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Bk2#13: Ruby 1

January 1, 1961

Six inches of heavy snow having fallen the night before and into this first day of the year, “Mikey, you wanna go play in the snow with daddy?”

“Make a snowman, daddy?”

“Yeah, let’s make a snowman.”

Waiting as Marsha dressed Michael in his snow-suit and rubber galoshes.”

“Tell you what, Mikey; what if we tie Mercy to your sled and we’ll let her pull you and we’ll go for a walk. How’s that sound?”

“Then we’ll make a snowman, Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby. After Mercy pulls you, we’ll make a snowman.”

Outside, the ends of four feet of clothesline knotted through the ends of the handle of Mikey’s Flexible Flyer with another foot tied to her collar, “Mush, mush!” Mitchell yelled to the full grown dalmatian that, looking over her shoulder, stood stock still.

“Mush!” Getting the idea, Mercy lurched forward spilling a red-faced, laughing Michael into a deep snow drift. Then again, and again. Until, releasing her, Mercy playfully lunged at Michael, knocking him back into the drift of snow where he lay laughing until his daddy fell into the snow with him and together, daddy and Mikey and Mercy rolled and pranced down the snow-covered embankment, then again and again.

Two snowmen were made that day, one little ‘Mikey’ snowman and one big ‘daddy' snowman, then…

“Hey, guys!” Mommy yelled through the door. “ I’ve toasted cheese sandawiches and tomato soup!”

“Yea!”

May 8, 1961

In the spring of 1961, the ‘Congress of Racial Equality’ (CORE), an interracial activist group founded in 1942, dispatched bands of black and white ‘Freedom Riders’ aboard buses into the Deep South to test local compliance with court rulings that forbade segregated seating in terminal waiting rooms. While local authorities stood by, many Riders were beaten senseless by irate mobs as their buses were set afire.

Finally, U.S. Attorney General Robert Kennedy sent in 400 federal marshals to protect the Freedom Riders right to travel.

But not before…

Watching as they had on that day in September of 1957, when federal paratroopers stood bayonet to bayonet with the ‘Arkansas Nation Guard’ outside of Central High School when Marsha and Mitchell thought they’d seen him.

Watching whenever television cameras focused on the ongoing, unfolding civil rights drama.

Watching as they had on that day in 1957 to this day, as always looking for Rubidoux Meyers but never catching another glimpse of anyone who might be Ruby.

But now…

Outside of a large bus depot in Chattanooga, Tennessee, the television camera focused onto a shoving, hitting match where a white man—a suit-clad white man with a strange, albeit handsome face with a Negroid nose, Caucasian lips and pure white hair—was being held from behind by one white man while being beaten by two other white men.

“Jesus! That’s Ruby! Marcy, that’s got to be Ruby!”

Rushing from the sofa, kneeling before the television, hoping to find this same scene on a different channel, he switched channels where almost immediately there was the scene again.

“Mitchie, that is Ruby!”

“Yeah, I know!”

“Where are you going?”

“To get my wallet.”

“Your wallet?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Ruby and Sherry’s number in it. I’m calling Sherry!”

“You can’t call now.” Glancing at the clock, “It’s after twelve there.”

“I don’t care! I’ve got to see if he’s okay.”

Taking his wallet from the dresser, stretching a finger into one of the thin pockets, he removed the piece of Columbia Yacht Club napkin where Ruby had written his and Sherry’s New York City phone number; where the scrap of napkin had remained untouched since that day in September of 1957 when Mitchell had last seen or spoken to Ruby and when, from that day to this day, out of embarrassment and guilt for not going to ‘Little Rock’ with his friend, the scrap of napkin had remained untouched.

The dial spinning back to ‘O’, “Long distance, please.” Within moments giving the long distance operator the New York City phone number, Mitchell waited impatiently until the operator informed him that…

“Sorry, sir, that number is no longer a working number.”

“The name is ‘Meyers, Rubidoux Meyers’. Could you please see if there is a listing for either Rubidoux or Sherry Meyers?”

“I’ll connect you with ‘New York City Information’.”

“Operator!”

“The name is Meyers, Rubidoux Meyers. Could you please see if there is a listing for either Rubidoux or Sherry Meyers?”

Strangely, the operator asked, “ ‘M-E-Y-E-R-S’?” but not for the spelling of “ ‘Rubidoux’.”

