Up and over a suspension bridge, past a tarp slipping off a bamboo frame littered with the aftermath of a bāluwā-gitti party – Himalayan Dragon Beer empties, half-devoured meals, a sodden fire, bike helmet, damp blankets.
John was drunk the first time I met him – 68 years old, thin but tough, short but imposing.
Before the election, as sexist and racist and consumptive as I know Americans are, I believed we knew what was right even if we didn’t always do what was right.
A black man in the US, Beatty is permanently uncomfortable. Typecast as a writer of satire, he thinks instead that he is just writing from that point of discomfort