He was six meaningful handshakes down the row before I caught up. I didn't have the time, or presence of mind, to send any message back at him. And he will mean it.Īnyway, as I recall it, he gave me a left-hand-just-above-the-elbow plus a vaguely curious "ah, so you're the guy I've been hearing about" look, and a follow-me nod. He'll flash that famous misty look of his. If he doesn't know you all that well and you've just told him something "important," something earnest or emotional, he will lock in and honor you with a two-hander, his left hand overwhelming your wrist and forearm. He'll share a laugh or a secret then-a light secret, not a real one-flattering you with the illusion of conspiracy. If he gets any higher up your shoulder-if he, say, drapes his left arm over your back, it is somehow less intimate, more casual. He might put it on your elbow, or up by your biceps: these are basic, reflexive moves. I can, however, tell you a whole lot about what he does with his other hand. I've seen him do it two million times now, but I couldn't tell you how he does it, the right-handed part of it-the strength, quality, duration of it, the rudiments of pressing the flesh. My inability to recall that particular moment more precisely is disappointing: the handshake is the threshold act, the beginning of politics. I am small and not so dark, not very threatening to Caucasians I do not strut my stuff. He was a big fellow, looking seriously pale on the streets of Harlem in deep summer.
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