I have a real omnipresent problem with injustice. Through more than a third of this book, I was angry. I said out-loud that I hated it.
I am also a non- functioning OCD person. In book club talk, that means I read to the very end.
I wish one of the descriptive words was compelling.
Once upon a time after a night out, a Black male friend offered to drive me home. He and I were great dance partners. Neither of us had much to drink - he because he is a black male in the driver’s seat; me because my limit is 3. And we had jitter-bugged it to neutral.
We needed gas. He stopped at the gas station on East State across from Swedes - where a lot of cops fill up. Where I could put my charge card in and the pump would be activated, he was required to prepay. Loudly ordered over the speakers. My heart sank; and my Irish went into overdrive. There is only one word I use when injustice occurs.
While in the process of pumping gas, a squad pulled up next to us. He put a flashlight in my friend’s face, then inside the car. He asked the driver if he’d been drinking. “Yes, Sir.” How many?Where?Where are you going?(less than a mile to my house)to me:Where do you live?and to him. “You will drive to her house; park the car; and stay there. Got it?” “Yes, Sir.”
Outraged, I offered to drive him to his home. I felt he needed privacy and the comfort of his beautiful apartment. “No.” Strong and firm. He came in, went to the bathroom and laid on my couch. He left unannounced as the sun rose.