He looked behind the bartender and there was the Jack Daniels and the Jim Beam and the Johnnie Walker Red, and he remembered when he had been with her, that first time, in the maricon.|
"Scotch, straight up," he said to the bartender.
"Sure," the bartender said.
"What's new?" he asked the bartender.
"Don't get many Chicagoans in here," the bartender said.
"At these prices, you won't get many more," he said.
"Wouldn't it be pretty to think so," the bartender said.
If there is hope (wrote Newport) it lies with the proles.|
If there was hope, it MUST lie with the proles, because only there, in those swarming, yellow-haired, pierogi-eating masses, 85% of the population of Atlantia, could the impetus to obliterate the long-hated Party ever be triggered...
In reality very little was known about the proles. Left to their own devices, they had reverted to a style of life that was natural to them. They were born, they went through a period of great beauty in their younger years, they watched Martha Stewart, and they marched in Kosciuszko day parades. But they were free.
As I was entering the bar, I occasioned to gaze upon the most ravishing shikse I had ever seen in the flesh. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tiny nose, long, shapely legs... and smoking some strange cigarette, nuch! In 12 years of school in Nutley, New Jersey -- elected class president every year, mind you! -- I had never seen a girl like this. The brown-eyed, studious, Robins and Judys and Mindys and Melissas of that suburban shtetl-- crazy expensive cigarettes they didn't know from! They knew from split-level ranches and getting teaching jobs... but to the fair skin, the dancer's legs, the verkakte cigarettes, they were STRANGERS! Gevalt, what would my MOTHER say if I were to bring such a thing home? Poor, thorough, earnest Sadie Rappaport -- the best cook in all New Jersey, as my father would say-- would have a coronary RIGHT THERE! "Moisheleh ...Cigarettes? POISON! Goyishe kop!" |
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