“Well, well, well,” says asshole pimply-faced Kent behind the glass window. “Thought you were leaving for the summer.”
How could the tolerant Mr. Pryor hire this racist?
“Two tickets.” I thrust the money in the hole.
“Two? Where’s your friend?”
I don’t want to get Tanner in trouble. I also want to stand my ground. “He’s behind me.”
Kent squints at Tanner. “Now you’re friends with a …” He looks behind him. Mr. Pryor faces toward us. He’s chatting with an older lady with bluish hair. “Friends with a colored? He your boyfriend?”
“Let’s go, Chicken Coop,” Tanner whispers behind me. “Ain’t worth it.”
“My friend and me came to watch a movie. Now, sell us the goddamn tickets, Kent.”
There is that look of anger and there is a look of hatred. Kent’s wearing both. He hands me the ticket.“Next,” he says through clinched teeth.
Tanner finds a place to sit in the back of the theater. I go for popcorn and cokes. When I return, he asks if we can put a couple of seats between us.
From my Work in Progress about a biracial friendship in 1963.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 