Liberty, equality, fraternity.

Broken glass was all in my brain It use to fall out my dreams and Cut me in my bed... (Jimi Hendrix)

The stairwell slanted up from basement to kitchen. Each stair deep, firm; darkness. Under pressure of shoed foot each blind plank a shrill creak, a skin-surprising jolt, like a needle beneath cloth poking a thimbleless finger. Hatch made it firmly to the top and stood there, on the threshold of light, his heart speeding higher and higher. Hungry, thirsty, tired, not from the climb but from guitar practice. He wiggled his smarting fingers--six strings, six brutal strings--the day's newspaper folded at his side. Time to kick back, relax, and read. Space shimmered into focus.

In her gray uniform and cap, his mother sat nursing a cup of coffee at the round, glass-topped kitchen table. I'm glad you're finished with that noise, she said.

Her words sliced and poked like tusks at his skin. Raw pain and anger. Hate when she use that word, noise. Music ain't noise. And my music sho ain't no goddamn noise. I finished practicing a long time ago, he said, voice tight.

Then what was all that noise I heard? She watched him with her usual expression.

I don't know what you heard. As a matter of fact I was jus reading. I saw this tripped out--

Why do you insist on talking low-class? Tripped out. What kind of language is that?

Why don't you jus leave me alone? He felt hot inside.

Boy, don't you ever talk back to me. You may be bigger than me but I'll still whip your ass, even if I have to stand on a chair to do it.

He looked at her, hard. Limned her face in his mind. Punched it. You won't do shit.

Keep looking at me like that and I'll slap your eyes out your face.

He turned his back to her. Turned to a handwritten sign taped to the refrigerator door, the words bold and neat like soldiers in formation: CLOSE ME TIGHTLY AFTER YOU FINISH.

What's that in your hand?

He was too angry to speak. Swallowed. Just a newspaper.

What?

Just the newspaper. The Defender.

Let me see it.

Why?

I ain't gon ask you again.

He faced her. Slid the newspaper, folded back at the article he'd been reading, across the glass table.

And you better watch how you pass things to me, she said.

He didn't say anything. Fuck off. And meant it too.

I bet this something about some music.

Yes. That one there, Beethoven Rolls Over In His Grave. It's about this friend of Will's. He boldly spoke the name to get her goat.

Why do you insist on mentioning that low-class nigger?

Will ain't low-class. He's a musician.

He's from the projects and he acts like he's from the projects, so you can't get no lower than that.

He fought to contain his rage.

You like him so much, go live with him. Don't ever mention his name in this house again.

He took a cold Pepsi from the refrigerator.

If you do you'll be out of this house. Mark my word.

He snapped the Pepsi top. Just talkin shit. The murky liquid was loud and cold going down. He set the metal can on the sink counter and turned and looked at his mother.

What is this? She retrieved the newspaper with both hands and brought it before her face like a napkin. She freed one hand and curved the cup of coffee to her lips. Tilted it forward and quietly sipped. She began reading the article, eyes moving, fluttering down the page row by row. She returned cup to saucer, then went back to the article. Steam rose rapidly from the cup.

Zootsuit spit-and-polish, like beboppers of the forties and fifties on the sleeves of Hatch's record albums, Ward Wardell is leaning against a black hearse, his face cold and blank. A tall, coal-black man under a black fedora. Sporting pinstripe suit, polka-dot tie--centered with a knuckle-round diamond--and two-tone shoes. He is hugging a Gibson 335, the strings thick like vines. A caption firm as granite supports the photograph: MUSIC IS MUSIC. BUT GOD MATTERS.

Ward Wardell had been born and raised in the Stonewall Project, where a local thug had taught him to play guitar. For almost three decades, he had toured the world with numerous jazz and rock bands before settling down to a nest egg of studio work. He used the black hearse as his means of transportation. A hearse offers needed space. A single session might require five guitars, not to mention speakers and effects. And a hearse offers needed security. A thief would think twice before breaking into one.

Ward owned more than three hundred guitars and three thousand effects. He lived in a spacious condominium at the Green Pathway House where, as the article stressed, most of the tenants were rich and white. Lush life.

This Ward Wardell ain't nothing but a pimp, Mamma said.

Hatch laughed. Just like her to say something stupid.

Look like one and act like one. And believe me, God will punish him for disgracing dead folks. Who ever heard of somebody drivin around in a funeral car?

You sure you read the article?

Of course I read it. This Ward Wardell is low-class jus like that friend of yours.

Hatch shook his head.

God will punish him for neglecting his kids and beating up his girlfriend.

He didn't beat her up. Only punched hem the mouth that one time when she thanked some wino who complimented her. Now, I don't believe in firin on a woman but you can't let her disrespect you like that.

He knocked out all her teeth--what is that if it ain't beating her?

He knocked out two of her teeth. Two.

Yeah and I bet this Ward Wardell just like him. Nothing but an oreo. Black on the outside and white on the inside. That's why he laying up in a condominium hobnobbing with white folks.

Where does it say that?

Hobnobbing. Show me.

It ain't have to say. I know.

How you know?

I know.

Gossip. Nothing but gossip.

Boy, why are you raising your voice? Who do you think you're talking to? I'm not your low-class friend.

Hatch felt hot all over.

Why are you getting upset about some hoodlum?

Cause that hoodlum making cash money.

So what? Lots of people making cash money. The President's making cash money but he still ain't shit.

You don't like nobody, that's all.

I'm making cash money.

Nawl. You ain't. You doing awright but you ain't making that money. Ten years ago, fortune had dropped in her lap when the city took her on as a bus driver, one of the first women recruits. Saved her money and bought this house cheap, recently repossessed, the floors still warm from the previous owner.

You is stupid. Just like your father.

Fuck you. He almost said it.

He let low-class niggers influence him and you see where it got him.

Who says I don't see it?

Don't talk back to me. Find him and talk back to him.

Hatch stomped down into the basement, his cold and mildewy place of exile--Look, I'm tired of that noise and I'm tired of you walking around here with an attitude when I tell you about it--fists balled at his sides. She was reaching into his inner life, where it was sore, and he didn't want anyone there. She don't know shit. Can't stand no musician. Will's got two strikes against him since he's a musician and since he's older than me, and she thinks I'm dumb like my father and will let somebody older corrupt me. I can see how she might not like Will but Ward ain't doing nothing wrong.

Doing well for himself. Even if he is doing wrong he ain't hurting nobody but himself. Sides, I'm a musician and so is he, only he's made it and I haven't.

