Genuine Aboriginal Democracy

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  George matched pace with a young man heading toward the opening in the black volcanic rock wall that led into the campus. As they walked, they shared the meager shade offered by a row of stout palm trees.

  "Heat bother you much?" asked George.

  "Huh?" replied the lad.

  "I asked if the heat today bothered you."

  "Oh, yeah, yes," said the boy. They both walked through the open gate. The boy spurted immediately across the Bermuda grass toward the library.

  "I felt the same way when I moved here from New York. I like to call myself a Finger Lakes Boy. I'm George Reedy." George followed the boy onto the lawn, struggling to keep pace with him, and stuck out his hand as they walked. "Professor George Reedy, emeritus."

  "I-I-hafta split. I'm meeting someone up there," said George's companion, pointing toward the second floor of the red brick library where vague images of undergraduates could be seen choking each other and shooting paper airplanes.

  "Sure nice to talk to you," said George, stopping. He was addressing the boy's rapidly retreating back.