“Why d’you think that is? Why’re they so angry at women?”

“They’re insecure about what it means to be a man. In a culture where manhood is defined by what you own, a youth without money is bound to feel insecure. I mean, men with money have always gotten more than their fair share … but the ordinary guy used to be able to pull a girl with sweet talk and nice ways. So to hedge against rejection, ghetto youth get defensive. And it comes out in the music.”

She found his perspective wrongheaded, but intriguing nonetheless. Most men she knew did not have opinions. Talking to them was like playing tennis and serving all aces.

“You said this culture defines manhood in terms of what men own—how do you define it?”

“Like the bible says, ‘As a man thinketh so is he.’ Manhood for me is about values, intelligence, courage, and imagination.”

“Whadyou mean by values? The term just sounds so … I don’t know … Republican and Jesse Helms and Pat Buchanan.”

“Oh yeah … alla dat?” He chuckled at her overreaction. “Values for me is a simple thing, treating people like you’d want them to treat your mother.”

She patted his waist. He would know the right thing to say, wouldn’t he?

They came upon a production crew setting up for a fashion shoot. The models were hankering around the catering table, looking but not eating, their bodies nurtured to emaciation with amphetamines, coke, and cigarettes.

“How much do looks count to you?”

He looked at her. Is she allowing these clothes hangers to make her feel a way?

“As I-nelik once told a woman who was threatening to leave him for a Mr. Body, ‘With four months and a personal trainer I could be him. But how long,’ he asked her, ‘would it take him to be me?’ ”

Wary of going home, but not willing to admit it, they made a detour at Old Fulton Street and went to sit on the edge of the jetty, their feet dangling over the water that lapped at the pilings and gently tossed the barge, which seemed like an ark now, for all the guests were in twos, paired off against the railing, or dancing to the cover band, a pick-up side of tuxedoed jokers who played everything from Disco-Tex and the Sex-o-Lettes to Basia and the Doors.

“When you get to Oz, Dorothy, will you write to me?” he said of the twinkling skyscrapers on the other bank.

“This does feel strange, doesn’t it?” she replied.

“Good strange or bad strange?”

He was leaning against a mooring post with one leg drawn up toward him, his knee supporting his elbow as he twirled his hair. She was sitting with her legs over the edge and her body turned to the city. Her face, though, which glowed with the sweat of attraction, was turned to him.

“Good strange,” she said. “Like wearing Earth shoes for the first time. You just get a whole new idea of what fit means, of what comfort is, and you begin to think of all the shoes in your closet … and even the ones you outgrew or threw away … and you start to ask questions like, ‘How did I wear those for so long? What was I thinking? Can I ever go back to wearing them again?’ Do you know what I mean?”