“Yes, Operator,” he repeated. “Rubidoux or Sherry Meyers.”

Mitchell standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, Marsha sitting on the sofa, the two stared at each other for the time it took until…

“Sorry, sir, there is no listing for either a Rubidoux or Sherry Meyers in the New York City area.”

“Thank you, Operator.”

Dialing ‘O’ again, “Long distance operator, please …”

“ ‘Baltimore, Maryland’, information. Please…”

“Operator, do you have a number for Rubidoux or Sherry Meyers? That’s ‘M-E-Y-E-R-S’.”

And…

Once again an unfortunate fact of life occurred when a person or people whom we truly believed would never be gone from our life, when, due to time and/or distance, and/or when that thread of ‘something in common’ breaks, we discover that that friend or friends are forever gone from our life.

 Until…

 Retrospective: Ruby; July 1956

Third Coast Guard District Headquarters: Manhattan , New York

Third Coast Guard District Headquarters was located in Manhattan, taking up the entire third floor of an old, gray slump-stone building.

The staff consisted of a captain, a full commander, two lieutenant commanders, one female lieutenant, one chief petty officer, two yeomen second class, one yeoman third class, three seamen, two civilian stenographer typists, and… Mitchell Lipensky.

With the exception of the two civilians, the captain, one of the lieutenant commanders, and the female lieutenant, all of the other officers and enlisted personnel at 'Third District Headquarters' had been placed in this highly exalted duty because of ‘P.I.’: because they knew ‘someone’ or knew ‘someone’ that knew ‘someone’…

Or—although probably fairly unique at Third District Headquarters—because they were related to someone who knew someone who masturbated someone.

Transferees, though, would usually have some sort of knowledge of office procedure, meaning they could at least type. And if those coming into Third District Headquarters did fall below the minimal skill required, if they had at least a year of active duty left in their enlistments, or committed to re-enlisting, they would be enrolled in a typing class at N.Y.C. to sharpen and hone their ability to, at least, minimally, do their jobs.

Even with ‘Typing 101’ and his practice aboard the ‘CGC Halfmoon’, he wasn’t near good enough, and having no intention of re-enlisting, with less than ten months remaining in his enlistment there wasn’t time enough to hone anything, and after three days of a thousand starts, of overflowing baskets of crumpled forms and balled typing paper, Mitchell Lipensky was given the ‘all important’ job of filing.

The huge, cavernous space of the third floor was divided into two sections. The office section was warm, bright, alive, flowing with good humor and vitality, with people shooting rubber bands and paper clips at each other… well, at some people.

Then there was the other section, the ‘dead space’, the space that appeared to be…? Cold and foreign. And even though the same light fixtures dotted the ceiling of the entire third floor and were all activated by pushing the same buttons, the dead space seemed to loom in shadow.

The two spaces, alive and dead, were separated by a long row of steel, four-drawer, gray filing cabinets that Mitchell Lipensky was put to work on with the constant filing and refilling of the never-ending stream of manila duty jackets for the men of the ‘active’ Coast Guard, the ‘inactive’ Coast Guard, and the Coast Guard Reserve—active and inactive.

Fortunately, two things happened to break the absolute monotony of the literally A-to-Z routine.

First: Upon learning that Mitchell lived in Seagate and practically had to pass the Interagency Car Pool in Brooklyn when going to work, Chief Petty Officer Janowski—who had been driving a considerable distance out of his way in order to pick up and return the Navy gray Chevy that was allotted for use by Third District Headquarters—gave the job to Mitchell, who really didn’t mind because he had decided it would be easier and cheaper to take the subway to Manhattan rather than drive and worry about parking. This way, rather than the pushing jam of the subway, he could drive to Brooklyn in the comfort of his car, leave it for free at the 'I.A.P.' garage, and drive to Manhattan with ‘Uncle’ paying for gas. Also, to allow for traffic while picking up and returning the Chevy, he was allowed to arrive at work one-half hour later and leave for home one-half hour earlier.

Second: At about the same time that ‘Seaman First Class’ Isadore Pidemkin was transferred off a buoy tender out of Boston to Third District Headquarters, and 'Seaman First Class Salazar Hernandez'—whose work station had been somewhere within the void of the dead space, and whom nobody but one of the highest ranking officers in the live space had ever seen, or even heard of—was released from active duty.

