I sat smiling wretchedly, my heart weeping for The Little Dog Laughed, for every well-turned phrase, for the little flecks of poetry through it, my first story, the best thing I could show for my whole life. It was the record of all that was good in me, approved and printed by the great J. C. Hackmuth, and she had torn it up and thrown it into a spittoon.

After a while I pushed back my chair and got up to leave. Standing at the bar, she watched me go. There was pity for me upon her face, a tiny smile of regret for what she had done, but I kept my eyes away from her and walked into the street, glad for the hideous din of street cars and the queer noises of the city pounding my ears and burying me in an avalanche of banging and screeching. I put my hands in my pockets and slumped away.

Fifty feet from the saloon I heard someone calling. I turned around. It was she, running on soft feet, coins jingling in her pockets. ‘Young fellow!’ she called. ‘Oh kid!’

I waited and she came out of breath, speaking quickly and softly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean anything — honest.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mind.’

She kept glancing towards the saloon. ‘I have to get back,’ she said. ‘They’ll miss me. Come back tomorrow night, will you? Please! I can be nice. I’m awfully sorry about tonight. Please come, please!’ She squeezed my arm. ‘Will you come?’

‘Maybe.’

She smiled. ‘Forgive me?’

‘Sure.’

I stood in the middle of the sidewalk and watched her hurry back. After a few steps she turned, blew a kiss and called, ‘Tomorrow night. Don’t forget!’

‘Camilla!’ I said. ‘Wait. Just a minute!’

We ran towards each other, meeting halfway.

‘Hurry!’ she said. ‘They fire me.’

I glanced at her feet. She sensed it coming and I felt her recoiling from me. Now a good feeling rushed through me, a coolness, a newness like new skin. I spoke slowly.

‘Those huaraches — do you have to wear them, Camilla? Do you have to emphasize the fact that you always were and always will be a filthy little Greaser?’

She looked at me in horror, her lips open. Clasping both hands against her mouth, she rushed inside the saloon. I heard her moaning. ‘Oh, oh, oh.’

I tossed my shoulders and swaggered away, whistling with pleasure. In the gutter I saw a long cigarette butt. I picked it up without shame, lit it as I stood with one foot in the gutter, puffed it and exhaled towards the stars. I was an American, and goddamn proud of it. This great city, these mighty pavements and proud buildings, they were the voice of my America. From sand and cactus we Americans had carved an empire. Camilla’s people had had their chance. They had failed. We Americans had turned the trick. Thank God for my country. Thank God I had been born an American!