Honorary members of the white Left assembled, along with a couple of black consciousness types, friends of my brothers', in a circle, cross-legged on the floor of my faded lounge.
Veritably left wing StratCom, as it were, circa '82
The very white and very shirtless fellow with the rippling torso, and air of Zen mastery over all in his purview grabs my reddened eye, landing in it like an errant, shedded lash
I say to my bru, and The Eye Lash With Biceps, eye-contacting both and the other neophytes with my stoned, sweeping and panoramic vision: "who's the macho feminine guy with penis-envy? "
His acolytes cackle, willfully negligent in their showy schadenfreude, Lord-of-the-Flies conspiratorially at their repressed-for-the-sake-of-politically-correct-leadership comrade.
Comrade flexes his rippling torso, twitching quietly, sensing my chemically toxic death instinct, and dons his shirt grudgingly. Sop to the native, that sort of thing(or thong, depending on your bent)
Bru says to me later, Rippling Torso is one of the directors of the newly founded, with-it and progressive tabloid, the Weekly Mail newspaper. I'm impressed and aggrieved all at once at the boldness of Whiteness
Years later, struggling to find employment -- my friend Ridwan, Graphics Designer and Layout guy extraordinaire, working at the Weekly Mail, trying to help me out-- I find myself in an interview ( sober-and clean, trying to do Remorse ) at the now established and venerable Weekly Mail.
Rippling Torso, grown in stature and newly wrapped in Grey Suit, is part of the interview panel ... Nay, he is the interview, and looms as much in my vista
I get my comeuppance finally, by the Zen master himself.
Never got a chance as a sub-editor, or anything else, at the Mail, or anywhere else that fell in the sweep of his panoramic purview.