I don't work well with others.
There are wood statues which stand next to the walk that leads to the door. People are drawn to them, must stop and get closer. Nobody seems to recognize they function as CD holders bought to represent a particular type of music, something wild and instinctual like what could be found in Chulahoma. The tall one looks in peace while the short has a face of called to war. I love them both the same but price them according to height, forty for the tall one and twenty for looking for a fight.
I'll give you thirty-five for both, she says.
Sold, I reply.
Slater chastises me 'cause they were our draw but I just laugh at him because now they are dinner.
We are the hunters and gatherers of the twenty first century.
There is a breeze, we are in the shade and the street soon shows traffic. A few people drive by, slow up and come close to a stop. They look, we wave and they keep on going.
Rejection, I say.
A white car pulls up to the curb and stops.
Why does that car remind me of Adam? He asks.
'Cause it's like someone said pimp my ride but don't pimp it too much.
The guy gets out.
Never mind, Slater says.
Don't be too quick to dismiss. He may just be an older version.
He buys a Buddy Guy CD for a dollar and a heavy, tall candle holder for three. The candle holder, he says, will be turned into an ashtray and I smile at his imagination though I am much more interested in his choice of music. Come to find out he is a blues aficionado, once threw a party for Jessie Mae Hemphill and has his own juke joint. Good Morning America has come to his place, he was photographed by Annie Leibovitz.
Damn, I say. What's your name? The question is ridiculous. I already know.
Sherman Cooper, he answers.
On a Saturday morning in my front yard stands Sherman Cooper, a man I have been trying to meet for a year. We were conducting a trade, and I get four of his dollars. I consider this to be the perfect North Mississippi parting gift.
Today I am grateful for gifts.
And look, here's Steve.
|Goodbye, angry one.|