Saturday in Saratoga
S: Driving around today, I saw five or so blacks fishing off the bridge on the north side of the lake. The white people were, presumably, driving the boats on the lake itself.
R: How many African-Americans, did you say?
S: ‘bout five of them fishing, I’d say about five blacks.
R: Imagine that.
R: I believe you’re not supposed to call them blacks.
S: Maybe those blacks are thinkin’ they can catch them one of them gleaming white boats the white people drive around in.
R: I believe you call it “sailing,” even if it’s engine-powered.
S: Then, near downtown, I saw a broken down CDTA bus, apparently in the middle of a run. All the riders were slouched around on the grounds of an abandoned gas station waiting for a replacement bus. Many of them, women and kids, looked to be some stripe of Latin—probably Mexicans. I did see one trashy white family. The dad was one of these real skinny types and he had a mustache and baseball hat and probably kicks his dog.
R: Do you plan on waiting until I ask whether these roundish facts have any sort of point?
S: Well…I wonder if you know who rides the busses and fishes from the piers in this town.
R: Tell you what I do know. Or who, to put it straighter. I know someone who didn’t do a thing all day but look at African- and Mexican- and working-class-Americans then sit down on this bench bragging about it.