The English boy pointed to my face, unable to control his mirth. I must have looked like the mad ape that wandered the streets of our village with its gypsy owner. Their laughter so infuriated me that I began to have thoughts of revenge.
Kevin Brown took a private call in the embassy from one of his men. We may have hit paydirt, Chief, said the agent tersely. No more on an open line, boy. Get your ass in here fast. Tell me to my face.
I still get the comments. The only difference is that, now I’m somebody, they don’t say it to my face. But because they don’t say it to my face, it doesn’t mean to say I don’t still get them: now they say things behind my back.