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Poor Boy Honest And a young aboriginal bloke is slowly working his way around the showroom. Bright yellow baggy tracksuit trousers, red jacket, and red woollen cap. Glen Osmond via Chicago. Three day's growth, and Johnny Black on his t-shirt. Nowhere to go and nothing to spend. The couple in their so casual but so expensive clothes can't take their eyes off him. I can't read the woman behind her sunglasses, although her face is showing signs of disapproval. But the husband seems to see the joke. I like him for it and for some reason feel hopeful. The boy is a clash of colour in the muted blue, whites and grays of the "made it" Mercedes world. He tries out the driving positions, and inspects the station wagons, oversized basketball boots instead of the understated moccasins at the next table. What we try to hide always pops up to haunt us. He plays the best poseuring game of us all- casual, relaxed, and unassailable. Secure in the fact that no one will dare damage the cultural correctness of the place by suggesting he leave. Smiling, nodding politely to the people he passes- is he pissing himself laughing on the inside? I would. A few minutes triumph over whitey! I suppose it's only by chance. But he's gone now, and they've started to vacuum the carpets around the cars. You can't be too careful!
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