The crowded holiday party was near its end. Rock knew no one there, though he had conversed over a two-way radio with an old former sportswriter he knew twenty-five years earlier named Wadie Moore.
It was time to leave. "Wadie, it's been great talking to you, but I have to get out of here. I think they're closing up shop."
"Sure, Rock, great talking to you, too."
A crowd approached the door to leave. It was nearing midnight. A large, powerfully-built African-American man bumped into Rock, who turned just as the man said, "You know what, I've been here all night and I still haven't stuck my finger in a white man's mouth."
He looked at Rock and held out an index finger. "Would it be all right if I stuck my finger in your mouth?"
Rock couldn't imagine. "No, please don't," he said.
They were all about to walk outside, and it suddenly occurred to Rock that he didn't know where he had parked. He wasn't sure whether his car was anywhere nearby and was afraid the man might pursue him.
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