From the American Scene: My Buddy, Fishbinder
I WAS using Grand Central Station as a short cut the other day when I came upon a dozen young men, new draftees, all around nineteen or twenty years old, huddled together at the entrance to one of the tracks. They were carrying little paper packages or lunch boxes, and they stayed very close to one another, talking in low voices, and occasionally they laughed sheepishly.
But in the center of the group was one young man who contrasted sharply with the rest. There was nothing sheepish about him, and there was certainly nothing very low about his voice. On the contrary, he was talking away as loudly as he could, waving his arms excitedly, strutting and telling jokes and showing off like mad. Naturally, I was reminded of Fishbinder.
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