His flashing wristwatch reminded him of the time. Nearly seven, band practice. He put his white, right-hand Stratocaster into its padded case--he played somewhat better on his right side--and readied it horizontal to his thigh, then moved to the basement side exit, clear of his mother's stupid look of petty anxiety. No escape. The door shoved her words in his face: REMEMBER TO RELOCK ME FROM OUTSIDE. She had taped notes all over the house. One in the bathroom reminding you to stop the faucets after you used them. One at the front door reminding you to wipe your feet on the doormat before you entered. And at 9:00 sharp every night she zoomed through the house turning off lights like an air raid.

He took the brief cement walk to the street, then paused and looked back over his shoulder at the house, squatting there in the bushes, posed for ambush.

Who could that be? Speed, he forced his erect penis back inside his pajama fly. Scrambled up from the bed and into his houseshoes. Damn! His mother had quit the house for work some five minutes before. He stumbled down the hail. Opened the door to Barbara's smiling face.

Hi, Hatch.

Hi.

I ain't wake you did I? She was tall and thin, her legs like two tent poles inside flapping polyester slacks. Hardly enough to look at. And, man, you get some humungus bumps on yo face.

No. No. That's alright. He had been long in answering the doorbell and rubbed his eyes now, the excuse of sleep, thinking all the while, but quitting the gesture for fear of transferring semen to his eyecorners.

I jus wanna know if I can use yo phone?

Sure.

It ain't no problem is it?

No. Not at all. Then he knew, she had watched his mother leave. Will and Barbara's third-story living room window afforded a full view of the house. Hatch was the only person in the neighborhood who allowed them use of the telephone or gave them when asked a few slices of bread, or a cup of sugar, or a bowl of flour, or a jar of ice. In no uncertain terms Mamma had warned him to refuse their requests, but he paid no heed. Will was a musician.

Thanks.

His erection poked at his pajama fly. He caught Barbara trying not to notice. Come in.

Barbara smiled.

When women looked at him, they never liked what they saw, but maybe he had a chance with Barbara.

Thanks.

She entered, eyes rushing like searchlights about the living room. She let him guide her over to the phone. Then he went into another room to give her privacy. She was not long.

Okay, she said. I'm finished.

Glad to help. He entered the room and found her waiting by the door. REMEMBER TO LOCK ME FROM OUTSIDE.

Thanks.

Don't mention it.

Here's a quarter for the call.

That's alright. You don't have to pay me.

You're so nice.

Thanks. His mouth was dry saying the word.

She smiled and waited. His whole body tingled, everything inside out.

I better get the door.

Okay.

He pulled the door open.

You write that? she said.

No. He could barely speak. My mother.

Oh. Bye.

Bye.

She turned her back to him and started down the porch steps, buttocks working. He pushed the door forward, an angle of vision, and hid in watchful wonder.

The flung quarter pinged against the counter like a sniper's bullet. The clerk stumbled off his stool to his feet, desperate for cover.

That's for the paper. Hatch pinned the newspaper between his elbow and rib cage.

The clerk grimaced at the coin.

Hatch kicked the door wide to create sufficient room for the long guitar case. Waded out into shadow. Might still have a chance with Barbara ... if I play my cards right. Promise and possibility pulled him through the street. A flat world: plain, steppe, veldt. A rising/falling pattern of three-story courtyard buildings, two flats and low houses. Crisp hedges and curt lawns. Old tall trees in full leaf and short, skeletal saplings in deferred bloom.

He hooked a left at the alley. No alley really but a paved gulf between two buildings with a fenced-in lot closing off the open end. He hooked another left and spiraled up peeling porch landing and splintered stair--guitar case in hand, noise and speed, anxious legs drumming on solid wood.

Three stories up he set his guitar case down easy before Will's screened back door. He needed a few minutes to clear his mind, to make himself open and accepting of what he might find inside. Will, Barbara, and their two children lived in the very same one-bedroom apartment where Hatch and his mother had lived ten years before. Will worked days for a moving company--hard work but good money--and Barbara worked nights at a twenty-four-hour pizza parlor. And they don't even have a phone, Mamma said. What kind of father work a good job and won't even buy a phone? And that Barbara ... Mamma shook her round, fat-cat head. She good enough to have his babies but she ain't good enough to marry. And the way she let him treat those kids ... She didn't like it that Will whooped his kids with his bass guitar strap and profaned them with his cursing tongue. She didn't like it that they lived bowed under the sword of eviction. And there was more she didn't like. Will bought expensive musical equipment while the kids played with toys from AmVets. Will bought all of the latest cds while Barbara and the kids dressed in hole-shot clothes like gingerbread cookies. Will and Barbara slept in a four-poster bed while the kids shared an old couch that someone hadn't bothered having Will put into the moving van. Trickmaster, Barbara made a week's worth of groceries last a month. Will put his business out in the street, thumped his belled nose at the right thing and didn't care who heard or felt the vibrations.

It pained Hatch to accept the truth of his mother's statements about Will. He would never let her know it, but he had his own reasons for being fed up with Will. Will couldn't pick up his bass without first firing up a joint. Always lit. High. Rising nowhere. Gig-bound, he would roll, tug, and squeeze into his one suit--as if it were a condom--old, yellow, and pimp, then hoist his Peavey cabinet onto his back, grunt into position, carry it like a piece of furniture down three flights of stairs, and dump it into the back of his moving van. He could not keep a steady band, for the only gig he could cough up was some hole-in-the-wall lounge or funky restaurant. Top it off, you had to make him pay you.

High above the building rooftop across the alley birds flew a broken black line in blue night sky. Slow life, Hatch watched his future grow. He starts college in the fall--Go to school. Get you an education. Get you a real job. I done worked too hard--and bides his time until he reaps well-earned musical fruits. Daily, he planned, planted, and plucked with his harvest in mind. He would practice classical techniques for two hours with his two Yamaha nylon-string guitars (left-hand and right-hand models), then Jazz and rock techniques for two hours with his two white Fender Stratocasters (left-hand and right-hand models). It was not uncommon for his fingers to bleed.

He pulled the screen open, metal springs coiled and tense, and knocked on the door, a slow easy rhythm.

Who is it?

Me?

Who's me?

Hatch.

Will opened the door. He was short and stocky, hair braided in long thick cornrows. He stepped aside and let Hatch enter, the springed screen snapping closed like a trap.

Here. Hatch thrust the newspaper in Will's chest. Check this out.

