“I’m glad you’re black again, Parasol. Now I can get rid of that White Elvis hairdoo. Back to the old self, ahh!” He settles back in his beach chair, taking in the waves.
“How about the ant? There’s always the ant to deal with. Ant,” Parasol by his side reinforces.
The Mann looks from the waves up to the mountains. “I’ll deal with that later.”
“It’s a good strawberry shake. I wish we could have enjoyed such a shake while growing up.”
“What do you mean?” asked Poetry, truly confused in the moment.
Parasol changed, staring sideways at… “What did you say the name of that movie was?”
“‘Hot Rod Girl,'” Poetry said, not noticing the change and responding to earlier conversation.
“Another thing I could not enjoy.”
Poetry noticed the change.
She was trying to determine an exact year here in this place. “Hot Rod Girl”: she remembered that film from the early 60’s — maybe late 50s. But she wasn’t allowed to go to such a racy flick. Some said there was a bit of nudity involved (!).
A black lady in the nearby pink diner. Black people are not allowed in this diner. Not in the early 60s, and certainly not in the late 50s. She gathered she was about 18 or so, or about the same age as herself. Her profile picks led Poetry to this sign which she also didn’t understand, being from the past and all. A relic.
Well of course Black Lives Matter, thought Poetry at the time. That’s why we made them separate but equal (!). She wanders into the gallery of the woman, named Eight. Was Eight code for a gang member? A revolutionary? She’d heard of such people. The single name of a letter or a number came to her mind. She was becoming more ensconced in time. 1921 may be next…
She was looking for particular evidence that would support her now outdated slant on reality. Could she snap out of it?