The swollen limpness of age-torn, Black Oak branches, along with the opulence of a robust gathering of nocturnal insects fluttering around the contemptuous suspension offered by a fifty-watt light bulb, attracted my attention more so than the affirmed quart of brew that Willie Mitch coveted arrantly. The foible darkness, the cynosure of the shaded-suburban street and the random patterns of the insects seemed to represent the wholeness of the universe that I had only observed in comic books and punctuation marks. "What are you bugging off of this time, ya string bean nose motherfucker?" It came from long time associate William Mitchell. It was stated in a manner in which the wind directed it towards me.

And I responded, without the specious utterance of a single syllable, the slightest whisper. I firmly gripped my member with both hands as if it were the last dollar on earth, and devoutly gripped my pipe and squeezed the sides of my crotch in a successful effort to provide three-dimensional visibility. They laughed and the conversation went on from there.

Willie Mitch smiled and stretched his hands across the region of his belt with assured refinement. Glistening off the monumental gold rings on his hand was the rashness of the street light emissions. Finally returning his left foot to rest on the rubber floorboard of his Cobra. His 289 Cobra. He was always talking shit about that car of his, as if he actually believed that a nigger could be defined by the objects that he owned. Now it was sweet but it was not as suave bolla as my Cutlass.

"My boy!" he shouted, extending his hand for a brief exchange of five. "You hurtin' them tonight."

"Sweet suit black," Black Magic agreed, complementing his remark with an affirmative upward motion of his head. "What sustenance do you have on hold for the evening?" he asked.

My reason was still disposed to the previous accolades in reference to my attire. With my nakedness enthroned behind the arduous perplexity of a slightly over-sized, three-button, dry-gray seersucker suit, I reached my left hand in my upper-left inside pocket and, in cant mode, tossed him nearly an eight-ball and two primos.

I did not really see what they saw in it. It really did not make a never mind on the money tip. I gave it to them all the time. To them, seven or eight years out of college was nothing more than another quick and gratuitous route to more avaricious theaters of action.

One was almost a district attorney, another an accomplished physician, and the last my personal investment banker. And how did I manage to fit in, a penurious, self-proclaimed man of letters? I don't know. Pretending to be one thing in fashion, habits and solitude, yet at the same time making my living doing the equivalent of exchanging a Nutrasweet package for C-notes.

"Man!" Fontain opined, "I have never been so insulted in my life 'til today."

"What the fuck you crying about?" Monroe asked, questioning the infirmity of his character.

"I'm supposed to be professional jones around that hospital, but yet they treat me like a client with no insurance. A Haitian client with no insurance."

"Bitch in charge made me take this personal inventory that just insulted my intelligence. She's just a counselor."

"Like commercials," I added.

He agreed, maintaining the same splash and peculation that he had started with to expound on his experience.

He continued, "Imagine asking me if I feared confrontation, or if I made silly mistakes, or if I ever feel the inability to express myself. Express my dick test maker!" he ended, holding the region of his jewels.

"Man, fuck that shit. You still a mack. We know it and the world knows it. That's why they always trying to make it hard and painful for us," William commented, expanding on his views with the aid of some Pope that I suspect he accidentally learned.



"Weak foolish man! will
Heaven reward us there
With the same trash mad
Mortals wish for here."



"Didn't know that they wrote shit like that in the Wall Street Journal," I remarked, accepting silently Monroe's approval of the powder. "Tell me this, did Fontain tell you who was throwing this party? It better be swinging 'cause I could have just cooled out at the crib with Tiana and the Cary Grant film festival."

"Shit, you already got all of his movies on tape. You shouldn't be tripping," Fontain stated in an intruding tone. "That shit happened back in the day when TV went off before dinner. That shit don't go off no more."

I played him fat until an appropriate response to my question was uttered from his lips.

"One of the board members, the only one of dark complexion, if you know what I mean,..he's celebrating his sister's birthday," Fontain completed, accepting the package from Black Magic.

"What's his name?" I questioned, hanging my head to the beat of some tune to which its name I did not know.

"Does it matter? Names arent worth a shit until Webster or New Heritage get a hold to them," Monroe carefully and fervidly explained. Also moving his head to the same pulse bellowing from the auto.

We all remained there, not talking about much, reanimating every note, every beat, comprehending the total prism of each others movements. They were not interested in riding with me in my Cutlass to the party. Regardless of its capacity to entertain, selectively, six persons in anomalous comfort, they preferenced that we ride in twosomes.