Passed Jim Ratliff and a girl in intense discussion on the stairs one day. She was saying to him, “If this is a lesson, don’t teach it to me now.” He was smoking a cigarette; handsome face impassive. He is our very own Dean Moriarty. Mysterious and a little dangerous. Today, I glance out of my studio window and they are standing near the garbage cans. She is on her knees in front of him. He is standing over her. They are talking with some agitation, on her part anyway. His back is to me. He is lighting a cigarette. She stands, still talking. Angry gestures. He walks away. She is fussing. She walks up to him and takes his hand. He drops it. She puts her arms around his neck and hugs him. He stands like a stone, hands at his sides. She drops her arms and steps back, but can’t walk away. Still talking; still gesturing. Cigarette smoke a wreath above his head. He turns and walks away. She watches him and then walks away, too.
This on the same day I saw a woman throw her purse at a man who was walking away from her in the same macho way Jim was walking away. The purse bounced off the man’s back, but he never even turned around. “Fuck you, you asshole,” she screamed. “Fuck you!” Her child was right next to her. It was 8:30 a.m.