Will unfolded the paper like a delicate scroll. Aw man! Black words cut across his stare. Ward!

Yeah.

Will read the article, mouthing each word silently. You know, I know this dude.

Yeah. You told me. Many times.

Stonewall.

I know.

Grew up there. We use to have this band--

I know.

See here it says--

Yeah.

This is one tripped out motherfucker. Will's dark face was shiny with pride. But he bad. Man you should hook up with this cat.

So why don't you give him a call? Phoneless motherfucker. Hatch received considerable pleasure from joking with Will in this manner. And he took equal pleasure in catching Will in a lie as he'd done many times before.

Funny, nigger. Nawl, man. Ward always visits me on--

Your birthday.

You remember.

Right.

That's--

I know when it is.

--next week. Friday.

Does he know where you live?

He know.

You told him?

I don't have to tell him.

Hatch said nothing for a moment. Well, you gon barbecue?

Will looked at him. Funny. Real funny. Dogshoes on a cat.

Hatch surveyed the sparsely furnished apartment. Where's your crumb snatchers?

Okay. Watch that shit.

Well, where are they?

They down south with Barbara's folks.

Where Barbara? He had a reason for asking.

Where you think?

Streetlamps seeped soft light through filter-like darkness. Orange stars held steady and bright like incense tips in the smoky and fragrant sky. Hatch bent forward at the waist, leaned his forearms and elbows across the narrow railing, and pitched over the porch, his gaze directed at life in the almost-alley and street three stories below. He ran his fingers along the splintery bannister surface, enjoying the swirl of live talk and ghostly music. Hot summer night. Hot summer night.

A long black car pulled into the alley and killed its engine in the spot where Will often parked his moving van. A man stepped from the vehicle. Shut the door. Black fedora--high sharp brim scraping air, scraping clouds--pinstripe suit, polka-dot tie, diamond pin, and two-tone patent leather shoes. Ward Wardell! He swaggered to the rear of the black hearse, Hatch swaying too, feeling every footfall--taps, he wearin metal taps--deep in his chest. Eased the rear door open. Slid out a guitar case. Hoisted it carefully onto the roof of the car. Shut the door. Cradled the case between his arms. First time I ever seen anybody carry his axe like that. Holding a baby. Swaggered to the stairs, moving from left to right, shoulders circling, guitar case bobbing. Disappeared beneath the first-floor porch landing. His slow heels sounded on the wooden stairs, sounded up with his rising motion and blended--synchronized--with the loud beats of Hatch's heart.

As if in preparation for an interview, Hatch scrambled to put himself together, checking his appearance and demeanor in the mirroring night. He had never met a true professional, other than Hank Hazlett, his first guitar teacher, who'd once shaken hands with Charlie Christian. He rehearsed the article from memory, searching for some settling fact. Hugging his guitar case, Ward blinked into focus on the porch landing a half-story below, and Hatch went stiff as if his whole body had been wired. Ward looked up, spotted Hatch, blinked surprise, then narrowed his eyes at Hatch's eyes.

Hatch tried to smile--Ward, I ain't no cutthroat--but his throat only tightened.

What up, young brother.

What up, Hatch said. His speeding heart propelled the words.

Ward continued up the stairs and eased past--Excuse me, young brother--Hatch. Without setting down his guitar, he stabbed the doorbell with a large finger, sending a jolt of current through Hatch's body. His shirt cuffs showed from the sleeves of his blazer, each joined with a gold cufflink shaped like a W, and a small cross crafted from several diamonds centered in each letter.

Hatch studied the tall man's broad back like a canvas. Ward Wardell. He said it to himself. Ward Wardell. Carrying his guitar high at his chest like a bag of groceries. His hands smooth, strong, and shiny like carved wood.

Who is it?

Me, nigger!

The door creaked wide.

That's right, Ward said. He angled through the door, his baby, his groceries in his arms. Will looked at Hatch with a lurking grin. Hey, Hatch. Why don't you come in. Probably thought I wuz lyin.

Nawl. I didn't. Hatch entered, his heart moving faster than his feet, and the screen slammed shut behind him.

Why you jump? Will said.

Who jumped? I ain't jump.

Will shut the door. Ward had already walked directly to the living room, found a space on the couch, the cased guitar at his feet.

The sparsely furnished room amplified sound and light. This inner brightness almost painful after the previous outer dark. Uncurtained windows let in the night. Framed it.

I see you still got this faggoty couch, Ward said. Whenever I try to sit down, it tries to stick springs up my asshole.

Will laughed but Hatch could tell that he didn't take kindly to the joke. Something tugged inside him. His heart slowed down to meet it. He became sharply himself again.

Will pointed. This is Hatch.

Ward looked up at Hatch from beneath his fedora, sharp brim readied liked a boomerang. Looked without expression like he saw nothing there. Air.

He play guitar.

Oh yeah? Ward said. Well, what instrument do you play?

Hatch felt as if he'd just been slapped. What you think?

Hmm, Ward said, his broad nose wide and thick like a fist.

Nawl look here, Will said. He serious. He good. See, he can play both left-handed and right-handed. He grinned proudly.

Is that right? Ward said.

Yes, Hatch said. He considered his ambidexterity a plus.

Well, say Roland Kirk wants you to audition for his band. The man's blind so he can't see you play both left-handed and right-handed.

Hatch felt his skin tighten.

Nawl, Will said. Hatch can play.

Roland Kirk dead.

How would you know. Ward faced Hatch. Young brother, ain't you never heard of an after hours set?

Hatch watched Ward, hard. The silence deepened.

I think I made the young brother angry.

Nawl you ain't made me shit. He shut his teeth together, vocal cords cut.

Y'all be cool, Will said.

How long you been playin?

He been playin ten years.

Ten years. Whew! Ward broke a slow grin.

Hatch did not speak or move, set in his hate.

Ward knelt and flicked the latches on his guitar case with two satisfying clicks. Slowly lifted the hood of the case like the lid of a treasure chest. Stiff with anger Hatch stood watching, showing no interest. Fuck it. Maybe Ward was just bullshitting. He moved behind Ward's broad back to get a better look. What he saw pressed clean against a fresh, green lining. '55 Les Paul. Black Beauty. Mother of Pearl inlays. Chrome frets and bridge.

Aw man that's sharp.

You like it huh? Ward asked. He grinned up at Hatch.

Hatch maintained his game face.

