Yarn Cats, Inc.

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

There was a time in my life when I had a real job. It required me to fly on a lot of airplanes and feel like I was important. I blew the money I made. That’s another story.

Well, this job was with an English company. The office closed when management flew home to the UK for two weeks at the end of every year. Associates had two weeks off throughout the rest of the year. Time did not roll over. That summer, my vacation requests got cancelled after some folk were fired and I was assigned their workload. At first I griped, but the closer we got to Thanksgiving, the happier I got. My time would not roll over. The company wasn’t going to cut me a check. I had two weeks of vacation I was owed and another two weeks mandated. I had all of the requests and their denials in writing. Just before the November holiday, I sat my boss down and explained my dilemma. He got angry, mainly with himself. It’s not like he picked up any slack for the folk he’d let go. He put it all on me. Sometimes it’s like that, man.

Anyway, I had a month of vacation and nothing to do. I decided to learn racquetball. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

None of the fellas played racquetball, but that was easily remedied. Everything else aside, I have always been blessed with open minded friends. Luckily, at that time, we all had memberships at a local health club whose commercials promised trimming workouts but whose restrictive contracts only guaranteed to fatten its parent company’s wallet. We were all bored. I think we were all single. Racquetball Saturday mornings was not a hard sell, just tough logistically. The only branch in our area that boasted racquetball courts was in the River City complex in the West Loop. We all agreed to meet there my first Saturday morning off. We all bought racquets during the week. None of us knew how to play. I made sure the courts were reserved.

For all of his technical talents, Mark should have been a teacher. He has a natural affinity for it. As we sat outside of our reserved courts Saturday morning, he patiently explained the game to us. He’d found instructions on the Internet, and had watched some people play the night before, peppering them with questions.
Our crew had reserved both courts. Early Saturday morning. Eventually, the four of us: me, Mark, Flat and Irwin, worked up a collective sweat as we learned the basics of the game. Saturday morning became Tuesday nights for us all and weekday mornings as well for me and Flatbush, since we had the most daytime availability. Racquetball took over our lives, and by week three, everyone had made some adjustment. Mark had found a pro quality racquet at a used equipment shop for little of nothing. I spent three weeks working my deltoids and forearms really hard to improve the strength of my swing. Flat would practice with a 1970s area super small racquet, and switch up for the games to a standard size. His technique in hitting the ball from the standard racquet’s sweet spot was unbelievable. Irwin had put his karate lessons (and his ganja smoking) on hold in order to focus on his game and improve his wind, respectively.

Four guys learning a new sport. Dedicating themselves to perfecting their skill.

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

One Tuesday night, Flat innocently asked if we could improve our games further by playing for stakes.

Everybody gave Flatbush the leery eye.

“Like what?” I asked aloud. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mark shake his head.

Irwin said, “What? Just play different people until w get better?”

Flat did not even acknowledge Irwin. “Put money in a pot every Saturday, winner of a day’s tournament takes it home.”
That was adding too much complexity to the agreement. I agreed playing for something would increase the intensity of our game, but having to make sure I had cash every Saturday morning, plus always wondering if I was going to win some money, was too much. Also, we all knew that whenever Flat and money were together, he had an angle.

“Tell you what,” I suggested. “Let’s do this. We play until total elimination. Loser buys breakfast. Winner chooses where we eat. The other two guys come along for the ride. I’ll referee to make sure some of us,” we all eyed Flat intently, “doesn’t go overboard with expensive restaurant choices.”

The fellas agreed readily. Flatbush gave me the evil eye for a second, which I returned, but then he reached into his bag for his racquet, and we all began to warm up. Mark watched this whole exchange quietly. Irwin complained he was out of cigarettes.

“Man,” I asked, “didn’t you give up weed?”

“Yeah,” Irwin shrugged, “but cigarettes are filtered.”

It really didn’t start as a hustle.

We are four relatively decent guys. Smart, too. A bit too smart for our own good.

Initially, our tournaments were intense sessions that involved a lot of cussing, trash talking and banging into walls as if they were made of feathers. Those first few “Loser Buys Breakfast” Saturdays, I noticed grimaces as guys tried to raise coffee cups to their mouths or chew with any rapidity.

Eventually, though, our tournaments became less about winning, and more about not losing.

In fact, Flatbush became Irwin’s bosom buddy. I noticed when Irwin was out of squares, Flat always had a pack of Newports in his bag for him. Although Flat had quit smoking ages ago, claiming it interfered with his sex life.

Many Saturday mornings, I also noticed Irwin walking into the club bleary eyed. The explanation? He and had had started making Friday their hangout night.

“Wanna come? Flatbush is usually real good for a few drinks. He usually gets my bar tab. Says business is good.” Irwin changed out of his clubbing clothes into his workout gear, trying to shake the hangover off.

