Do you want a black kid?

I was walking home today, (relatively) deep in thought about the paper I am writing. It was quite warm, but the wind was blowing something fierce, tossing about the jacket I had tucked into the crook of my backpack in a capricious and frankly dangerous way, seeing how close it was to my nuts; but I was distracted and not paying much attention.

"Do you want a black kid?"

I looked up reactively, and saw a man standing on the other side of a shrub talking quietly on a cell phone. But this was a booming voice, and it felt directed towards me.

"He's all ready to go."

I looked around a bit but my forward momentum was not slowing up much. On the porch of the house to my left, also behind the shrubs, was a late-twenties black man sitting on the porch, cradling a young boy, presumably his son, around the age of 10. I laughed loudly to express recognition of the fact that he was indeed talking to me, and trying to make a joke.

"He's all purpose. He can clean and type. 6 words a minute."

I laughed again, mumbled a bit uncomfortably, and turned back around, head down, headed home.