How things have changed

Reading the Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, which Rico supposes he should have read in school, along with his friendship with two distinguished gentlemen-of-color, has put him in mind of a story from his childhood (though, to make things clearer, Rico will refrain from speaking of himself in the third person, just this once):

My maternal grandfather, George Haywood Wilson, owned a millwork shop in the town of Robersonville, in central North Carolina. When visiting my grandparents, there was nothing that I loved more than to hang out at 'the shop' in what, for Robersonville, was downtown, on Railroad Street next to the ice house. (That's a place, for those who've never seen one, where they actually make ice. It still exists, the last time I was there, and sounded and smelled just the same.)
On one occasion, after my mother had left me in the care of my grandparents for a week or two and gone home, my grandfather needed to go make a delivery (windows or some such), and didn't want to take me with him. That required leaving me in the charge of Smith Marshall, my grandfather's employee, for the day. (Rico says he was known to one and all as Smith, but he's going to be more polite in this story.)
When lunchtime came, since my grandfather and I weren't going home as we usually did, Mr. Marshall took me to a nearby luncheonette. When we came to the front door, Mr. Marshall told me to go in and order what I wanted and that he had to go 'along the back' but would pay for me.
You must remember that I was less than ten years old at the time, so my assumption was that Mr. Marshall was using a local euphemism for the location of the bathroom, and he would join me inside when he was done.
I was wrong.
Standing, alone, in the main part of the diner for quite awhile, I waited for Mr. Marshall to come back. He didn't. Eventually, I got bored and hungry and decided to go find him. Turning the corner of the building, I could easily see Mr. Marshall 'along the back'. He wasn't, however, engaged in coming back from the bathroom, he was sitting waiting for his food.
As I approached, Mr. Marshall began to shoo me back toward the front of the building. I, of course, didn't want to go, because that hadn't worked out very well. But, looking up at the puzzled (white) face of the man in the open window on the side of the building, and then back at the concerned (black) face of Mr. Marshall, I got it.
Mr. Marshall was eating 'along the back' because he had to. Because he was black.
I was supposed to eat inside, even if by myself. Because I was white.
It was a stunning moment, one I remember as if it had happened yesterday.
The (white) man in the window was surprised to see a (white) boy sitting down with a (black) man in an area where he was not, by custom, supposed to be. Mr. Marshall, it is to be supposed, was a little shocked himself. But he recovered, ordered some food for me, and the two of us had a pleasant lunch 'along the back' before returning to the shop. When my grandfather returned, of course, Mr. Marshall told him the story. Someone from the diner had blabbed, as well; by evening, the story was all over town. When my mother returned to pick me up, of course, my grandmother had to quickly tell her of the 'horrible' thing I had done; the neighbors were shocked. My mother, bless her, was very proud of me, and remains so to this day.
At the time I didn't understand what all the fuss was about, and I remain puzzled to this day.
But, having made a trip south to Robersonville, where my mother is once again living, I discovered that the diner was gone, and even finding out Mr. Marshall's name took some work. (My thanks to Charles Wilson, my mother's cousin, and Mr Moore, a local gentleman of the right age to remember.)