Lieutenant Commander Christopher Frohlick, in charge of office personnel at Third District Headquarters, had waited to see Seaman First Class 'Izzy' Pidemkin’s typing skills before assigning either Lipensky or Pidemkin as a replacement for Hernandez.

As Pidemkin had taken not only ‘Typing 101’ in high school, but ‘Typing 102’ as well, and as Pidemkin could type about thirty words a minute—about ten more than Lipensky – although, to be honest, with no more accuracy than Lipensky— Izzy Pidemkin was chosen to remain in the live space and Mitchell Lipensky was banished to the void beyond.

And so, on…

July 30, 1956

“Lipensky, you go there…” jabbing his finger in the air, pointing in the general direction of north by northwest. “…and you’ll find a room by the back stairs marked ‘Addressograph,’” Lieutenant Commander Frohlick said, “and you’ll find a man there by the name of… emmm…” opening his desk drawer, removing a clipboard, “ah, yes, ‘Meyers’!” Replacing the roster, he looked at the young man standing before his desk. “He’ll break you in and show you what to do… Any questions, uh…” removing the clipboard once again, “Lipensky?”

Working the filing cabinets was boring, tiresome, near mindless work, but at least he was here, among the living. Also, he had begun to get the impression that a couple of the guys were beginning to warm up to him and that one of these days he’d feel the sting of a paper clip ricocheting off his skull. But ‘there’? Until this very minute he didn’t know that ‘Addressograph’ even existed! And, Who’s this guy Meyers? Mitchell had been at ‘CG HQ’ for three weeks and he’d never seen or even heard of Meyers.

His hands clenched tightly behind his back, standing stiffly at ease, thinking, Do I have any questions? “Uh, yes, Sir.”

“Lipensky, if you have a question, spit it out! And Jesus Christ, man, stand at ease!”

Loosening slightly, “Uh, will that be it for me then, Sir? I mean is that…” jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of north by northwest. “…going to be where I’ll be working from now on, Sir?”

“Yes, I’d say so. There’s lots of work to be done in the Addressograph Department. And as we’ve just lost… emmm…” looking at the roster once again, running his finger down the sheet, “ah, yes, ‘Hernandez’! And… emmm…” running his finger further down the sheet, “ah, yes, ‘Meyers’! Meyers will be needing help, and guess what? You’re it!”

Sighing, “Yes, Sir.” Mitchell said dejectedly. Then, remembering, “What about the car, Sir?” he asked. “I’m the one that gets the car every morning.”

“Oh, yes! Well, I see no reason to change that routine.”

Thank God for small miracles! “Thank you, Sir. Will that be it then, Sir?”

“Yes, Lipensky, and you might as well gather your gear and head over to Addressograph now.”

“Yes, Sir.” Turning away, leaving Lieutenant Commander Frohlich’s office, Mitchell went to his desk at the far corner of the room.

Not there long enough to accumulate much in the way of personal gear, able to carry everything in both hands—hell, in one hand—taking his cap, wallet and keys from the top drawer, looking over the rim of his mug, drinking the last of the coffee, unable to understand why he felt as sad as he felt because it wasn’t as though he had friends there. As a matter of fact, they’re all pricks here! He had tried to make friends from the first day he’d been there, but for some reason they had all rebuffed his efforts. Still, he felt he wanted to say, ‘so long’ to someone, but at the moment all heads were bent over desks and typewriters so,  fuck it!

With cap, wallet, car keys and coffee mug in hand, Mitchell Lipensky walked to the far end of the ‘great wall’ of filing cabinets, turned left out of the ‘live space’ and, seeming to echo, his footsteps sounding hollow, walked diagonally across the dead space.

Midway through the dead space there came a strange, intermittent, metallic clacking along with the sound of broken music.

Unnoticed from the expanse of the dead space, there was a hallway leading to the right. Turning into the hall there were three doors: the one directly forward was open to the fire escape; the door to the left was closed, but the one on the right was open and it was from there that the now-loud clacking and music emanated.

Completely lining three walls, starting to the immediate left of the doorway leading into this 20x20 room were batteries of chest-high, small-drawered steel cabinets… To the right of the doorway were two battered wooden desks: one clean, the other cluttered. Looking much, so Mitchell thought, like ‘Rube Goldberg’ inventions, in the center of the room were two metal stamping machines. His back to the door, a man was sitting at one of the machines. Wearing a short-sleeved, red- and blue-checkered shirt, dark-blue Bermuda shorts and—pushed so far forward it had to be resting on the bridge of his nose—a white sailor cap.

