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De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period
IwasstandingupinaverycrowdedLexingtonAvenuebus,holdingontotheenamelpolenearthedriver’sseat,buttockstobuttockswiththechapbehindme.Foranumberofblocksthedriverhadrepeatedlygiventhoseofusbunchedupnearthefrontdooracurtorderto"steptotherearofthevehicle."Someofushadtriedtoobligehim.Someofushadn’t.Atlength,witharedlightinhisfavor,theharassedmanswungaroundinhisseatandlookedupatme,justbehindhim.Atnineteen,Iwasahatlesstype,withaflat,black,notparticularlyclean,Continental-typepompadouroverabadlybroken-outinchofforehead.Headdressedmeinalowered,analmostprudenttoneofvoice."Allright,buddy,"hesaid,"let’smovethatass."Itwasthe"buddy,"Ithink,thatdidit.Withoutevenbotheringtobendoveralittle—thatis,tokeeptheconversationatleastasprivate,asdebongout,ashe’dkeptit—Iinformedhim,inFrench,thathewasarude,stupid,overbearingimbecile,andthathe’dneverknowhowmuchIdetestedhim.Then,ratherelated,Isteppedtotherearofthevehicle.
Thingsgotmuchworse.Oneafternoon,aweekorsolater,asIwascomingoutoftheRitzHotel,whereBobbyandIwereindefinitelystopping,itseemedtomethatalltheseatsfromallthebusesinNewYorkhadbeenunscrewedandtakenoutandsetupinthestreet,whereamonstrousgameofMusicalChairswasinfullswing.
