“Look, I don’t mean to be unfriendly,” I say.
But the look in his eye tells me even saying this much is a mistake. It's also a lie
because what I truly wish is for us to remain complete and utter strangers.
“Let me introduce myself,” he says. “My name is Joe Rush. I’m in my last year here.”
It's a chess move. He knows I know who he is. I stonewall.
He extends a hand; I ignore that too.
“Look, man,” I say, “we really are on our way out.”
“What’s the hurry?”
He glances at his own hand, then withdraws it with a smile and without comment, as if
refusing to take offense. He waits, a picture of patience, like something out the I Ching: The
superior man is not offended.
“We don’t like the band."
I'm groping for a way out of this unlooked-for encounter. If anybody embodies the
'other side,' it's Joe Rush. His family is Washington establishment: the war-makers. They're the
people Miles and I, and the Wellesley girl, marched to the Pentagon (along with a hundred
thousand others) to confront. And here I am trying to make it about the band.
“You don’t like the band?” He’s smiling still, but his voice takes on a hurt intonation.
“We paid good money for that band. I’m on the Master’s Council. It’s the best band in
New Haven.”
He insists on this point; a provocation. Something knots up inside me. I realize,
sickeningly, that I don't know how to escape the clutches of this phony 'friend,' this ambassador
of mock good will. Somebody from his own background would know how to do it. Even some
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