Now play that motherfucker, Will said. He rolled his plump fifty-watt Peavey amp and cabinet over to where Ward was kneeling. Ward carefully removed the guitar from the case, hands cupped under neck and body the way one holds a newborn. He plugged in, the long black connector like an umbilical cord attaching guitar to amp. Raised his guitar toward Hatch, an offering.

Maybe, I'm ready. I can read. I got perfect pitch. I can play most of the stuff off records. But Will's always say in, I hear you, I hear you. But look here. Nother three fo years, he nod, and you be there. Shit. Though Will don't have perfect pitch and can't read a note even if it was big as a house or a project I have to respect his opinion. Have to. He's been around. Can't get no gigs but he's been around. Weedhead but he's been around. He seen most of the monster guitar players in the city. Got a good ear. Probably can cut most of the bass players in town. Be better if he--

Well?

Nawl, Hatch said. You go head.

Ward rose slowly, his large hand choking the guitar's neck. He secured the guitar to his body with a wide strap. Adjusted it high on his chest like a bib. Tuned up. Cranked the amp. Ward touched a string and a note whistled and exploded. Ward adjusted the volume on the amp. Then he set to work. Tapped walking bass lines with the fingers of his left hand and a melody with the fingers of his right hand. Music peppered the air, crashed against Hatch's chest, trying to level brick and steel and touch the heart beneath. He stood firm, unmoved.

Will shut his eyes and nodded his head to the beat. Play it, Ward. Play it.

Ward shut his eyes too, tight. Tension cramped his face. Hatch started to drift clear of his stationary shadow. A new darkness pulled away the room, inked out flesh and outlined bones. Throat tight, he tried to float above deep waves of thought and feeling. Suffered a paralysis of will and impulse and went under.

In the foggy silence, Hatch pieced together new directions, charted a course home. He stepped out of the boat slowly, lest it turn over. The air began to clear. Smoke lift.

That was awesome. Awesome. He did not fight back anything.

That's what it's all about.

Awesome.

That's what I'm about.

I told you, Will said.

Hatch watched Ward and could not believe in his existence. Any moment now he might disappear. Got to learn how to play like that. Got to.

Will concentrating, Will rolling a joint between the ends of his fingers.

Man, you gon smoke that stuff around me? Ward asked.

Will looked at Ward for a moment, then put the joint aside. Let me get my bass. We can jam.

I'm tired, Ward said. He didn't look at Will. But, hey. I'm putting some guys together. To do this cd. I'll give you a call.

Do that.

Ward reached into his blazer pocket, removed a monogrammed--WW--handkerchief and dabbed at the edges of his head, slick with sweat under the fedora. The exposed portion of his head was completely smooth. Hatch could detect no hair. Goddamn. What kind of haircut this nigga got? Up close he didn't look his age at all. Babyface. By the way, how's yo skinny ho?

Will didn't say anything.

Ward reached into his pocket, withdrew a small card and handed it to Hatch. I give private lessons. Seventy-five dollars an hour. Come audition for me tomorrow morning. 10:00. Don't be late. And don't bring your guitar.

Hatch took the card, his head spinning like the whorls on Ward's fingerprints. He thought to bite it with his teeth to convince himself that the offer was real. Cool.

Cool? The cool approach life from the left, left hand stuffed in left pocket, rolling the shoulders forward, dragging the body along. Ward demonstrated.

Hatch failed to understand but noted the fact to memory.

Ward smiled. Remember this, young brother. Music is music. God is all that matters.

Yeah, Hatch said. He wasn't thinking about God now. Truth to tell, God was for suckers and punks, though he saw nothing wrong m a gospel gig or two for some quick, easy cash.

Remember that.

Yeah. I will.

Daylight came in x-patterns through the caging at the small, street-level window. Hatch rubbed grey sleep from his eyes, pulled himself up from the bed, slipped into his house shoes, and moved to the window. He drew back the curtain--light pouring in, cars moving in the street--and kept his face close to the glass, sounding through shine to guess the pitches of engines.

Seventy-five dollars a lesson. No way Mamma gon give me seventy-five dollars a week for guitar lessons. Don't get but forty dollars for weekly allowance, and even if I talk him down to say...and use some of my allowance, hell, I'll be broke. Worry about that later.

He showered--the water did not cool him, his brain flickering questions with firefly rhythm--and dressed. Gray sharkskin suit, red silk tie, white cotton shirt, gray silk socks, and black cordovans. Ready to step out of the door when the phone rang.

Hatch? This Will.

Hey.

I'm calling you from work.

Yeah. I figured that. What up?

Watch out for Ward.

What?

Watch out for Ward. The nigger ain't shit.

I'll tell him you said so.

I know you bout to go to college and all and think you smart, but remember, I grew up in the projects. I know how you think and how he thinks. I have a degree in niggerology.

Hatch checked his temper. No harm done. Mere words like crab claws trying to drag him down.

Ward is a good musician, but so are a lot of other brothers out there, and you know that, but see, he got where he is by greasin palms, kissin asses, and back stabbin.

You just jealous.

Nawl. I'm speakin the truth.

Like I should believe you.

You ain't got to believe me. But I'll tell you this, you can't hang. Ward's shoes won't fit you.

How you know?

Cause I know. I got values.

Tell that to Barbara.

People step around him, under him, over him, and through him, their language unintelligble, and their voices cutting messages on his brain. He patterns their foreign noise to the sound of himself. And the train arrives like an echo of his thought of them.

He boards, rushes to a seat, and turns his face to a window facing the black, blank tunnel wall. The train pulls out of the station, rattles into motion, gains speed, and blasts through the tunnel, and he watches the black flying wall and ponders the bony structure of personality and the shadows of conduct, Ward's statement about God humming at the edge of his brain. Like every body else, musicians always talking bout God. God. God. God. Will go to church every Sunday. Every Sunday. Ward, Will. Duped. Been listening to too many hell-fire sermons. Scared. Shoot, I hope Ward don't start preachin. Want us to kneel down and say a prayer together or something. I mean, what God got to do wit makin it to the top? It just takes a lot of hard work and a few connections, a little bit of luck. Hell, didn't God shake Jacob off the ladder?

