apartment complex’s gorgeous courtyard. The market is an explosion of sights and sounds—freshly prepared meals on display which are way different from what Natasja could find back in her hometown. The group wanders around in awe, and collects a few different options as we wander from stall to stall wowed by what’s on offer. We end up with an eclectic mix of wood-fired pizza and artisanal salads. We grab poke bowls and sushi, and before long our arms are full of small, delicious plates.
With our bounty in hand, we make our way to the upstairs courtyard, and find a cozy, intimate space inside our own little private enclosed cabana with string lights overhead.
There, we spread our food out on the table, sharing our various finds as we enjoy more drinks. The mood is relaxed, and one of Natasja’s acquaintances plays harmonica music on the phone, providing the perfect background as we all chat and laugh.
Timmy regales the group with more tales about growing up in Sunset Cay—his stories are so full of eccentric characters and increasingly off-the-wall scenarios, they feel like something out of a novel. His anecdotes are getting more outrageous as the nightwears on, and the group is in stitches, caught up in the joy of the evening.
As the evening continues, we decide to hit a nearby karaoke spot to cap off the celebrations. Everyone is having a good time, and still, nobody’s quite ready for the evening to end. It’s the first time I’ve done karaoke in years, and while I don’t relish the idea of singing aloud in a room full of strangers, I figure it’ll be fun with this group. And especially with Timmy.
The bar is vibrant and buzzing with energy, dimly lit and packed with people who cheer and sing along with each song, the atmosphere alive with fun. Natasja and her friends take turns picking out cheesy pop songs and laugh as they sing off-key, the crowd clapping along.
Timmy and I sing Gangsta’s Paradise together, and the song goes well. It’s one I know all the lyrics to, and have for years. We laugh as we rap and the crowd sings along with us. Timmy beams and pulls me into his arms afterwards. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you know all the lyrics to that song. We really are meant to be together. The crowd loves us!”
Then Timmy gets up to sing a second song, almost straight away.
At first, it’s just another song—something everyone recognizes. But halfway through, Timmy’s tone changes. It’s not until he starts aggressively repeating the n-word in the lyrics, and ad-libbing some of his own, that the mood takes a sharp, unsettling turn. The crowd around him is no longer laughing along, their faces falling into confusion and discomfort. What had been lighthearted and fun is turning tense and ugly.
People stop singing. Several members of the crowd exchange uneasy glances. The DJ turns down the music, but Timmy keeps going, his voice louder now, clearly enjoying the attention. Someone from the crowd shouts for him to stop, and a few people boo in his direction, while others move to talk to the DJ, insisting he cut the microphone. When the music finally cuts out completely, Timmy explodes.
“Are you all fucking serious right now?” Timmy yells, his facecontorted in rage. His words turn vile, spewing the n-word at anyone who will listen. He stomps around the bar, hurling insults and racial slurs with growing fury. The crowd recoils, and the once-lively atmosphere is now thick with discomfort and anger. All because of Timmy. He changed the entire vibe of the place from something so lighthearted to something ugly. People begin calling for him to be removed, and the staff quickly move to intervene.
I stand in shock with the rest of our group, our minds all a little fuzzy from our drinks, unable to process how the night has taken such a dark turn. The embarrassment is palpable, our laughter and joy from earlier completely evaporated.
Natasja puts a hand on my shoulder, signaling it’s time to leave. Timmy’s behavior has cast a long, disturbing shadow over the evening.
We slip out of the bar in silence, avoiding the angry glances being thrown in our direction.
Timmy stomps along behind us, his voice echoing, filled with anger and self-righteous indignation.
Nobody says much as we leave the area and Natasja and her acquaintances call an Uber to get back to their hotel, the celebratory energy of the night completely gone. The weight of what just happened hangs in the air, leaving us all feeling uncomfortable and drained.
Everyone except Timmy, who still seems to think he was somehow wronged by the whole situation as he mutters to himself.
I whisper to Natasja, “Oh my god, I don’t know what happened. I’m so sorry.”
She shrugs. “It’s okay. All the kids use that word back home these days. They think it’s cool to say.”
I shake my head. “But they’re kids. Kids of color, even. And Timmy is an almost forty-year-old white man who should know better.”
She just presses her lips together and nods, and then gives me another one of her amazing hugs.
When we finally part ways, the joy of Timmy’s and my engagementfeels distant—overshadowed by the disturbing and unnecessary storm Timmy unleashed.
Timmy and I walk back to the apartment in near silence.
“What?” Timmy asks me at one point when I look at him with concern.
I sigh. “Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
The first timeI hear Timmy say it outside of the karaoke debacle, I feel my stomach twist. There’s no context, no situation where that word has a place in casual conversation. Especially coming from a white person. It’s like it’s slipped out by accident, but somehow I sense it’s not the first time he’s said it. He glances at me, noticing my reaction, and moves on like it’s nothing. For a moment, I think maybe he’ll realize it, stop himself. But over the next few days, he starts to let it slip with alarming regularity, as though he’s been holding it back and has now reached some bizarre tipping point.
It’s unsettling. I find myself dreading the next time, unsure if it’ll be muttered under his breath or thrown into a sentence with complete abandon. He weaves it into his vocabulary like it’s some punchline, a casual tag at the end of his jokes. Somehow, he makes it seem like this word just naturally belongs in his lexicon, like it’s something everyone around here says. But it’s more than that—he almost acts like it’s an inside joke, part of some exclusive club that only he and a few select friends can really ‘get’. The fact that he thinks he can say it around me is disturbing enough.
He says it proudly, as if he’s sharing some badge of honor, a secret language that somehow validates his sense of humor. It’s bewildering. I tell myself maybe it’s something specific to Sunset Cay, some backward island mentality that’s stuck in the past. The locals certainly have their quirks, a few mannerisms that feel frozen in time, but Timmy’s blasé attitude takes it a step too far.