A Lecture Interrupted

It was mid afternoon and I was in my apartment, a furnished apartment I'd rented from "Chicken man," who occupied the first floor with a shop selling chickens to South Baltimorians in the neighborhood of the Cross Street Market. You had to be a local to know about him and his services since there was no sign on the storefront. Somehow I'd found out about him from one of those locals and that he rented apartments.

I was sitting in one of the two armchairs reading Das Kapital, Volume 1. Because at that time in my life I took the work oh-so-seriously and not in the vein intended by the author, who among other things was a great if somewhat sarcastic humorist, I was having trouble with it. I found it in fact boring but, since returning from Cuba I was determined to find out more about the Communist movement, I plodded on. I was on the edge of dozing off when I heard a knock at the door. 

Opening the door I found an extremely comely young blond asking, "May I come in?" 

I was so astonished that I cdn't speak. She responded to my hesitance by pushing past me and flopping into the other armchair in the place.

I followed suit, tho' into my own armchair.

"How ya doin'?" she asked, with the gum chewing making it a little hard to understand her.

"Alive, Cherry," I answered. "I suppose anyway." I knew the girl's mother and had learned her name when she stopped by once as her mother and I were chowing down on two of the Slim Jims (steak and cheese on a long bun) which South Baltimore was famous for at the time. 

"Actually, I'm bored," I continued. "I'm trying to read this book and it's putting me to sleep."

"Why ya' readin' it then?" she asked, her face growing a bit pensive.

I took her look as a sign of possible interest and so moved to lecture mode. "Well, the author is very influential. In fact he's the reason we hate the Russians. Or at least pretend we do."

"I don't hate any Russians. I've never met one. How could I hate them?"

"I don't mean _you_ hate them. But the government does. Do you know how many army bases surround Russia? How many nuclear missiles we've got pointed at it?"

"No."

"Well, neither do I exactly but I can tell you it's a lot. And it's basically because the rich don't like working people.

"Do you belong to a union by the way?"

"No. I'm not even working," she answered.

"Well, I do and when you go to work I hope you'll have the benefit of belonging to one yourself. That's another thing the rich don't like, unions. They hate working people and they especially hate anything which makes them strong.

"Marx, by the way, did not particularly favor unions. He felt they only put a bandaid on the real problem."

"The real problem?"

"Private property. In Russia there is no private property when it comes to natural resources or factories. The people own them. A few years ago I decided I'd find out what ..."

I was about to launch into a new part of the lecture, that is, my standard lecture concerning my experiences in and opinions about Cuba when something rather odd occurred. 

Cherry got up from her armchair and began to walk towards my bed. The distance was about ten feet. The first piece of clothing she took off was her t-shirt. She let it drop and then began working on her bra strap.

By the time she had reached the bed and flopped into it on her back, she was stark naked except for her socks and tennies. When she began to spread her legs I freaked out.

"Miss ... " I stammered. Then gave a muffled yell, "What are you doing?"

"You're kidding, right?" she replied.

I had to negotiate a bit but finally she got off the bed, put her clothes back on, and let herself out with, "See ya' round, square man."

The above is an absolutely true story. Well, mostly.