Surprising Mitchell, not so much for the beyond-regulation length as its color, the man had tightly curled, platinum colored hair, and was loudly…

“Ba-ba-ba-bummm! Ba-ba-ba-bummm!”

…ba-ba-bumming along with ‘Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony’, which roared over the radio in ear-piercing competition with the clacking and grinding of the Addressograph plate-making machine.

“Hey!”

The man did not hear him over the noise of the radio and machine.

Coming further into the room, tapping him on his broad, muscular shoulder, “Hey!”

Startled. Jerking upward, the cap falling off his head, “Yeah!” the clacking stopped as, lifting his fingers from the keyboard, the man swiveled on the chair, and…

Holy shit! Mitchell thought because…

About Mitchell’s age, between twenty and twenty-three, in addition to platinum colored hair, the young man had a strange, albeit handsome, face with startling light-green eyes, a wide flaring Negroid nose, Caucasian lips and, if not pure white, than certainly the lightest complexion he’d ever seen.

Obviously used to being stared at, noting the coffee cup, cap and keys held in the new man’s hand, “Hey, man,” he said good-naturedly, “I was wondering when they were going to send me a replacement.” Holding his hand forward, “I’m Ruby… ‘Ruby Meyers’.”

With a name like Meyers… He had thought his new co-worker might be Jewish. But seeing him, Mitchell had no idea what this man might be. Thinking, But he sure ain’t Jewish! “Ruby?” Shaking the offered hand. ‘Ruby’ being such a contradiction to his appearance that, the question slipping out, “Your name’s Ruby? Uh, I’m Mitch Lipensky.”

“Actually, my name’s ‘Rubidoux’. Good to meet you, Mitch… Lipensky? You spell it with a ‘Y’ or an ‘I’?”

“ ‘Y’, why?”

“You’re a Jew!?”

The blunt, unexpected statement/question throwing him, “Did you say your name is Rubidoux?”

“Yeah! A real pisser, ain’t it? But you can call me Ruby… So, are you?”

“ ‘Are I’ what?”

Said good naturedly, “God sure made white boys dumb… ‘Jewish’! You a Jew?”

Thinking, ‘White boy’? Taking a chance on Ruby’s good humor. “Look who’s calling who a ‘white boy’!”

“Yeah!” Laughing, “Kind’a like the pot calling the kettle black, ain’t it?”

Saying this, although as of yet Mitchell did not understand the joke, only made Ruby laugh harder, and just as he could not see someone cry without joining them, someone else’s laughter, too, had the same affect.

Going to the cleared desk, which he assumed was his, putting his cap, wallet, keys and coffee mug onto it, sitting on the edge, Mitchell joined Ruby in raucous laughter till, catching is breath, “Yeah,” wiping his teary eyes on the sleeve of his tunic, “I am Jewish!” Mitchell said, adding, “So what?”

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his eyes also, “Me, too. I’m an ‘M-O-T.’, too.”

“ ‘M-O-T’?”

“ ‘Member of the tribe’.” Seeing the lost look on Mitchell’s face, “I’m a Jew, too.”

“Uh, you’re Jewish? Funny,” Mitchell said, the words slipping out once again, “you don’t look Jewish.”

Which rekindled Ruby’s laughter, which re-ignited Mitchell’s laughter.

His laughter dwindling, “Know what? I’m hungry! Come on, let’s get out of here and go down for some breakfast. And seeing as it’s your first day, I’m buying.”

“Ruby,” glancing at his watch, “it’s only nine-twenty.”

“Yeah, so what?”

“What do you do, just take off whenever you want?”

“Yeah!” Handing Mitchell his cap, “Sure!” Tossing his onto the desk, “Come on, I’ll tell you about it over chow.”

Walking from the Addressograph room, turning to the right, Ruby began down the fire escape.

Hesitating a moment, Mitchell followed.

On the street, then in the restaurant, Mitchell felt self-conscious as people stared at them… at Ruby, but, seemingly oblivious to the stares, “How much longer you got to go, Mitch?”

Having ordered his usual—fried eggs over easy, pork sausage, a bagel with extra cream-cheese, hash-browns fried crispy and coffee—“About nine months.” Cutting a sausage link with the edge of his fork, “You?”

