by J. Benjamin Hoskins
I pushed open the swinging door and stood with my back against it, holding it for Bettye; and she passed through, the cold outwashing of the air-conditioning brushing back her dark hair and molding her elegant dress to her elegant form. We trod the deep soft carpet, marching up to the low thick tasseled cord crossing the hall like a power line, and I stood there with her hand on my arm, waiting, while the gentle music issued from the background and our eyes adjusted to the quiet lighting. And the waiters moved among the tables before, bringing domed platters, and from time to time the conversation ascended above the music: now a word, now a phrase, sensed for a moment, then forgotten, as a fish leaps high before sinking back into the ocean.
And he approached at last, from the far side, a big man in the portly splendor of his uniform, the maitre d'. And the buttons shone and his hair was gray, just so, at the temple, and his bearing was assured and he was a handsome man. And his skin was the color of burnished walnut, so rich against his pale wide lips; darker, much darker, than my skin; and he stood against the cord and he looked at us and he said, "We don't serve Negroes here."
Dear Mr. Hoskins,
Thank you for considering us as a market. While your story shows promise, both your title and your treatment are too obvious and somewhat dated in the light of recent legal decisions. I suggest you change the title and adapt the story to fit something a little closer to your own experience—perhaps an incident in your own house that gave you some special insight into the nature of racial or aesthetic prejudice.
Please be on guard against the overuse of the word "and," particularly at the beginning of a sentence. And be careful of irrelevant metaphor; a fish in water hardly matches the mood of civil-rights conflict.
Sincerely,
Brian Thurgood, Editor
Dear Mr. Thurgood,
Thank you for your comment on "Frustration." I had intended the fish as part of the larger allegorical framework of the story, wherein the conversation rises above the ocean of music but, like a fish, soon falls back; the whole foreshadowing the rising hopes of the protagonist, who also must fall back into frustration. The irony was that another Negro had to be the one to clarify just how deep this ocean of indifference was. But I'm sure that your points were well taken and that the story was too obvious, and have accordingly retitled it
"Beauty" (as in "Eye of the Beholder") and changed the setting to a private residence. I hope this meets your approval.