- The years from seventeen to twenty-three cover a long, long time of change and learning. She had crossed that
boundary that separates children from people. Her eyes no longer dismissed me with the same glassy and patronizing
indifference with which she might stare at a statue in a park. We were now both people, aware of the size of many
traps, aware of the narrowing dimensions of choice.
- I put some Plymouth on ice for myself, drew the thinner, semiopaque draperie across the big windows, and found
Walter Chronkite on a colorcast speaking eavenly, steadily, reservedly of unspeakable national disasters. I sat in a
chair-thing made of black plastic, walnut, and aluminum, slipped my shoes off, rested crossed ankles on the corner of
the bed, and sipped as I watched Walter and listened to doom.
- I moved back and forth across the edge of sleep, thinking of that afterglow, trying to explain it to myself.
With the mink, the musk ox, the chimpanzee, and the human, the proper friction in the proper places if continued for x
minutes will cause the nerve ends to trigger the small glandular-muscular explosive mechanics of climax. And after ward
there is no more urge to caress the causative flesh than there would be to stroke the shaker that contained the pepper
that caused a satisfying series of sneezes.
So in the sensual-sexual-emotional areas each man and each woman has, maybe, a series of little flaws and foibles,
hang-ups, neural and emotional memory pattern and superstition, and if there is no fit between their complex subjective
patterns, then the only product you can expect is the little frictional explosion, but when there is the mysterious fit,
then maybe there are bigger and better explosions down the in the ancient black meat of the hidden brain, down in the
membraned secret rooms of the heart, so that what happens within the rocking clamp of the loins at that same time is
only a grace note, and then it is the afterglow of affection and contentment that celebrates the far more significant
climax in brain and heart.
- The mood was the old yin-yang balance of conflicting emotions. There was the fatuous he-male satisfaction and
self-approval after having roundly and soundly tumbled the hot-bodied she-thing, with her approvals registered by the
reactive flutterings and choke-throated gasps. Satisfaction in the sense of emptied ease and relaxation, with texture
memories of the responsive body imprinted for a time on the touching-parts of the hands and the mouth. The other half
was the drifting elusive postcoital sadness. Perhaps it comes from the constant buried need for a closeness that will
eliminate the loneliness of the spirit we all know. And for just a few moments the need is almost eased, the deeply
coupled bodies serving as a sort of symbol of that far greater need to stop being totally alone. But then it is over,
the illusion gone, and once again there are two strangers in a rumbled bed who, despite any effectionate embrace, are
essentially unknown to each other as two passengers in the same bus seat who have happened to purchase tickets to the
same destination. Maybe that is why there is always sadness mingled with the aftertastes of pleasure, because once
again, as so many times before, you have proven that the fleeting closeness only underlines the essential apartness of
people, makes it uncomfortably evident for a little while. We had fitted each other's needs and could have no way of
knowing how much of our willingness was honest and how much was the flood of excuses the loins project so brilliantly on
the front screen of the mind.
- [...] There were two men there, and they both stared at me with that mild, bland, skeptical curiousity of the
experienced lawman. It must be very like the first inspection of new specimens brought back to the base camp by museum
expeditions. The specimen might be rare or damaged or poisonous. But you check it over and soon you are able to
catalog it based on the experience of cataloging thousands of others over the years, and then it is a very ordinary job
from then on, the one yo uare paid for.
It was all to familiar and all too frustrating. It is the black armor, a kind of listless vacuity, stubborn as
an acre of mules. They go that route or they become all teeth and giggles and forelock. Okay, so they have had more
than their share of grief from men of my outward stamp, big and white and muscular, sundarkened and visibly battered in
small personal wars. My outward type had knotted a lot of black skulls, tupped a plenitude of black ewes, burned
crosses and people in season. They see just the outward look and they classify on that basis. Some of them you can't
ever reach in anyway, just as you can't teach most women to handle snakes and cherish spiders. But I knew I could reach
her because for a little time with me she had been disarmed, had put her guard down, and I had seen behind it a shrewd
and understanding mind, a quick and unschooled intelligence.
I had used to find my way past that black armor. Funny how it used to be easier. Suspicion used to be on a
individual basis. Now each one of us, black or white, is a symbol. The war is out in the open and the skin color is a
uniform. All the deep and basic similarities of the human condition are forgotten so that we can exaggerate the few
differences that exist.
Nobody looks far enough down the road we're going. Someday one man at a big button board can do all the
industrial production for the whole country by operating the machines that make the machines that design and make the
rest of the machines. Then where is the myth about anyone who wants a job being able to find it?
... No black is going to grieve about some nice sweet dedicated unprejudiced liberal being yanked out of their Buick
and beaten to death, because there have been a great many nice humble hardworking blacks beaten to death too. In all
such cases the unforgivable sin was to be born black or white, just as in some ancient cultures if you were foolish
enough to be born female, they took you by your baby heels, whapped your fuzzy skull on a tree, and tossed the newbord
to the crocs.
And so [...] no solutions for me and thee, not from your leaders be they passive or millitant, nor from the
politicians or the liberals or the head-knockers or the educators. No answer but time. And if the law and the courts
can be induced to become color-blind, we'll have a good answer, after both of us are dead. And a bloody answer
otherwise.