Ruby had ordered orange juice, coffee, poached eggs and dry toast. “About the same.” Tearing a piece of toast, he dunked it in the eggs. “Not much of a typist, are you?”

“I’ve been practicing. But no, guess not… How’d you know?” Not waiting for an answer, questioning Ruby’s Spartan breakfast, “Why so little chow? How come no bacon or sausage?”

“Hey, man, I’m ‘kosher’.”

“Sure you are!” But looking at him, thinking he was serious, “Oh, come on!”

“Yeah! Really! I am kosher. I mean I’m not a fanatic, but stuff like that…” Pointing at Mitchell’s dish, “You know what they fry that stuff in? You shouldn’t be eating that shit anyway.”

Looking from his dish to Ruby’s, Mitchell suddenly felt guilty.

“Most of us at H.Q. got there by ‘pull’.” Signaling the waitress for coffee refills, “And if you’re not such a great typist, and if you have enough time left—’cause they don’t want to offend a U.S. senator or Congressman by sending you back to wherever the hell you came from—they’ll send you to a typing class.

“But you’n’me, Mitch, they don’t know it, but they’ve really done us a favor.”

Swabbing a broken yoke with a bit of bagel, “They did me a favor by sending me to ‘Addressograph’! How the hell do you figure that?”

“First off, Lipensky, you’ve had the great pleasure and wonderful privilege of meeting someone as unique as me.”

“Yeah, sure, Meyers,” he smiled, “that’s for sure! Shit,” he said jokingly, “I’ve never even seen someone like you! But besides that? What kind’a ‘favor are they doing us’?”

“Mitch, we’re in our own little world up there. No one ever comes there. Shit, if you want to take a day off and it’s the middle of the month… We get busy at the beginning and end of most months, but in the middle it’s really slow. So what the hell? If you want to take a day off, just let me know and take the day off, no one’ll ever know.”

“You mean no one ever checks there?”

“So long as we do our job, no! No one, never! But if they should, one of us’ll be there to tell ’em the other’s in the head, or out on an errand. And that’s only if someone should come and ask, but I’ve been there for more then a year and no one’s come yet.”

“Jesus, Ruby, that sounds too good to be true , but I’m the one that gets the office car from the ‘Inter Agency Pool’ and returns it every day, so I’d never be able to take off like that.”

“The ‘I.A.P.’ in Brooklyn? No shit!”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Why? Look at me! I’m a Jewish white shvartzer! How’d you like to get on a subway with a bunch of big mouthed schmucks during rush hour every morning and evening?”

“Hey,” looking at Ruby over the rim of his cup, “I told you, you don’t look Jewish.”

“Yeah, like I don’t know it… So, how’s about it?”

“ ‘How’s about what’?”

“I live about a half-mile from the I.A.P. How’s about if I meet you there and ride in with you?”

“No!” Smiling, “If you’re that close, I’ll pick you up and drop you off.”

“Hey, that’s great! Thanks, Pal.”

After the people in the live space, ‘Pal,’ Mitchell thought, sounds great! Especially, for some reason, coming from this weird-looking, good-looking, white-black man.

                                                                                  ****

Sitting in front of one of the Addressograph plate-making machines, “Here’s how you do it,” Ruby said, placing a 1x3 metal plate into a fitted holder before the keyboard. “It don’t really matter how fast you type, ’cause these fuckers go at their own speed.”

Looking at a list of names and addresses held in a holder to the right, he typed ‘Hall, Gilbert P., L.T.J.G. Ret’. and hit the ‘line’ key. Then below, Gilbert Hall’s address. But no matter how fast his fingers went, the hardened metal keys striking the thin metal plate went at their own loud, clack … clack, clacking speed.

“See? It don’t matter how fast you type, ’cause if this thing went any slower it would be going in reverse.”

“What do I do if… when… I make a mistake?”

“Here, see?” Punching the ‘back space’ key to ‘Hall’, then the ‘erase’ key twice, the embossed ‘Ha’ was flattened and ready to be typed over. Cocking his head over his shoulder, “See that basket?”

Mitchell looked at the wire basket attached to the outside of the open door.

