He stormed down the path, practically kicking the front gate off its hinges only to see his bus coming, started running desperately and almost got to the stop, desperate fingers outstretched, but the doors slammed shut in his face and the bloody thing drove off leaving him holding onto a lamppost to support himself, gasping, desperate for breath and fit to be tied, the poor bugger watched the bus disappear down the road through a red mist, seething fit to kill.
Allison made a careful note of the address and within the hour she had met, decided she liked, and moved in with a girl of twenty who called herself Steve Wallace.
Don't call me Stephanie , Steve had said. I don't know why it should, but being called Stephanie always makes me feel like something pale and dull out of Jane Austen.
Stan Myles adds that the Griffiths are still among us, too—still grinding out their fears and fantasies in the guise of “relevant” flicks, most of which turn out to be variations on the same old theme […] writers still churn out quick-buck distortions of the truth; but issues are avoided like the plague; white filmster—in a frenzy of self-abasement, perhaps—have succeeded only in being more subtle instead of less racist; and even some black filmsters—in a rush for questionable glory—have created one-dimensional portraits of their people.