I gave Irwin a hard look. “I’ll pass.”

Mark shook his head.

We each had different playing styles. Mark knew all the technicalities and would play by-the-book racquetball. I had a serve that was difficult to hit and was willing to take my lumps to get a point.

Flat was a smart player. Always competitive, he worried about the score. Sometimes, after a heated exchange, he would gently lob the ball off the back wall, making it impossible for a defender like me, at he back of the court and geared up for a blast, to return it within a bounce. Point, Flatbush.

Irwin played an OK game, but he was usually distracted.

Sharks know blood. Even when it is their own. While this didn’t start out as a hustle, the unwritten name of the game went from “Win at All Costs” to “Just Beat Irwin.” Once, I heard Flat mutter when I had him down several points, that all he had to do was outrank Irwin. A couple of times when one of us forgot our wallet on a Saturday morning, the sideways glances said it all. “As long as Irwin has his, we’ll eat well after the match.”

There were still battles. I guess we all wanted a shot at choosing the breakfast location, plus there was just a strong sense of competition. I wanted to shut Flat’s mouth. Flat wanted to prove he could return my serve.

One day, Flat and Mark had a match that for all its intensity would have made a Jedi master proud. Flat’s brains and hustle versus Mark’s technique. I sat, like a kid, with my nose pressed to the glass the whole time. There was something bigger than just racquetball and breakfast happening that morning, and while I don’t think there was any thaw in the ice between, each had a heightened level of respect for the other when they emerged from the court, panting. I went half on breakfast with Irwin. We clearly both lost. The show was worth going halves on the check with the real loser, Irwin.

Those were great Saturdays. A lot of exercise with your friends and a guaranteed free meal afterwards. Women may have played fair and thrown a game or two to help Irwin out. Wasn’t happening. Mark had too much integrity, Flat had too much to gain, and me? I was angry the man was letting himself be duped by Flat.

Being honest? There were times Irwin tried to put up a game, and I noticed the three of us got relentless then. You could see the look on each of our faces as we crushed Irwin like a pop can. “Dude, I FORGOT my WALLET!”

Irwin never complained. I am a fan of cheap breakfasts in out of the way places. Mark believes in fairness. I practiced, I came sound of mind and clean of body, I played hard, if I have a taste for something expensive, too bad. I played by the rules.

Flat just wanted to get over.

One Saturday, we were breakfasting at Army & Lou’s after a Flatbush win. Some folk go to places like Army & Lou’s for the history. Some because they like the food. People like Flat go because many years ago such places were jammed packed with Black luminaries who made soul food restaurants like Army & Lou’s and Izola’s their stomping grounds. Flat was 30 years late in everything. Flat would buy a deuce and a quarter not for its classic appeal but because that’s what “in” Black folk drove hen we were kids. Forget that we had moved on to BMWs. We weren’t at Bazzell’s French Quarter Bistro when Flat won. We were at Army & Lou’s; I guess hoping Cecil Partee and Harold Washington (both dead) would drop by.

So while enjoying soul food at 9am (I think I was having catfish and scrambled eggs), Flat began announcing how life was like racquetball. Through hard work, cunning and hustle, I am at the top. Today’s game proves it. For all of you guys’ education, playing by the rules and just generally doing what you think you should to be successful, I choose where we eat most Saturdays because I, Flatbush, am the real example of Black male success.

A lot of this rant seemed aimed more at Irwin than the rest of us. Mark’s origins were humbler, and truth be told, he was harder than Flat could be in a dream. Flat made a point of keeping me around because it made him look like he was an OK guy. When he’d meet women while hustling on trains or the streets, the ones that would agree to go out with him would meet me. “See, I have educated normal friends,” the gesture seemed to say, “I just choose to be a street hustler. You know how classist Black folk can be…if I was that bad; would this dude be hanging with me?”

I had my flaws, too, however.
Flat really seemed to be giving Irwin a hard time. Irwin, too had played by the rules, and done well for himself. He came from a very tight and supportive family. Of the three of us, Irwin appeared the softest. He wasn’t internally hard like Mark and he wasn’t a devil may care ass like me. Flat was more bark than bite but the very way he made his living meant he was not weak.

This all got kind of old. First, I never though fish should be paired with eggs. Second, Flat had bested me in a match that went into extended points and he eked out a two point win. Third, I was always curious. Why is it these Black folk who love to talk about how rough they had it and how real they are die to spend their time with the very boogie Negroes over whom they claim superiority? You send your kids to a private school, you are wrecking the system. Your kids are spoiled. They do it, their kids are fortunate. They spend more time criticizing the way you live and were reared and trying to provide their own kids with some bootleg version of the same, usually so they can look down on someone else.

“Dude,” I started. Mark cleared his throat. His eyes were bright. Irwin kept looking at his plate.

