Ain't Gonna Be the Same Fool Twice by April Sinclair

Author:April Sinclair
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504018661
Publisher: Open Road Media

It struck me that I’d never been inside a nice Mexican restaurant before. It was not only spacious but almost downright plush. Of course, the only Mexicans were the waiters. The weekday crowd was up-to-date white folks. After all, this was Marin. Our outside table allowed Jawea and I to face the ferryboat dock.

Jawea had been right about the food. My chicken breast was broiled to perfection in a wonderful brown sauce; the black beans were spicy; the corn tortillas, warm and fresh; and the margaritas made you want to slap the judge.

“Did Jawea ever mention to you that I was actually at the March on Washington?”

“Wow, that must’ve really been something! I’d never met anyone who was actually there.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Jawea answered sarcastically.

“I watched it on TV. I was only nine, but I’ll never forget it as long as I live.”

“It was a defining moment in my life,” Donna said solemnly.

I sipped my strawberry margarita, but my mind was back in 1963.

“I knew Dr. King,” Donna continued.

I turned toward Donna with interest. “You knew Dr. King?”

“Yeah, we had him over for dinner all the time,” Jawea cut in, rolling her eyes.

Donna cleared her throat. “Well, we weren’t really friends. I mean I spoke with him once.”

“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed.

“I marched with him in Selma,” Donna continued.

“My grandmother and I marched with Dr. King in Chicago. And my parents took us to hear him speak at Soldier Field. It was very powerful.”

“I also worked with the Black Panthers,” Donna announced.

“And she knows where Patty Hearst is, too.”

“I didn’t say that. However, I do know Bill and Emily Harris from my political work.”

“Donna, maybe we could try something a little different.”

“Sure, dear, what?”

“Maybe we could ask Stevie something about herself, or the waiter, or that woman over there. Maybe we could have a conversation that doesen’t revolve around you for a change.”

“I haven’t minded listening,” I said diplomatically. Donna looked embarrassed. She picked at her tostada.

“How was the movie that you and Traci saw last night?” Jawea asked me.

“Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore. It was good; it was about a woman whose husband dies. He was a jerk anyway.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Donna cut in. Jawea had told me that her parents were divorced.

“Well, anyway, Alice sells everything and strikes out with her son and pursues a singing career. She gets involved with another jerk and works in Mel’s Diner.”

“That movie got a good review in The New York Times and The Bay Guardian. I also noticed your reviewer in Sunday’s pink section liked it.”

“Donna, I don’t give a shit what The New York Times or The Bay Guardian said, or whether the little man in the pink section was jumping out of his seat or not.”

“I was just simply showing that there was a consensus. Those sources represent a diverse sampling of opinions.”

“I don’t give a shit about a diverse sampling of opinions. What I care about is what Stevie thought, felt, and experienced. Not what some critics who I don’t give a shit about thought.

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