Word: greys
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Dates: during 1970-1979
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...MISTER?" abroad black face inquires, and your eyes follow his extended hand to a junkyard-special '67 Chevy that is obviously suffering in the heat. Whatever color it may have been originally, time has faded it to a sort of nondescript grey. You start to move, then remember--it's not yellow, it has no medallion form the Taxi Commission, it's a gypsie cab. A hundred newspaper headlines fire the peculiar sort of panic that only the truly paranoid feel. The visions of being driven to some out-of-the-way alley, held up and perhaps shot by this...
...cruel myths invented by unkind Floridians to torture blue-blooded Harvardians. The University pundits accuse students of library-mania, Lamont-lunacy and Widener-warbling, but clearly they have failed to take the weather into account. Student behavior is quite sensible given the fact that undergraduates awake most mornings to grey, white, brown, wind and cold outside, and 90-degree, sultry, sweaty climes inside electric blue, yellow and orange rooms...
Inside, the bomb shelter is a grey hulk of cement and steel. A hole in the ground serves as the toilet. There are about 30 of us crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in our sleeping bags and blankets on the cold, concrete floor. The kibbutz leaders intended to build bunk beds in this shelter, but since the outbreak of the war they have concentrated instead on building several additional new shelters. When we are all squeezed in, someone locks the two ten-inch thick steel doors that are supposed to protect us from the outside world...
Outlined against a grey-grey April sky, the Four Horsemen rode again. In dramatic lore they are known as Famine, Pestilence, Destruction and Death. They are only aliases. Their real names are known only to Cuz Mingolla, impresario of the Pleasant Valley Country Club in Sutton, Massachusetts. These four formed the crest of the Pleasant Valley greens-keeping cyclone before which another fighting Harvard golf team was swept over the precipice at the hilly, 6,700-yard wash-board road-test masquerading as a golf links yesterday afternoon as the spectators--a wayward orienteering expedition, a Japanese agronomist...
...madness became wearying soon enough for Namo and I. Skin accustomed to the grey skies of Cambridge burns easily, and after a few successive nights the flashing lights and thumping bass of a disco make the club-hopper feel more like a soldier in the trenches at Chateau-Thierry in 1917 than a happy vacationer in Florida in the spring of 1978. After a while, the beer started to lose its tang, the rebel yells started to sound strained, and the blond, tanned 30-year-olds lounging at beachside bars started to look like desperate characters. The mirage was fading...