I Am Not Sidney Poitier

by Percival Everett

My mother, not out of any distrust but out of disposition, had kept her wealth guarded,

and liked especially the fact that I had money to burn, real money she called it, and I trusted her because she spoke of it openly.

“That’s simple to fix,” he said, reassuringly. I thought at first he was referring to the aforementioned nerve damage, but I remembered that he always said that, and after he said it, I was to be either hurt and/or humiliated.

No one was more surprised than I when Ted invited Betty to join Jane, himself, and me on a sailing day-trip, except perhaps Betty, who surprised herself into a silk sundress

Jane was glamorous and aloof, attributes that I imagined fed each other.

The downtown building that housed that office was glass and steel and looked like it was probably outdated and obsolete before it had been completed.