The train curved around a turn, wheels sounding against rail like chalk against a blackboard. He checked his watch. 9:00. Want to be early, but I'm gon be too early. Stop off and see Walter. And he knew where to find him, Walter Wonder, my partner in crime--he grabbed his groin--a blind street singer who worked the subway in the winter and bus depot in the summer. Imitated Stevie Wonder in the morning to attract young blacks, and Ray Charles in the evening to attract older folks. Walter claimed he could smell the difference between blacks and whites by their perfumes and colognes. Even claimed blacks were harder to get money from. He'd arranged his routine accordingly. Worked from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. and could make seventy, eighty dollars on a good day. Sometimes a woman would be so taken with his singing that she'd escort him home. Before he had met Hatch, Walter never worked weekends, but Hatch had convinced him that he was missing the big action. Work Saturday nights and I'll bring my old acoustic and b ack you up, he'd offered. Walter accepted. Okay. We share the pussy but I keep the money. Walter had a stable of groupies laid out in his braille phone book. He offered Hatch his leftovers. Aw, the work of eating.

Hatch found Walter at the bus depot, an island surrounded by a moving ocean of indifferent people. Walter wasn't having a good day so far, a few coins like discarded teeth inside his tin can. His head was craned back, his chin raised, and Adam's apple exposed as if for a karate chop. Black-lensed spectacles directed at the opaque depot roof, looking through it, beyond. Perhaps Walter was simply attentive, body focused and dog ears trembling for some sound beneath the tune he bellowed. When the lyrics bounce, the black lenses bounce too. Metal rattles, money sound locked in time to a two-step.

Monkey see, monkey do

Show me how to do like you

Show me how to do it

What up, Walter.

Walter lowered his head. What up, Hatch.

Same ole same ole. Jus passin through.

Cool.

Starting lessons today.

Oh yeah?

Private lessons.

Good.

I'm heading for my first private lesson with Ward Wardell.

Yeah? The studio cat?

Yeah.

Awright.

Yeah. I auditioned for him yesterday.

Good man, good. Things is looking up.

Need anything? Hatch anxiously studied the two black glass circles. Back before street musicians got licensed Walter had gotten roughed up a few times by cops. Hatch felt sorry for him. Nonetheless, he hoped that Walter would decline his offer. Broke as a motherfucker. Chump change in my pocket.

No. I'm straight.

Okay. See you Saturday.

Bet. Glad to see you doing well for yourself.

The sidewalk shuddered behind him. Smooth pavement. Black asphalt streets. Clean, tree-lined lawns. Hedges trim as crewcuts. Neat houses. A pervasive quiet. No crackling cars or voices. As if the very sky spread like a sound-absorbing blanket. Then he came upon the Green Pathway House, which rose boldly into the air like some steel sculpture on display. He shaded his eyes from picture windows glistening with glare. Followed a band of lime-green carpeting from the sidewalk to two glass doors. He looked cautiously through into the pre-lobby, a kind of glass cage with a uniformed doorman sitting on a high stool, shivering, pulling together the collar of his green blazer. He wore a tremendous top hat--the weight seemed to throw his head either for ward or back--while his gray skinny legs burrowed like worms from the green baggy tunnels of his bermuda shorts.

Hatch closed his eyes and breathed evenly. After a while, he opened them, insides now under control, and entered the building. The doorman looked at him with authority. What you want?

The words had the force of spit. Hatch watched him hard for a moment. I'm here to see Ward Wardell. I have an audition.

The doorman's face softened. Oh, so you're a guitarist?

Yeah.

The doorman looked Hatch up and down. Can you play?

What?

You heard me. Can you play?

Hatch said nothing. Old assmotherfucker talkin shit. The words spiraled in the silence, played an encore in memory, and their tone, texture, and intonation told him what he now knew: For many years, liquor had been reshaping the doorman. I ain't gon let no drunk blow my cool. I better just let it go. Maintain. Can't blow it when I've come this far. Yeah. I can play.

I bet you can.

Who is this old drunk nigger?

Most of you kids come here to see Ward can't play shit. Always avoiding me. Always sneaking through the service entrance. Sneaking up the elevator while my back turned guarding this damn door. Strong veins stood out in his forehead. Man, he don't know. I use to be one of the best bass players in the city. Way before your time. He stepped down from the stool as if it were a steep hillside. Moved closer to Hatch. Kept the collar bunched in his fist. You see, this is how you do it. Held out his index and middle finger. Squeezed them together. You tie a rubberband around these two fingers. Moved closer, liquor blazing on his breath. So when you pluck the strings--

Yes. Don't nobody care bout this shit. You ain't playin nothing no mo.

Why you gettin rude?

I'm here to see Ward.

I know who you here to see. That pussyassmotherfucker upstairs who don't care bout shit!

I'm here to see Ward. I'll fix you, old man. Report your old drunk ass to the management. A surveillance camera watched Hatch from one corner of the glass cage, the metal eye still, unblinking.

Eyes straining, the doorman surveyed a directory jutting out from the wall beside the stool. His face bore the silent weight of memory. Some familiarity. Yes, Hatch had seen him before. Couldn't remember where, remember when. A telephone lay cradled in the perpendicular base under the directory. The doorman snatched up the receiver, dialed the number, and shoved the receiver into Hatch's chest.

Hatch looked into the doorman's face so he could hate it close up. Get killed that way old man. He took the receiver and placed it to his ear. Someone picked up at the other end of the line. His throat tightened.

Hello? A woman's voice. The article said nothing about a woman. Nor had Ward. Probably some groupie.

The doorman mumbled something to himself. Crazy. Funeral car. Dresses like we did forty years ago. Crazy!

Hello?

Hello ma'm. The woman didn't sound much older than himself. Cotta be polite. He considered politeness one of his talents. This is Hatch Jones. I'm here to see Ward Wardell. Does she know I'm downstairs?

Oh yes. I'll buzz you up. Apartment 2711.

Thank you, ma'm. He hung up the phone. The doorman looked at him, legs thin, evaporating.

Feet silent on the carpet, Hatch walked quickly to a second glass door that led into the lobby. The doorman moved beside him. Liquor burned into Hatch's face. Old drunk ass nigger. Hatch carefully avoided the hot face. The door hummed and the doorman snatched it open. Held it for Hatch. Hatch walked swiftly into the lobby, chrome and glass with ashtray stands and leather couches arranged in semicircles, square lights overhead. Jungle-like with the same lime-green carpeting and live plants and trees in wooden tubs.

He followed the doorman to the elevator. The doorman thumbed the button and steel doors rang and parted open. He leaned inside, punched the floor, and waited for Hatch. Enjoy! he said and walked off even before the doors had closed.

The elevator rose and with it Hatch's insides. He ran his thumb around inside his belt, tucking his shirt more neatly into his trousers. Took a mirror from his blazer pocket. Held it up before his face. Patted loose hairs into place. Still don't know how I'm gon pay for the lessons if Ward accepts me. When he accepts me. Shit. Think positive. The elevator opened like a mouth and spit him out.

