Tales of the Out & the Gone Read Online Free PDF

an old head that had survived from the days when whites ran City Hall, and now she gloried in the coming together of survivors of the last epoch and the rulers of this). President of the Board of Education, a dude who wore cultural nationalist talismans over his blue Barney’s suits. He had a red, black, and green pick he did his ’fro with too.
    Along with the whites in the administration, country politicians, big-wigs from the Republican Party, and their niggerfigures as well, including their candidate for mayor: a “black” slumlord who was attacked by Sloane and the R.C. the year before because two black children died of lead poisoning in one of his $175/month dungeons from eating the old paint off the peeling walls.
    The dribble of banter rode around bubbly. Wax words oozed. Lies, conjectures, postures, puny puns. Many had a last drinky-boo at the bar inside the airport before striding out, a comfortable triumphant little group, the in-it politicos of the state, and the po-lice, troopers, FBI, secret police, and more porters than the airport ever had. They all waited. On television, the head of the NAACP could smile—there were blacks “ever-where,” including Tim, there, in the front line, with Governor Rose, the President of Gratitude (an old-school friend of the vice president’s), the Chairman of the N.Y.–N.J. Port Authority (a public corporation), the Republican State Chairman, the Republican Senator Cod, several county leaders.
    They stood expectant as the door opened and the bigheaded, empty-faced moron who fronted off for the corporate dictatorship that ran America slid down the stairs, out of the plane.
    Roger Chambers and his chief were briefing the Secret Service men as the motorcade began to shape up. The president was reaching the end of the line of people waiting for their hands to be shaken. The television was recording it all for posterity. There were about six or seven college-aged whites on the street outside the airport, but cordoned away from where the president’s motorcade would run, carrying signs, accusing him of being The Chief of Imperialism . They screamed at the cars as they pulled out and drove up the ramp they couldn’t get close to. Some other people waved at the line of vehicles and talked excitedly.
    As planned, the motorcade hit the bridge at fifty miles an hour, and the systematically timed lights blinked green straight ahead. The police sirens raised their customary wail and would have raised heads other places, but just made a slight dent in the consciousness of the black, Puerto Rican, and blue-collar white “Finns,” who assumed it was merely the usual crime-busters action that went on in that town twenty-five hours a day. Though some had read the papers, listened to the radio, and stood at the curb looking at the motorcade. They waved. They called. Some gave it the finger. A few Puerto Rican teenagers at Britton Street said, “Fuck yooooo,” as the motorcade passed.
    The R.C. had reached the downtown area where the demonstration was scheduled about twenty minutes before the president touched down. They were met by the tactical squad, who said they would not be allowed in the area specified in the demonstration permit application. Just as Goodson had said in the newspapers, the police were going to keep them from getting too close to the president. “He won’t see them, and they won’t see him,” is the way he put it.
    Sloane cursed the police, said they were gonna get their asses sued for this violation of the people’s democratic rights. The police said OK, and turned away. The long line of demonstrators, each with a different sign unfurled, walked around the outside of the cordoned-off area, chanting. “President and Rocky eat thousand-dollar dinners/while the people are exploited by the capitalist system.” Over and over again, waving the signs. They also had a big banner they carried with four main slogans: Capitalist Lieutenant Ford Vetoes the People’s