Reunion by Hugh Fox Read Free Book Online Page B

Karachi, the sense of the human anthill, pulsating, pullulating, the endless push of raw humanity.
    Somehow getting into the food area itself. Fried Chicken. It looked good, but a big piece of paper was scotch-taped up next to it—F RESH O UT .
    No more potato salad. No more cole slaw. A couple fries left. What was there left to eat for Kali’s sake? Pumpkin pie. Lots of pumpkin pie and Cool Whip. And Polish dogs. Huge piles of Polish dogs.
    â€œLet’s have a Polish dog,” he said to Malinche, “that’s all that’s left … ”
    â€œNo, I couldn’t. Pork … you know … ”
    â€œGod understands!” he answered jesuitically.
    â€œNo, that’s OK,” and she picked up a piece of pumpkin pie foamed all over with Cool Whip, the pile of Polish dogs in front of him looking like the most delectable bunch of stuff he’d ever seen in his life. But the old Rule Keeper inside him started to talk: “You know what’s right, you subscribe to a system, you observe the rules. It’s not that God didn’t talk. He did. And it’s for you to listen!,” the old Total Cynic one more layer down whispering “God Who said What?”
    But picking up a piece of pie. Two pieces.
    Little notes taped to the pop machine, over the Coke, Root beer, Sprite—ALL OUT. All that was left was water.
    Another line for the cash register. Another line to just get into the dining room. The whole place like a dungeon, like San Quentin. Finally getting a seat in the midst of a table full of Koreans, one old man looking over at him as Malinche sat downnext to him, laughing to his wife, as loud as he liked, figuring that he could say whatever he wanted, no one would understand him, “He knows how to get the young ones … he’s probably well endowed with you know what,” laughing a loud obscene laugh, Buzz going to ignore him entirely, only the old guy kept at it. “I bet he keeps her busy at night …” the little behavior monitor inside Buzz finally getting pissed, “Genug ist genug,” and Buzz screamed at the old guy “IP TA CHO / SHUT THE FUCK UP!” in his best possible Korean, turned to Malinche, “Let’s get out of here!” her protesting, “But we just sat down,” but following him anyhow, the old Korean switching over into English, smiling “Just kidding around,” Buzz ignoring him, coat over his arm, precariously balancing his water and pie on a shaky plastic tray, finding a little table over in the corner that faced out on the courtyard where the green fishman fountains spouted water all summer long and people ate outside, now all full of snow, dismal, white, overcast, the world of his youth, chilled bones and a grey canopy of frozen sky. Pumpkin pie and water.

3
    O N THE “L” up to Howard Street where Ellen was supposed to meet him, surprised, as they got up north past the loop how many blacks there were on the train. The South Side was supposed to be one big black ghetto, but the North Side was supposed to be white.
    Not any more.
    And looking out at the streets there were blacks everywhere.
    Where did Whitey go? Were they all like his cousin, Paddy, who had just moved to Barrington the winter before, a big printed announcement with his last year’s Christmas Card—WE WE HAVE MOVED TO BARRINGTON.
    Barrington? That’s where the Jesuit seminary was, wasn’t it? Somewhere Over the Rainbow as far as Buzz was concerned.
    So stupid, the whole continuation of segregation. Why didn’t everyone just intermarry and produce a new mulato race like in Venezuela where it was all beautifully mixed, La Raza Cosmic, The Cosmic Race. Talk about South Africa, what about Chicago? He wasn’t used to all this racism any more. In Grand Junction all the professors lived in the same neighborhoods,there wasn’t a Black Professor’s Ghetto and a White Professor’s Ghetto, an