I leave the apartment at five in the morning with a rolled up carpet over my shoulder. Throwing it into the trunk of the car, I drive to my office. There are not a lot of people around,
"Oh, he's a younger guy then?" I ask. "I couldn't really tell," he says. "He's white."
Everybody's favorite detective, Columbo, that little man in the rumpled raincoat, comes off base, but is deceptively acute.
I'm walking through a building on campus where there are workers doing renovations. A fellow is singing as he polishes the floor. "Careful," he sings, making eye contact, "sharp bits on the ground.
People walk around campus in December with big sticks and knock the mo-gwa out of trees. Doesn't matter if they bruise when hitting the ground– nobody is eating them anyways.
"How ribald!" he says again joyfully, apparently I had misheard him. "I didn't expect such ribaldry from you."
"Let us never attribute to race what is more easily explained by stature." admonished Brian, always trying to come off as the the voice of reason, but well known for his shortist prejudices.