“The hell you talking about Flat?”

“Bill Gates…no education…Sean Combs…no education…Leonardo DiCaprio…no education…Michael Dell…no education…Richard Branson…no education…you educated Negroes think you run something, but you don’t have the drive to run yourselves. Regardless of how much family you got or schoolin’ you need, people like ME make the world go around. Ya’ll got the same bad habits as anyone else. You don’t get as many women as I do. I’m even better at your sports that you are.”

Mark had a look on his face that could only be described as the cat having eaten the canary. He looked intently at me. Irwin was looking at his plate.

I pushed aside my fish and laughed. Then I started, calmly.

“Man, don’t think for a minute just because you didn’t go to school, that puts you in with a group of folk who missed graduation but made something else happen.

“Bill Gates…operating system to the world…Sean Combs…questionable but ultimately profitable music…Dicaprio…Oscar, anyone? Dell…yeah, cheap computing makes him the Henry Ford of the millennium…Branson? The only Virgin most guys are willing to embrace…

“What do you DO, Flat? What do you produce? If you kicked the bucket today, what could the world say you offered it with your presence? Oh, you liked chasing big booty hood rats that had 5 kids by 6 dudes before they were twenty…”

“I make money…”

“Doing what? Dude, you sell bootleg products. The Chinese won’t even put you on they payroll, so you ain’t a serious bootlegger. Wow. You the dude that show up in the beauty salon dressed like a clown and selling something that has the societal and consumer value of, what? A damn yarn cat.”

Some things are funnier in concept than sound. Mark almost spit milk through his nose. Irwin was shaking with mirth. Flat glared at me.

“A what?”

“A yarn cat, fool. You on the bottom side of industry. Do you sell toiletries? No. Groceries? No. Books? Hell no, you just read the ones where everything is a damned conspiracy. Shoes? No. You sell bootleg consumer products. A clear indicator that even your clientele, the so called “real uneducated Black folk” are in worse shape than you. They would rather pay you for a knockoff of a product so they can associate themselves with what they think defines having money than just buy something functional and live their lives.”

“My products are…”

“Useless as a damn yarn cat. A cat made outta a ball of yarn. Looks like a damn cat but if you put it over in the corner by some mice, eventually they have beat its ass, ripped it to shreds and used its innards to make their holes more comfortable. Sad thing about yarn cats? They are not even useful. They are not even a justifiable impulse buy. They just some dumb shit one fool thought up to sell to another fool so the fool’s economy can keep both of them feeling productive.

“What kinda work you do baby?
“I sell yarn cats. They useless, but they look good. Kinda like me. I pretend to be useful, but I got the utility of a damn cat made out of a spool of calico. What I can do is dog women, hustle my friends and convince myself that I am better than the very people I strive to emulate on a daily basis.”

My voice had never risen above an ever conversational tone. We could have been discussing the weather, except one would wonder why climate change would evoke the responses coming from Mark and Irwin.

“If you so damned on top of things, what you playing racquetball for anyway? Shouldn’t you be out on the courts somewhere? Damn. What? You a reverse wannabe? Some people wanna be thugs? You wanna be boogie?”

Flat was steaming, but he stayed quiet. For the next hour, as we stuck around, whenever the conversation got slow, Irwin would mutter “Yarn carts” and Mark would mutter in turn, “’Bout as useful as a stove made outta gasoline cured wood.”

The Best Dinner There Never Was

It was Sunday.

I was crashing with Flat in his studio apartment in Hyde Park. Mark was there too. I did not live in the residence hall that semester, waiting on funds to come through for a small apartment downtown, close to the campus and my last internship, a job in the research department for a British communications firm. The floor was hard at Flatbush’s place, but it was easier than the much longer daily commute from my parent’s place way out south.

Mark was off work for a minute, and had stayed with Flat and I that week, hanging while I was at work and school, and regaling me with stories of their day. Flat always had a bunch of girls around, especially during the day, and some of the stories I stopped mid way so I could have some deniability.

On this Sunday, however, Mark confided he was ready to go back to his own home, much further west, in a much different neighborhood. His vacation twenty five minutes east was over, and he was grateful.

“What?” I started. “You haven’t had fun? Man. I’ve envied ya’ll. That strip poker thing with those coeds ya’ll had Thursday was enough to make me consider dropping out and living a little.”

Mark shook his head.

“It isn’t worth it,” he started, heavily.

“What? The women? The partying? My regret is you all manage to get all of this done while the sun is shining. When I get back, ya’ll are all done just when I’m ready to hang out.”

Mark shook his head. “You ever stop to ask just what kind of women are available at noon to drink some beer and play strip poker?”

I hadn’t. “The kind that likes to get naked after a couple brews, I guess.”

Mark glared at me.

