hell of a day and I guess I'm more nervous than usual. They're not bad . . . for ofays, he added.
His friend gave him a close scrutiny. You'd pass for Spanish or Portuguese, he assured him. Why don't you come over? There's no good bucking the game. It isn't worth it.
Byron's lip curled. I couldn't, he responded. I just couldn't. I don't blame you, or any one else who does, but I couldn't. I guess I haven't got the guts.
What you're doing requires more guts.
Don't let's talk about it, Byron urged impatiently.
As the music stopped, the laughter rose and fell. An atmosphere of fate hovered over the place, as if something were going to happen that nobody could prevent. Behind them a man sang softly to his companion:
She's quit me in duh wrong for annuder man:
Learn me to let all women alone.
Ha! Ha!
Did you ever see yo' sweetie when her good man ain' aroun',
Gits up in duh mawnin', turns duh feather bed upside down?
Now an amber searchlight shot across the room. The jazz band vomited, neighed, barked, and snorted and the barbaric ceremony began.
