In D.C. at Union Station. Just arrived from Boston for an overnight visit. I find a cut-rate electronics store so I can buy a little tape recorder to listen to music on my train trip home tomorrow. The guy who waits on me is Hispanic, but the place is full of brothers wanting music stuff. I buy the cheapest one I can find, get the batteries, pay the money. The Spanish-accented clerk hands me my change and says quietly, “If you’re taking the subway, be careful with this. You know, so many colored guys around, and . . .” I look at him. I consider throwing the bag back in his face, but he stops short, taken aback by the rage and hatred in my small angry face. I slip my arms into my backpack and leave.
On to Karen’s house. Her daughters are there with a babysitter. The four-year-old follows me into the shower, talking a mile a minute. She has Deignan’s energy and we love each other instantly. Then Karen arrives. A.B. appears soon after. We all hug. They are glad to see me. I am so glad to see them. We talk. They tell me I look good. I tell them I’ve got a bottle of rare Andre’s champagne in my bag for them. We laugh. People drop by. We eat. A.B. has cooked something good. Later, we kiss the girls who are staying with the babysitter and head off to a jazz club. Bad music, but we don’t care. We hit Georgetown and get a midnight meal. Back home finally, I fall into bed, full of friendship and red wine.