“The guys in the mail room get the lists”—pointing to the sheet in the holder to his right—“dropped in their basket by ‘Office,’ and ‘Mail’ drops ’em into our basket… Don’t ask why ‘Office’ don’t drop ’em directly into our basket, ’cause I don’t know. When we’re done making the plates we store ’em”—pointing to the banks of plate cabinets that lined the walls—“and drop the lists back into ‘Mail’s’ basket. When ‘Mail’ needs plates for a mailing—it’s all done alphabetically, by designation: ‘active’ or ‘reserve’—‘Mail’ leaves lists of what they want in our basket, and we schlep the drawers over and leave ’em by their door. When ‘Mail’ is through with ’em, they schlep ’em back and leave ’em by our door.”

Mitchell smiled at Ruby’s use of the Yiddish word, ‘schlep’.

“We hardly ever see anyone from ‘Mail’, and Mail hardly ever sees anyone from ‘Addressograph’. And so long as they do what they do and we do what we do no one hardly ever sees no one and everyone’s happy… The guy that ‘Salazar’ replaced—Salazar’s the guy you replaced—told Salazar that there’s two of ’em in the mail room, and ’cause no one hardly ever sees no one there, the guys there take ‘port and starboard’ liberty just about every day.”

“One day on, one day off! Every day?”

“Yeah, towards the middle of the month when it ain’t busy.”

“Dum-dum-dumdumdumdum-dum-dum!” Ruby sang along with the music and, Clack…clack…clack! pounded away on the Addressograph machine.

Clack…clack! “Shit! Em, eh…” Mitchell pushed the back space key four times and the erase key four times and tried to pound away on the Addressograph machine.

                                                                               ****

Traffic crossing the Brooklyn Bridge was stop-and-go.

“Where you from, Mitch?”

Surprised this hadn’t come up before, “Chicago.”

“Ol’ ‘Chi’ town, ’eh. So tell me, your town really as windy as they say?”

Mitchell glanced at Ruby.

He’d never thought of Chicago as ‘his town’ till recently. Actually, New York City was the only other big city he had ever been to, and until he’d married Marsha and moved to Seagate, the people he had met, the men on the ‘Halfmoon’ and at ‘Rockaway Life Boat Station’—with the exception of ‘Warrant Officer Floyd Richard Ewing’—were friendly enough. But now, thinking specifically of the unfriendly group of men at ‘Third District Headquarters’ and the people in their building, of whom, besides their immediate neighbors, ‘Lou and Grace Weiner’ and ‘Mrs. Tennenbaum’—the old lady that owned the apartment building they lived in—no one had made much of an attempt to be friendly.

“Yeah, pal,” answering Ruby’s question, “it sure does get windy, but no worse than here at times, except maybe downtown or along ‘Michigan Boulevard’. But one thing about Chicago: the people there are really friendly. I haven’t been all over, but from what I’ve been told and seen, no one’s as friendly as mid-westerners… Where you from, Ruby?”

“ Baltimore  now, but my mother is originally from New Orleans. That’s why I’m named ‘Rubidoux’. It’s French. You see, I’m named after my great, great grandpa…” looking at Mitchell, “who was a slave holder.”

Stopped in traffic, “ ‘a slave holder’?” Looking to his right, his eyes locked with Ruby’s.

Knowing only what he had learned of the south in school, to a twentieth-century boy from Chicago, slavery—even though history books said it existed—was a phenomenon that was so far removed from Mitchell’s mind that it was almost an incomprehensible fact.

“You mean he actually owned slaves… ‘Owned’ people? No shit!”

“Yeah, he did! And ol’ Rubidoux—and from what I’ve been told he was a miserable son-of-a-bitch—forced his, uh, attentions on my great, great gra’ma. And his son, ‘Rubidoux Junior’ and, oh, God, how I hope both’a them fuckers are rotting in hell, forced himself onto my great gra’ma, even though she was only twelve.”

Another incomprehensible fact: “ ‘Twelve’!” Hearing the horn from the car behind, Mitchell pressed on the accelerator. “You mean they were able to do stuff like that? To just, uh, do ‘it’ if they wanted? To anyone?”

“Mitch, those fuckers were like kings!” Ruby said bitterly. “They were the ‘masters’! They could do whatever the fuck they wanted to anyone, so long as they were shvartzers and the fuckers owned ’em!”

“But, Ruby, a  ‘white guy’? To just, uh, do it with a ‘Negro girl’?”

“Jesus, Lipensky, you’re so naïve! ‘Fuck em’,  ya mean! You don’t think white guys want to fuck shvartzers?”

A memory: ‘You don’t think white guys want to fuck shvartzers’?

To be continued