OCR Text |
Show -187 lampshades rolled out ugly and deformed, with the bright-colored petals stuck on at odd angles. "That's a hell of a name, Buckdancer," was what she said the day I introduced myself. "Call me Buck." I could see she liked me, but at first she didn't want to be anybody's girl. She didn't even want to go out with me, "Am I ugly?" I said. "Is there something the matter with me?" "Oh no. If you dressed up a little and stood up straight you'd be the handsomest man in the place. That's not it. " The Puerto Rican brother and sister who worked with me taping on the petals giggled. "Just a movie," I said. "No funny stuff afterwards. No obligations." She shook her head. We were eating lunch and I turned to Cecil Spofford, who was peering into his sandwich sadly. "Does this woman make sense to you?" I said. Cecil was black, thin, and extraordinarily tall, perhaps six foot eight or nine; he spoke in a curiously high squeaky voice. His hands were half again as long as mine, but the heavy fingers were delicately articulated. When he made a fist the knuckles broke open into filigrees of coral; when he opened his hand the palm was surprisingly orange-red, as beautiful and unexpected as the belly of certain tropical |