uncertain of her need, I didn’t react, she turned away and said, “Good night, ice cube, maybe we’ll clink against each other during the night.” It was as though she’d forgotten how many times she had turned me down, as though, despite her apparent abandon, she weren’t the most self-controlled and self-absorbed being I have ever known.
Another time, at the peak of our lovemaking, just before her orgasm, when with every fiber of my being I hung on to her and whispered I loved her, she pushed me away. “You’ve distracted me again,” she snarled. “I’d better do it myself.” And she propped herself against the wall, her legs spread wide, her hands buried between her thighs, probing her flesh. With her face flushed, her eyes vacant, her lips parted, she looked as if she were posing for a photographer, isolated from him only by the floodlights. Her fingers speeded up their frenetic search, her hands probed deeper, a grimace appeared suddenly on her face; gasping and moaning, she brought herself to orgasm, curled up into herself.
• • •
You might be pleased to know, Jonathan, that this week two of our board members and your former trustees have been called to high posts in Washington. James Abbott has been chosen to be Assistant Secretary for European Affairs, and Charles Sothern has been nominated by the President to be Secretary of the Treasury. Other members of the board have also had changes in their lives. Walter William Howmet, once your father’s closest associate and an architect of our corporate growth, who has been until now chairman of the board, has also assumed the responsibilities of chief executive officer. Stanley Kenneth Clavin, another close friend of your father’s and a member of the board, has decided to retire from his post as company president. Mr. Clavin says that with younger leadership emerging in almost every major division of the company, the new management should be free to work as a team. His place will be taken by Peter Baudley Macauley.
Is the above letter from Walter Howmet’s secretary intended to keep me at bay, or is it intended to involve me in the company’s doings? Either way, here I am, true royalty, the crown prince of American dreams, with power to effect changes in the lives of hundreds of thousands of men and women.
And I’ve gained all my wealth and power without risking my life in a war or a rebellion, without bravery or cowardice, betrayal, suffering, or sacrifice. Thus, as a dramatic hero I have no roots in Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, or Stendhal. Am I merely an example of the banality of power and wealth in America?
• • •
A toothless old black man, unmistakably an addict, was sitting across from me on the subway. As two young policemen got on, he winked and mumbled, “I feel so good here, son, so good. You protect me.” He rocked back and forth, attracting the policemen’s attention. One of them came over and told him to get off at the next stop. “I’m just going home,” he protested, “just going home.” When the doors opened at the next stop and the man didn’t move, the policemen shoved him off the train. It was my stop, too, and I got off and followed them along the platform. The policemen jostled the man, and when he fell, insisting that he couldn’t get up again, they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him along the platform. I thought of coming to his defense, of placing myself between him and his oppressors, but I did not. It wouldn’t have helped: the policemen would have turned against both of us with renewed cruelty. The man’s shoe fell off, and one of the cops picked it up with the end of his nightstick and threw it onto the tracks. Only then did the other cop notice that I was behind them. He demanded to know what I wanted. “What did he do?” I asked them. “He threatened me,” said one of them, smiling coyly. Then they walked away, leaving the old man on his back, his face smeared
Another time, at the peak of our lovemaking, just before her orgasm, when with every fiber of my being I hung on to her and whispered I loved her, she pushed me away. “You’ve distracted me again,” she snarled. “I’d better do it myself.” And she propped herself against the wall, her legs spread wide, her hands buried between her thighs, probing her flesh. With her face flushed, her eyes vacant, her lips parted, she looked as if she were posing for a photographer, isolated from him only by the floodlights. Her fingers speeded up their frenetic search, her hands probed deeper, a grimace appeared suddenly on her face; gasping and moaning, she brought herself to orgasm, curled up into herself.
• • •
You might be pleased to know, Jonathan, that this week two of our board members and your former trustees have been called to high posts in Washington. James Abbott has been chosen to be Assistant Secretary for European Affairs, and Charles Sothern has been nominated by the President to be Secretary of the Treasury. Other members of the board have also had changes in their lives. Walter William Howmet, once your father’s closest associate and an architect of our corporate growth, who has been until now chairman of the board, has also assumed the responsibilities of chief executive officer. Stanley Kenneth Clavin, another close friend of your father’s and a member of the board, has decided to retire from his post as company president. Mr. Clavin says that with younger leadership emerging in almost every major division of the company, the new management should be free to work as a team. His place will be taken by Peter Baudley Macauley.
Is the above letter from Walter Howmet’s secretary intended to keep me at bay, or is it intended to involve me in the company’s doings? Either way, here I am, true royalty, the crown prince of American dreams, with power to effect changes in the lives of hundreds of thousands of men and women.
And I’ve gained all my wealth and power without risking my life in a war or a rebellion, without bravery or cowardice, betrayal, suffering, or sacrifice. Thus, as a dramatic hero I have no roots in Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, or Stendhal. Am I merely an example of the banality of power and wealth in America?
• • •
A toothless old black man, unmistakably an addict, was sitting across from me on the subway. As two young policemen got on, he winked and mumbled, “I feel so good here, son, so good. You protect me.” He rocked back and forth, attracting the policemen’s attention. One of them came over and told him to get off at the next stop. “I’m just going home,” he protested, “just going home.” When the doors opened at the next stop and the man didn’t move, the policemen shoved him off the train. It was my stop, too, and I got off and followed them along the platform. The policemen jostled the man, and when he fell, insisting that he couldn’t get up again, they grabbed him by the arms and dragged him along the platform. I thought of coming to his defense, of placing myself between him and his oppressors, but I did not. It wouldn’t have helped: the policemen would have turned against both of us with renewed cruelty. The man’s shoe fell off, and one of the cops picked it up with the end of his nightstick and threw it onto the tracks. Only then did the other cop notice that I was behind them. He demanded to know what I wanted. “What did he do?” I asked them. “He threatened me,” said one of them, smiling coyly. Then they walked away, leaving the old man on his back, his face smeared
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