the more mysterious.
“He still has a killer ass,” I say, getting back to Bart. I
the idea of this country-boy jock buying women’s jeans, and refuse to let her ruin my image of him.
“I like what’s in front of the ass,” she says, candidly. “Dicks. She goes into her bedroom, and like a puppy with a new master. I follow. “A girl should never kiss and tell,” she says, taking preppy-looking plaid dress navy, maroon, and beige with a white collar off the hanger. “But we’re roommates, right, Harry?” “Right.”
“Bart doesn’t like getting his dick sucked. I don’t know When I get down there he pushes my head away. All he wants do is fuck me. And I just don’t know about that.”
What can I say? I don’t like it when all somebody wants to is fuck me.
“He just doesn’t have the class of say..” a member of the family from Kansas,” she declares.
Shit. She knows about my family. “And what do you know about the Fords?” I ask tentatively.
“Everybody knows about the Kansas Fords, Bubba. momma throws that charity ball every year, and your daddy’s one of the few who inherited wealth but still had a distinguished career.” Then she adds reverently, “God rest his soul.”
My warning flags go up. In college, there was a kid in my dorm
who knew everything there was to know about my father and the Fords. It was as if he’d read every mention in every little newspaper column. He’d refer to my mom, dad, and brother by their first names. It only made me steer clear of him. “How come you haven’t told me you know who my family is?” I ask.
“How come you haven’t told me yourself?” she counters.
“I did,” I answer defensively “The day we met. I spilled my guts, if you remember.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a Ford.”
The hair on my neck rises. I hate when people use my family name with emphasis. “I’ve always found it easier to be a regular Joe than an irregular Ford,” I explain, “and I decided when I started this airline life that I’d keep my lineage a secret. Does it matter?” If it does, I’m out of here.
“Not in the least, Harry. Your family isn’t much different from mine.”
I realize I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so wrapped up in my family dramas, I’ve never really taken the time to ask about Amity’ sfamily. “Tell me about them,” I urge.
“I’d rather not,” she answers.
“Come on,” I goad. “What are they like?”
“I’m from money too,” Amity says, stepping into her dress. She faces the mirror, not me, but I see her reflection and her visage is guarded. “But like you, I’m sort of disconnected from my family. They’re from Fort Worth, you know.”
“What’s Fort Worth like?” I ask, the ignorant Yankee.
“Fort Worth is old money, Harry. The good families, families like yours, are from Fort Worth. Not Dallas,” she says with con tempt, “where everyone’s nigger rich.”
It sounds ugly to hear the word niggermparticularly when it’s spoken with a Southern accent. I’ve noticed that the people I’ve met in Texas get away with saying it by not actually using the word to call a black person a nigger, but by using it in phrases. If someone
is nouveau riche, as my mother says in Kansas, they’re deemed nigger rich in Texas. Likewise, if something is broken and has been shoddily repaired, it is nigger rigged, rather than jury-rigged.
“You’ve said you have a brother and a sister, right?”
“Right,” she says. “Zip me up.”
I reach behind her back and zip her up. “Are you the youngest, oldest? Fucked-up middle child?”
“Oldest,” she blurts. “I’m very well adjusted. My whole family is.”
“So why are you estranged from them?”
“My own choice. It’s personal, Bubba.”
“But you say your family has money and is well adjusted? What did you do, make them out of papier-mche in kindergarten?”
She smiles, while slipping diamond droplets into her lobes, but her face
“He still has a killer ass,” I say, getting back to Bart. I
the idea of this country-boy jock buying women’s jeans, and refuse to let her ruin my image of him.
“I like what’s in front of the ass,” she says, candidly. “Dicks. She goes into her bedroom, and like a puppy with a new master. I follow. “A girl should never kiss and tell,” she says, taking preppy-looking plaid dress navy, maroon, and beige with a white collar off the hanger. “But we’re roommates, right, Harry?” “Right.”
“Bart doesn’t like getting his dick sucked. I don’t know When I get down there he pushes my head away. All he wants do is fuck me. And I just don’t know about that.”
What can I say? I don’t like it when all somebody wants to is fuck me.
“He just doesn’t have the class of say..” a member of the family from Kansas,” she declares.
Shit. She knows about my family. “And what do you know about the Fords?” I ask tentatively.
“Everybody knows about the Kansas Fords, Bubba. momma throws that charity ball every year, and your daddy’s one of the few who inherited wealth but still had a distinguished career.” Then she adds reverently, “God rest his soul.”
My warning flags go up. In college, there was a kid in my dorm
who knew everything there was to know about my father and the Fords. It was as if he’d read every mention in every little newspaper column. He’d refer to my mom, dad, and brother by their first names. It only made me steer clear of him. “How come you haven’t told me you know who my family is?” I ask.
“How come you haven’t told me yourself?” she counters.
“I did,” I answer defensively “The day we met. I spilled my guts, if you remember.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a Ford.”
The hair on my neck rises. I hate when people use my family name with emphasis. “I’ve always found it easier to be a regular Joe than an irregular Ford,” I explain, “and I decided when I started this airline life that I’d keep my lineage a secret. Does it matter?” If it does, I’m out of here.
“Not in the least, Harry. Your family isn’t much different from mine.”
I realize I’ve been selfish. I’ve been so wrapped up in my family dramas, I’ve never really taken the time to ask about Amity’ sfamily. “Tell me about them,” I urge.
“I’d rather not,” she answers.
“Come on,” I goad. “What are they like?”
“I’m from money too,” Amity says, stepping into her dress. She faces the mirror, not me, but I see her reflection and her visage is guarded. “But like you, I’m sort of disconnected from my family. They’re from Fort Worth, you know.”
“What’s Fort Worth like?” I ask, the ignorant Yankee.
“Fort Worth is old money, Harry. The good families, families like yours, are from Fort Worth. Not Dallas,” she says with con tempt, “where everyone’s nigger rich.”
It sounds ugly to hear the word niggermparticularly when it’s spoken with a Southern accent. I’ve noticed that the people I’ve met in Texas get away with saying it by not actually using the word to call a black person a nigger, but by using it in phrases. If someone
is nouveau riche, as my mother says in Kansas, they’re deemed nigger rich in Texas. Likewise, if something is broken and has been shoddily repaired, it is nigger rigged, rather than jury-rigged.
“You’ve said you have a brother and a sister, right?”
“Right,” she says. “Zip me up.”
I reach behind her back and zip her up. “Are you the youngest, oldest? Fucked-up middle child?”
“Oldest,” she blurts. “I’m very well adjusted. My whole family is.”
“So why are you estranged from them?”
“My own choice. It’s personal, Bubba.”
“But you say your family has money and is well adjusted? What did you do, make them out of papier-mche in kindergarten?”
She smiles, while slipping diamond droplets into her lobes, but her face
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