He reached his hand toward me. “You don’t mind my asking, do you?†“Of course not,†I say calmly as I reverse the lit end of the cigarette so that the flame is cupped in the palm. I reach for his handshake. He screams like a woman in distress with her skirt held high. I puff my meanness as he licks at the burn and whimpers, “You sonofagun. You’ve burned the dickens out of my hand.†“I know.†“But why? I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know you.†“I guess it’s my Samoan blood.†Sal rushes to my defense. He points his finger at the fag. “Out!†“But I didn’t do anything.†“Out, out!†he shouts, his hands stiffly on the bar. The old fag picks himself up and begins to drag himself out.
Oscar Zeta Acosta