A few of the rowdier customers kept up the remarks, amusing themselves at his expense.
"Here, sonny, over here. There's a nice piece behind you..."
"C'mon, do it again..." "He's not so dumb. It's easier to break 'em than to wash 'em..."
As the boy's vacant eyes moved across the crowd of amused onlookers,
he slowly mirrored their smiles and finally broke into an uncertain grin at the joke which he did not understand.
I felt sick inside as I looked at his dull, vacuous smile—
the wide, bright eyes of a child, uncertain but eager to please, and I realized what I had recognized in him.
They were laughing at him because he was retarded.
And at first I had been amused along with the rest.
Suddenly, I was furious at myself and all those who were smirking at him.
I wanted to pick up the dishes and throw them. I wanted to smash their laughing faces.
I jumped up and shouted: "Shut up! Leave him alone! He can't understand.
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