excerpt from Chapter 1 - I'M GEORGE JACKSON.
And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, "How corny can you get?" "How great can one be?" and the like. I know it sounds insane now, but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own good.
I knew it was a Sunday morning when Flo walked out on me, and it must have been near the first of the month, because we only got together when I gave her the rent from the house. Flo was (and is) my ex-wife, and we were as much in love with each other as we could be--but that wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough--we once split up arguing as to whether a certain brand of Haitian rum was dark brown or yellow. But don't think we weren't in love.
That Saturday night we started fighting over a cup of coffee and a couple of bucks. It was after midnight and we'd seen two crummy pictures at some 86th Street theatre, if one can call a neighborhood movie house a theatre. Flo and I were "trying it again"--for a few days we had been enjoying one of our periodic reunions, complete with much kissing, tears, and a good deal of genuine love.
It was early Spring, about March, and I remember it was cold and brisk as we walked down Lexington Avenue. I was trying to remember which newsstands were open late, so I could buy a Sunday paper. Flo was dressed in an ankle-length red coat with a high collar that almost went over her head. She was wearing gold ballerina slippers, and I think she was hiding her upper lip that night. Flo had nice full lips but she used lipstick as a disguise, shaping her lips the way she thought they should be. Sometimes she tried making her mouth larger or smaller, or blandly forgot her lower lip. That night she was attempting to make a thin line of her full upper lip. As I was doing my strategic figuring about the best way home to pass an open newsstand, Flo said, "I'm hungry and cold. Let's stop for coffee."
"We'll make coffee at home."
"Too much bother," she said, pointing to a coffee pot that didn't look too clean. "Let's duck in here."
"You're certainly wearing the correct outfit for a greasy spoon."
She gave me a mock bow. "Knew you'd finally appreciate this coat--took me two days of begging before I could even buy it. If you like, we can go back to one of the better places on 86th."
We were at 80th Street and I was damned if I'd walk back in all that cold--not to mention the fact I only had about twenty dollars to last the week. I said, "I'm broke."
"For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd."
I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was wearing, my "make-up gift," being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.
Genre: Mystery
And this began about the time when you could still remember getting on the subway for a nickel, people were just starting to worry about the water shortage, and the current expression making the rounds was, "How corny can you get?" "How great can one be?" and the like. I know it sounds insane now, but I remember it because I found the answer to: How smart can you get? The answer to that one is easy: Too smart, brother, much too smart for your own good.
I knew it was a Sunday morning when Flo walked out on me, and it must have been near the first of the month, because we only got together when I gave her the rent from the house. Flo was (and is) my ex-wife, and we were as much in love with each other as we could be--but that wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough--we once split up arguing as to whether a certain brand of Haitian rum was dark brown or yellow. But don't think we weren't in love.
That Saturday night we started fighting over a cup of coffee and a couple of bucks. It was after midnight and we'd seen two crummy pictures at some 86th Street theatre, if one can call a neighborhood movie house a theatre. Flo and I were "trying it again"--for a few days we had been enjoying one of our periodic reunions, complete with much kissing, tears, and a good deal of genuine love.
It was early Spring, about March, and I remember it was cold and brisk as we walked down Lexington Avenue. I was trying to remember which newsstands were open late, so I could buy a Sunday paper. Flo was dressed in an ankle-length red coat with a high collar that almost went over her head. She was wearing gold ballerina slippers, and I think she was hiding her upper lip that night. Flo had nice full lips but she used lipstick as a disguise, shaping her lips the way she thought they should be. Sometimes she tried making her mouth larger or smaller, or blandly forgot her lower lip. That night she was attempting to make a thin line of her full upper lip. As I was doing my strategic figuring about the best way home to pass an open newsstand, Flo said, "I'm hungry and cold. Let's stop for coffee."
"We'll make coffee at home."
"Too much bother," she said, pointing to a coffee pot that didn't look too clean. "Let's duck in here."
"You're certainly wearing the correct outfit for a greasy spoon."
She gave me a mock bow. "Knew you'd finally appreciate this coat--took me two days of begging before I could even buy it. If you like, we can go back to one of the better places on 86th."
We were at 80th Street and I was damned if I'd walk back in all that cold--not to mention the fact I only had about twenty dollars to last the week. I said, "I'm broke."
"For a character making a hundred and twenty-five per, not to mention what you win on the horses, you're always broke. Very odd."
I could have said something nasty about the scatter pins she was wearing, my "make-up gift," being half a week's salary, but I walked on. When I looked back, Flo had gone into the dingy coffee pot. I went in, too.
Genre: Mystery
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