The hallway was long and quiet like a tunnel. Carpeted in the same lime-green. Landscapes and still lifes hung here and there on the walls. Why hadn't the residents stolen them? They got money, that's why. Still, you never know. Every little bit helps. 2711. He lifted the brass doorknocker, but the door opened before he could use it. A woman smiled at him from inside the apartment, her hand on the doorknob. Smooth, round face with Indian cheekbones. Hair braided in corn rows, colored beads laced throughout. Ain't got one of them silly curls that get sticky shit all over yo fingers and hands when you touch it. Plain blouse. Small titties. Tight jeans. Look at that gap.

Hello. I'm Porsche. Come in.

Thank you, ma'm. He did as she asked.

Do I look like your mamma?

What?

Do I look like your mamma?

Why no.

Then stop calling me ma'm.

Hatch forced a laugh. The woman watched him with hard brown eyes. She shut the door without turning her eyes off him. He felt their heat. Turned to avoid. Dust floated in long slanting rays of light that pushed through the picture window and ignited the shaggy white carpet. And you could actually see clouds outside the window, still as anchored ships, and bright and thick and heavy and polished like marble. Perhaps they were not clouds at all but statues. Matching white leather sofa and love seat were arranged around an oval coffee table of clear bright glass. A lamp--one long cylinder of light--glowed from a small end table. Greeneyed jade figurines watched him from a tall china cabinet. And a television positioned at the far end of the room surveyed space like a big, gray unblinking eye, where the doorman sat hunched over on the small wooden eye of his stool. The apartment was nothing like what he had expected: framed and glassed photos of musicians, a mountainous collection of recordings, and stacks of mus ic magazines. There was not even a stereo.

Like it? Porsche asked.

He turned and looked at her. Yeah. It's sharp. He motioned to the television. That's too forward. She'll think I'm a thief.

I meant the apartment in general.

Oh. It's nice. He felt stupid.

She took him by the elbow and led him to the couch. Sit, she said.

Thank you, he said. He sat down, as erect as possible. The leather stretched under him.

Would you like something to drink?

He looked up at her. Her brown eyes burned down into his. He could smell them. Is she offering me a drink? Liquor? Nawl. I shouldn't accept anything. I'll jus have some water, he said. Can't wait to check out that booty when she leave the room to get that water.

Jus some water? She put her hands on her hips and looked at him funny.

His face felt hot. Yes, please.

She turned. Swayed out of the room--he watched her huge buttocks struggling inside the tight jeans--hands still on her hips.

Bitch! Mocking me like that. Who she think she is? Nice ass.

She returned. Held out a whiskey tumbler of water to him.

Funny. Real funny. Thank you. He took the tumbler. She placed a wicker coaster on the coffee table before him, moved to the other side of the table and sat down on a loveseat beside the end table. Leaned back. Crossed her legs. And watched him, something in her face. She seemed to be breathing from a distance, without anger or tension. He took a sip of water and tried to avoid her brown eyes. A painting leaned out from the wall above her.

Thousands of glossy colored lines Spinning out from a massive ball of more glossy colored lines. What the fuck is that? Look like vomit, a hairball. Nice painting.

You like it?

Very much.

It's a Barakat.

Wow.

Her mouth curled into a smile, like some noose slipping around his neck.

Why is she fucking with me?

I picked out everything you see. She waved her arm expansively.

I can believe it. Most of this is down. But that painting, that bearcat, is apiece of shit.

So you here to audition?

Yes.

She chuckled, some private joke. Can you play?

That's what everyone tells me. He snorted a nervous laugh.

Where are you from?

South Shore.

Oh.

He heard himself breathe.

Ward is teaching me to play too.

You're one of his students?

She rolled her eyes in annoyance.

Now that was a stupid thing I said.

We share this condo. She waved her arm expansively again.

Condor, baby. Cause yall flying high. I see.

We're shacking together--as some people like to say. She gave Hatch a knowing look.

You're a real bitch. He sipped the water. Heard a door open. Set the tumbler down on the coaster. Heard muffled footsteps on the shaggy carpeting. Ward entered the room with a firm step, pinstripe pants legs snapping briskly like flags. Hatch slowly sighted up the pants stripes from the cuff to Ward's head. Bald! Hair-free. Light spun about his head like a helicopter. Hatch got to his feet. Porsche rose too, but slowly.

What's ap, Ward said.

What's ap. Hatch painted a smile. I got to be informal. He's bald! Man that nigger got a slickbean. He darted a glance at Ward's bald head.

Ward walked smiling over to Hatch and extended his hand. Hatch took the hand and met the firmness of Ward's grip. Greeting done, Ward went to stand beside the girl. I see you met Porsche, my baby.

Yo bitch, you mean. Yes. Smiled.

Ward kissed Porsche, long and deep, their tongues loud and noisy. Hatch witnessed them work. The sight and sound heated him, and he became both hard and brittle as pottery. His breath burned. They untied tongues. Smiled into each other's faces. She playfully pushed him away and rubbed his chest the way a child prods a beetle with a leaf, curiously but gently. Then Ward pulled her close and put his hand on her ass. Looked at Hatch. Ready? Kept his hand on the ass.

Hatch cleared his throat. Yeah, Ward. Sunlight began to soften, shortening its bright legs on the white carpet, drawing back its white light, sheep into the fold.

Porsche quit Ward's side--his hand slid far down her behind, then dropped and hung loosely at his side--and walked over and took Hatch's arm. They started out of the room, Ward leading and Porsche guiding Hatch by the arm. He wanted to jerk his hot arm away. Man, he gettin that big booty. He flashed a look at the painting, the bearcat. Lines. A ball of lines. All jumbled together. Rolled together. Like colored strings of electricity.

A round glass table hovered like a flying saucer above the dining room's center. On closer inspection you saw that the table had legs, four bright splinters of light, spaceship exhaust. Like a skating rink the table seemed to swirl (direct) space around it. Propelled you with a dizzy feeling under potted ferns suspended from the ceiling, their floppy fronds trailing down to familiar shaggy white carpeting. Fighting for balance, you wedged through an angle of open door at the far end of the room into a new room crowded with guitars. Man!

