an excerpt
The bartender—a short, amiable white man with a bald head and a clip-on bow tie, who took care of one end of the bar while a black barmaid took care of the other—went and turned off the jukebox
“Hey, leave that thing on, man!” a male voice yelled. “We ain’t care nothin’ ’bout no moon.”
“I do,” the bartender said. “And there’s a few other people here that do, too.”
“Damn!” the same voice said. “I hope those Whiteys never come back. They might just decide to stay there, too.”
“Nah,” a female voice said. “You can be sure the white man don’t want to live up there. It’s got no gold, it’s got no silver, it’s got no oil. And ain’t that what Whitey wants? He don’t want no part of all that rock up there.”
