recall a major incident occurred just a day or two after Bobby and I arrived in New York. I was walking down Lexington Avenue on a crowded bus, clutching the handrail enamel near the driver's seat, ass to ass with the guy behind him. For several blocks the driver had ordered several times to those who were crowded around the front door that "we us to run backwards." Some of us had tried to please him. Others do not. For Finally, using a red light, the beleaguered driver turned in his seat and looked at me, I was right behind him. At nineteen, I was without a hat, with hair plastered black, not too clean, continental style pompadour, over an inch in front somewhat uneven. He spoke to me in a low voice, almost cautious:
"Well, mate," he said. Let's see if we move a bit that ass.
I think it was the "companion" what bothered me most. Without even take my bow work, or at least keep the conversation in the private sphere of bon goût , where he had started, I informed him, in French, which was a rude, stupid, an arrogant idiot, and never know how much I hated it. Then, quite satisfied, I ran into the bus.
(From "The Blue Period of Daumier-Smith)
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