This is the Family Room, Ward said. He moved about the room, like a used-car dealer, gesturing with his hands. Porsche released Hatch's arm. All our kin, Ward said. This is Bessie Smith. He pointed to a plump, black, Gibson 335. This is Howlin Wolf. A tall, slim Telecaster. Muddy Waters. Ma Rainey. Lady Day. Ward moved, flapped the ravens of his black hands, hawked his wares. Lady Day. Duke. Satchmo. Basie. Bird. Dizzy. Newk. Trane. Miles. Ward touched his forehead in reflection. You know, I played on his last album. You know, that one he did before he died.

Oh yeah? How was that?

He wasn't even in the studio. He was on the phone. They held my mike up to the phone for him to listen. And you know what? They didn't even put my name on the album sleeve. It's sposed to be on the cd though.

Hatch made a mental note to check it.

Face serious, Porsche began circling the room. Ward pointed like a schoolteacher at the guitars and she named them. Ella. Sarah. Dinah. Minnie Riperton. Sunburst and slim. Arethea Franklin. Brown and round. Chaka Khan. Sade. Anita Baker. Toni Braxton. Jimi--

Ward interrupted her. Jimi Hendrix. A white Stratocaster with a rosewood neck.

Hatch didn't have long to admire the guitar before Ward told its story.

Bought it from a cat in England. Some hippie.

Maybe the others have a story too. Will they speak?

Thought long and hard on letting this nigger into my pantheon. Hippies had him dangling from their love beads. Yeah. He pandered to C.P. But, the boy could play. And he was trying to change, before C.P. murdered him.

Yeah C.P. murdered him. Hatch had never heard of C.P.

Ward raised his head. Looked at Hatch, something flickering in his eyes. So I see you know about ole C.P.

Hatch nodded.

Charlie Peckerwood.

Ah. Hatch had what he needed.

And he murdered Trane and Lady Day and Bud Powell and Dinah Washington and Wes and Bird and Scott Joplin.

You know your history.

Got to know it.

You said it, young brother. We both know C.P. ain't shit.

Ain't shit.

And we both know that's why C.P. always imitating us, stealing from us. Stealing.

Like we know there are but a handful of white boys who can play.

One or two.

Allan Holdsworth. Mike Stern. Peter Erskine. Mitch Mitchell. Jeff Berlin.

Stuart Ham.

McLaughlin. Art. Buddy.

Amen.

I commend these men and a few others. But let me say this. Ward raised the arrow of his finger. No European will ever enter my family. C.P. done fucked us over too bad.

You know it.

Why don't you watch your mouth, Porsche said. Keep a leash on your vocabulary. Why do you always talk so dirty?

Sorry, Ward said. I got sort of carried away.

Jesus!

Sorry.

Maybe I should just go someplace else! Porsche said.

No, baby. Stay. Please.

She watched Ward through half-closed eyes, her face fixed upon him, and Ward stood there, stilled, as if trying to play dead to trick some furious animal. And they stayed that way, she on one side of the room, Ward on the other, the guitars like sharpened stakes in the space between. After some time her body began to relax, a slow petering of muscular concentration--you could hear it, earth tremors--which cleared away the silence.

Let's go in here. Ward had difficulty saying the words.

The three of them moved into another room, Ward leading and Porsche guiding Hatch by his elbow, Hatch empowered by her rather than his own muscles. A Marshall combo squatted in the center of the room, folding chairs on either side of it. Two beige Gibson 357s leaned on stands beside the chairs. Porsche released Hatch's elbow. Ward motioned Hatch to one of the chairs and he moved to the other. They both sat down.

Hatch's stomach rose slowly like mercury up his chest, past his throat, mouth-bound. This is it. This what I came here for.

Ward looked pleadingly at Porsche. She hesitated. Okay. I'll leave you two alone, but you know you got something to do. She took her eyes off Ward and gave Hatch a look of pure disgust, as if he made her want to vomit. She charged out the room, slamming the door behind, her large buttocks imprinted on Hatch's mind.

Ward watched her go easily, then he turned his face in Hatch's direction and studied him.

Hatch flinched. Hope he didn't see me watchin that booty.

Ready?

Yeah, Ward. He had almost missed the question.

Don't pay Porsche no mind.

Okay.

You know how hos are.

Don't I.

Ward studied Hatch for a moment, the top of his bald head like a dark mountain. You probably wondering why I Ward Wardell wear these funnylookin suits? He fingered his blazer. Smoothed his silk polka-dot tie.

Nawl, I wasn't thinkin nothing like that.

You probably wondering why I keep this bald head. Ward tapped the crown of his head.

Hey--Hatch stitched his lips tight, sealing up a grin. A humorous sight, Ward's bald head was the lightest part of his black body.

You probably wonderin why I drive a hearse--you did see my ride?

Yeah. When it was in Will's alley. And in the newspaper.

I'll tell you why.

Tell me.

Black style. For every black musician fucked over by Charlie P.

Not more of that shit.

This isn't just a zoot suit, Ward fingered his blazer, but a uniform.

I see.

This isn't just a bald head--Nawl, it's a slickbean.

--Ward tapped the crown of his head, sound like brick, but a bullet. A nigger with a bald head strikes fear in Charlie Peckerwood's heart cause it says, Back off, Charlie P. I'm a crazy nigger and no tellin what a crazy nigger might do.

I heard that.

That's what I think to myself when I rub Neat on my head in the morning. Hate. I rub in hate. Ward waited a moment as if to still his anger. He drew a sharp breath. Continued. Damn! Nigger still ain't finished. I don't just drive a hearse-Wonder if he ever fucked her in the back of that thing-- I--

know why you drive that hearse, Hatch interrupted.

You do? Ward looked puzzled.

Yeah. I saw that article in the Defender.

What? Ward threw his head back and exploded into a laugh, laughter which seemed to rise up long and deep from within. Hatch began to laugh too, following Ward's lead. Ward ceased laughing, then, and Hatch ceased too, timed to the moment. Hatch, you all right, Ward said.

Thanks.

You good people.

Thanks.

Ward watched Hatch, his eyes big like a child's. Now, where was I? He sat there for quite awhile, as if trying to recapture his wrath. Now, that hearse says to Charlie, Mess with me and you'll get iced!

Iced.

And see, I live around white folks to deliver that same message, to make them uneasy and to show them that there's at least one fearless nigger left.

Fearless. I like yo crib ... and yo hearse.

Thanks. Ward chuckled. Man, I used to struggle to get Porsche to ride in that thing.

Hatch snorted a laugh.

What you think of my bitch?

What?

Porsche. What do you think of Porsche?

Oh, she's nice.

Don't even try it.

No. She's cool.

