thinking of Alan Tate or, gosh, James Agee . . . ? Save me! The space behind those ladies was always filled with January blankness. Was it always necessary to make a connection between sky and horizon? On the other hand, scrubwomen wore red headrags and waited in line to vote—sometimes they dropped dead in line: the wait was so long.’ He chuckled. Looked at her elegant face. ‘ . . . Enough? You asked—’ And she shot him a long, clever glance. Then said: ‘You still haven't eaten your hamburger, my onion rings are cold, Miss Goose is in the toilet, Vinegar Joe is back on the bus ready to go, Dum-Dora . . . ’ They went outside under the piss-yellow humidsky. Bus was half loaded. Florence and he were two-dimensional figures against a permanent surface. Be careful in the open. Birds. Space behind them was filled. Clouds: women on bidets cleaning their assholes; guys standing at urinals; Studs Lonigan pulling on his cheap suspenders; Mason himself with drill braced against rubber apron, drilling a hole through connected steel—with shavings spinning out, curling . . . Back on the road: his head contained a sky as clear and blue as a hangover: trees, in there, shook: thin yellow fingers froze in wind. Florence? Light beat his body. They held hands.”
Next, Brooklyn College: he was speaking in a sterile room in Whitehall. His host, a woman with red hair, had given him a modest, friendly introduction. There was wine and cheese for the students at the back of the room. They were sprawled in comfortable plush chairs and on puffy armless couches in a chaotic pattern before him. His “lecture” was about “a hypothetical situation—call it a sketch for the novel of my life” and the relation of “theme” to “form.” (He'd taken the BMT over here to Flatbush and written the talk on the subway.) Then, as was his pattern, he ended by reading from published works—this time, poetry, since his host'd told him these students were mostly interested in poetry. At the end one student wanted to know his position on liberation movements in South America, Africa, the Middle East, on “American aggression” in the world, on capitalism generally, on the rights of women. Before Mason could answer another student stood and confronted the string of questions. Would you ask Kinnell or Ashbery those questions?” The audience then broke into factions: about half of them on the side of the first questioner, the rest took the other side. And Mason was sort of left standing speechless before them for a moment. Then he ended the squabble by saying: “Listen: no onehas the answer.” One of the two Black students in the room stood. “You notice there're no Black students—except Trixie and myself. It's because The Black Student Union here is staging a protest. We have a long list of objections to the way this university is run. Many Italian and Jewish students have also signed our petitions. We sent word to you last week asking you to join us by not speaking here. But I see you chose—” (Mason hadn't received the message). A thin Jewish girl leaped to her feet. She shook a finger at the black boy—who had a face as innocent as a frog's. “Just wait a minute!” the girl screamed, “I'm sick and tired of this! This man came here as a poet to read his poetry . . . ” and so it went. Finally, the host stopped them, and whispered to Mason, “Thank you for being patient . . . ” Trixie came up and introduced herself. Creamy tan with big dark brown-hazel eyes. “Need a lift back to Manhattan?” Yes and he was grateful. The host thanked her too. In the Renault beside the jean-clad girl, thin as a starving youth in a village in some remote part of India, he asked her if she'd like to stop at a bar he knew on Sheridan Square and have a drink with him. “Just like your generation.” Her tone was one of amused cynicism. She was lighting a joint while waiting for a light to change. Something in his
Next, Brooklyn College: he was speaking in a sterile room in Whitehall. His host, a woman with red hair, had given him a modest, friendly introduction. There was wine and cheese for the students at the back of the room. They were sprawled in comfortable plush chairs and on puffy armless couches in a chaotic pattern before him. His “lecture” was about “a hypothetical situation—call it a sketch for the novel of my life” and the relation of “theme” to “form.” (He'd taken the BMT over here to Flatbush and written the talk on the subway.) Then, as was his pattern, he ended by reading from published works—this time, poetry, since his host'd told him these students were mostly interested in poetry. At the end one student wanted to know his position on liberation movements in South America, Africa, the Middle East, on “American aggression” in the world, on capitalism generally, on the rights of women. Before Mason could answer another student stood and confronted the string of questions. Would you ask Kinnell or Ashbery those questions?” The audience then broke into factions: about half of them on the side of the first questioner, the rest took the other side. And Mason was sort of left standing speechless before them for a moment. Then he ended the squabble by saying: “Listen: no onehas the answer.” One of the two Black students in the room stood. “You notice there're no Black students—except Trixie and myself. It's because The Black Student Union here is staging a protest. We have a long list of objections to the way this university is run. Many Italian and Jewish students have also signed our petitions. We sent word to you last week asking you to join us by not speaking here. But I see you chose—” (Mason hadn't received the message). A thin Jewish girl leaped to her feet. She shook a finger at the black boy—who had a face as innocent as a frog's. “Just wait a minute!” the girl screamed, “I'm sick and tired of this! This man came here as a poet to read his poetry . . . ” and so it went. Finally, the host stopped them, and whispered to Mason, “Thank you for being patient . . . ” Trixie came up and introduced herself. Creamy tan with big dark brown-hazel eyes. “Need a lift back to Manhattan?” Yes and he was grateful. The host thanked her too. In the Renault beside the jean-clad girl, thin as a starving youth in a village in some remote part of India, he asked her if she'd like to stop at a bar he knew on Sheridan Square and have a drink with him. “Just like your generation.” Her tone was one of amused cynicism. She was lighting a joint while waiting for a light to change. Something in his
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