He was tired, and he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of the mesmerizing Detroit skyline he could see but never touch. Cobb watched Thorne with a growing sense of irritation. He didn't know the pump was malfunctioning. He didn't recall that Thorne had already prepaid inside. Cobb had been distracted by a lottery machine repairman when Thorne had tapped his card on the counter earlier.
What Cobb saw now was a black man in a fancy suit standing by a fancy car talking on a fancy phone and blocking a pump that other paying customers could be using. In Cobb's worldview, this was a personal slight. It was arrogance. He saw Thorne's posture upright, confident, unbothered as a challenge. Look at him.
Cobb muttered to himself, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. Think he owns the damn pavement. Cobb had a history of calling the police. He treated the local precinct like his private security firm. He called for teenagers skateboarding on the sidewalk.
He called for homeless veterans asking for change near the air pump. He called for noise complaints in the middle of the afternoon. He liked the feeling of power it gave him, the ability to summon armed men to remove things that annoyed him. He watched Thorne for another two minutes. Thorne, still on the phone, tapped the pump screen trying to reset it.
To Cobb, this looked like vandalism or tampering. The narrative in Cobb's head solidified. This wasn't a customer. This was a loiterer, maybe even a scammer trying to rig the pump. It didn't matter that Thorne's car was worth more than the entire gas station inventory.
Bias doesn't deal in logic. It deals in fear and resentment. Cobb picked up the phone. He didn't call the manager to fix the pump. He didn't step outside to ask the gentleman if he needed assistance.