Nawl. She bad.

You right. Got this nigger in my pocket. Played that to a T.

Ward was quiet for a moment. Hatch saw something immense welling behind his eyes. I remember the first time we met. A year ago. Bingos. That supermarket over on 47th Street.

Hatch nodded as if he knew the place.

I was on my way to Jazzy Jacks Studio. Not digging much, just whistling and humming... Damn. I forgot the tune. So I walk into the store and hear the same song floating from the speaker ... Damn. What was that song? Then I see this fine young ho behind the counter. She looks at me. Says, You're cute, but why are you looking like a bum in that suit? Just like that. Her exact words. Never seen her before in my life.

She bold.

Bold ain't the word. Ward smiled at Hatch sideways, then recalled himself. We went to the movies that night too.

Butter on yo fingers. Bet you had butter on your fingers. Popcorn.

Had to sweet talk her an hour before she would step into my ride. So we hop in my ride and drive to the movie theater. Some bullshit flick. Cotton Small or Club Small or Small's Paradise. Whatever. And in this one scene this little old faggoty white boy starts parading himself nude on the screen, so I turns to Porsche and says, Close your eyes. You don't need to see that! Man I was just jokin but she closed her eyes. Just like that. Ward laughed. Hatch laughed. They both sat there laughing. Ward's sort of cool.

Got that pussy that night too.

Hatch cleared his throat.

Good too. Tight.

Hatch wished he could hide his face. At first I thought she was one of those feminists. She gon try to tell me how to fuck. How a ho gon do that? Man, I just kneeled between her legs and ate that pussy.

Hatch looked at his feet. Nasty nigger.

She was mine after that. Ward leaned forward in his chair. You eat pussy?

Hatch felt his skin was cracking. Yeah.

You got to eat that pussy.

Heard that. Hatch concentrated on pasting together his cracked skin.

Got to.

11:00! Porsche shouted from the other side of the door.

Okay! Ward said.

Damn. Bitch screaming like that. Why don't she shut the fuck up. I ain't even audition yet.

Hatch, you impress me. He waited a moment. You know your history and you seem to know the soundshapers of music, not just the guys who make the sounds. You don't have to audition. I want to teach you.

Hatch's heart flipped inside his chest.

Be here next Saturday, a week from today. Same time.

Thank you.

No need to thank me. Just bring your guitar.

I will. Thanks.

I usually charge seventy-five dollars a lesson-you probably know that, well, I told you. But peep this, I only charge brothers ten.

Really? Thanks.

11:00! Porsche screamed. You could hear death in her voice, bones rubbing against one another.

Sorry, Hatch, but I got to call it a day. Got to run some errands with my bitch. Throw a dog a bone.

Cool. I understand.

They both got to their feet. Ward put Hatch's shoulders and back into the crook of his arm as they headed out of the room. The weight and immensity of Porsche's expression shoved them backwards. Ward squeezed Hatch tighter for balance, and Hatch fought to remain upright. Porsche studied Ward, arms folded across her breasts.

I was jus finishing up here with Hatch.

Well finish.

Hatch, you alright.

Thanks. So are you.

Ward released Hatch's back and offered his hand. Hatch took it. Ward squeezed Hatch's hand hard and quick, then released it. Walked over to Porsche. Kissed her on the cheek.

Time to go. She squawked outrage.

Well, I'm going to escort Hatch downstairs.

She rolled her eyes, two carpets of brown flames.

It'll only take a minute.

She stomped out of the room with Hatch's eyes imitating the motion of her buttocks.

A door slammed.

She gets like that sometime. Ward tried to grin. Let's go.

Hatch followed Ward to the front door. Took a final glance at the doorman on the television screen, and a glance away, the painting. A ball of something or other. Thorns. That's it. A tangle of colored thorns.

The top of Ward's bald head almost touched the elevator's square grating. Reflected light and steel.

The doorman says he's a musician.

That nigger can't play nothing but a liquor bottle.

They both laughed.

He started a petition last year to get street musicians licensed.

A sudden feeling of warmth rose in Hatch's chest. Bubbles took to air, each bright sphere carrying the doorman's face. Ah. Now he remembered where he'd seen the old drunk. His photograph and image had been in all the newspapers and on the tv news. The memory carried him out of himself. He felt grateful for how the doorman had helped Walter Wonder, but then memory of his rude, accusing manner toward Hatch--yes, what about how he treated me?--pushed through and gratitude swiftly drained. That old-ass drunk?

Yeah. Hard to believe.

He called you a pussyassmother-fucker. The final touch.

Ward's face went blank. Eyes shriveled into two little black-eyed peas. Oh yeah? I'll fix his ass.

The elevator shook them out. Dice. The doorman sat on his bare, hard stool, top hat tilted forward in sleep.

Thanks again, Hatch said.

You're welcome. Ward was watching the doorman. Hatch followed Ward over to where the doorman snored on his stool. Ward shoved his shoulder. The doorman shot up off his stool as if someone had spilled water on him, eyes blinking and legs shivering. He stood for a moment, top hat crooked, a bird's nest ready to topple. He turned. Gave Ward a mean look. What the fuck you think you doin?

Hatch felt the heat of his breath.

I told you about talkin shit to my students.

Punk, you better get outa my face. He balled his fists.

Your ass will be out of a job by tonight. I promise you that.

Fuck you!

I promise you.

Punk, suck my shit!

Ward spun on his heels and charged back toward the elevator.

Hatch turned to leave. The doorman grabbed his elbow. Tight. I hope you ain't like that piece of shit there. 2711. Pointed at the elevator.

Gon bout you business old man! Hatch jerked his arm free.

You ain't nothing but a little piece of shit!

Hatch's mouth went crooked with effort.

Miniature doo doo. A little mouse turd. A guppie.

You better be cool.

What you gon do, punk?

Be cool. Chill.

You ain't shit, are you?

Hatch looked into the old drunk's face and let his anger unravel. Why am I letting a drunk get to me? Fuck up my cool. Waste my time. Whatever you say.

I asked you a question.

I ain't got time.

You don't give a damn, do you?

Later for you.

Do you? Answer me. You little trick.

Trick? Hatch cut a grin. You wanna see a trick? I'll show you a trick. He stuck two fingers inside his nostrils.

Jeffery Renard Allen is Associate Professor of English at Queens College, CUNY. His 2000 novel Rails Under My Back won the Chicago Tribune's Heartland Prize for Fiction, and he is the author of a book of poems, Harbors and Spirits (1998).