of my preppy friends. But me? My peasant emotions will soon get the better of me: Out of my
way, asshole. Where I come from, people like you get the pitchfork.
Unless, of course, I just let him win.
Joe Rush glances away and bestows his smile on Penny. Don't worry, the smile says, in
a moment or two your boyfriend will give way and we'll have our little get-together.
Penny looks at the band, then at her feet.
But I cannot help reading his expression like a neon sign. You can't ignore me. You
guys with your beads and your long hair think you can just waltz around people like me, the
people who own this place, and go hide in your dope dens. But me and my people aren't going
away. We're still here. Deal with me.
I glance at Penny. Her bright blue eyes have the look of an animal about to flee or
scratch your face. She blushes easily, but recovers quickly. I'm the opposite. When I lose my
cool, I stay miserably mad for hours. If this goes on I'll do something boorish, or overtly
hostile, and end up looking like the bad guy.
“Look, man.” I try for apologetic, but fail. "Why don’t you just find someone else to
enjoy the best band in New Haven with? We're splitting this scene."
Rush’s smile darkens.
“You don’t want me to dance with your girl?”
Such incivility; the words pain him.
“What’s wrong with being sociable?”
I have no answer.
“Is there something wrong with me ?”
31
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