“I’m gone tonight, man. I can only take Flatbush in small doses.”

“Why? Ya’ll appear to be having fun. You go with him when he hustles. Ya’ll come back here. You drink; you party with women who obviously aren’t bashful.”

Mark chose his words carefully. “Flat…can be…grating.”

“Huh?”

“He doesn’t…this is not a life you want, man. This cat makes a lot of weird choices.”
I learned something then. There are instances when you have different friends, and it is wise not to mix them. Their being close to you does not mean they will establish the same rapport with someone else that has the same relationship with you. What they have in common in you. They aren’t obligated to dig each other.

“This lifestyle,” Mark said again, slowly, “can be toxic. And I’m not talking about the booze and cigarettes.”

That said, we went upstairs, where Flatbush was having a conversation with Emo, his daughter’s mother.

Emo and Flat were on again, off again. Knowing how Flatbush had serious issues with infidelity, that was obvious. He appeared a good dad, but a lousy boyfriend. Flat once admitted to Mark and I the reason they split this last time was because Emo came home from work early one day.

“So?” I asked. An early work day is a good thing.

“I had company.”

“So?”

“My company was in bed with me.”

Oh. In the house ya’ll shared? Yeah, the old Eddie Murphy defense, ‘Wasn’t me!”
probably didn’t fly that day. The fur did, though, with Emo putting him out and Mr. Jones taking the studio apartment he used as his current address.

Emo relented, though, and got an apartment in the building next door to Flat’s. That didn’t stop him from entertaining his female guests at all hours of the day, but he assured us theirs was a relationship based on the mutual parenting of their beautiful daughter.

Flat could be a real bastard, though. One of the things I have learned is if you are not serious about a woman, limit certain interactions with her. Some guys limit that to intimate relationships. I have learned to take that a step or two further. Don’t borrow her car. Don’t assume responsibility for her. Refuse to take money from her, especially large sums. Don’t give her any reason to assume there is more to your relationship than there is.

If you share a child, you can amend these rules slightly, but be easy about it. Don’t slip into the role of doting significant other AND daddy. Be straight. If you need to borrow her car because yours is on a flat and you have to take the baby to the doctor that day, that’s OK. If she offers to go half on daycare and gives you the money, that’s OK. It is expected you will sit together at family and school functions and beam with pride and laugh as your child is lauded for some accomplishment. You may have to get together over coffee, even a light lunch, to discuss why Junior thinks he is running game by trying to pit you two against each other.

Avoid romantic dinners just because she offers to pay. Don’t borrow her car to hang out for the day and promise you’ll take her for drinks later and tell her about your day. Resist the urge to grab her hand at family events and lament over what could have been if the two of you worked it out.

This was all foreign to Flatbush. If he needed Emo’s car to pick up some tail on the other side of town and his was low on gas, he’d borrow hers. If there was some new get rich quick scheme he needed start-up cash for and he was low on funds, he’d hit up Emo, saying it was for “the family.” In short, he basically did everything short of sleeping with Emo to make it clear to her he still had an interest in her, as long as there was a personal benefit for him. It was wrong, and I told him about it, but he shrugged it off. Poor Emo. She was a bright woman who really tried to make something work, but the guy she chose had one interest: himself. I used to tell Flat he could never get with the women I wanted because they had lines they weren’t going to cross. I was glad of that.

Emo stopped by that sunny fall afternoon while Flatbush, Mark and I were playing Monopoly. Flat was gloating about how he would one day rule the city the way he was ruling the board, and every time he opened his mouth, I saw Mark grimace. We were drinking beer and passing the time.

Emo watched us for a while, smiling.

“Hey Emo,” I said.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. You know, I was just thinking it is nice to see three Black men enjoying their selves, enjoying a drink, no cursing, no loud talking, and no violence. I think this is really cool. I’d like to make you guys dinner if you don’t mind.”
At the time my main meal was lunch, at work, Monday through Friday. Sundays like this one were a god time to order Harold’s chicken and prep for the upcoming week.
“I think I can fry some chicken, make some cornbread, rice, and greens. I can have it whipped up in a couple hours, you guys can come next door to my place, we can eat, watch TV…”

Mark and I happily chorused we were in. Flat muttered something noncommittal. Emo bustled off to start the meal.

I got to thinking about that food and couldn’t concentrate on much else. I had to do something to kill that time, which now was creeping along as if I were Atlas holding up the world, looking up every five minutes for Hercules to come give me a break.
“That’s it,” I said, standing. “I’m losing the game anyway. Look, I got some laundry to do for this week. I’ma go knock that out instead of sitting here listening to my stomach growl.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Mark volunteered.

“Uh, OK. Flat?”

“I’ma wash later. But ya’ll take ya’ll time,” he reached for his burnout cel phone and dialed a number.

“Yeah, who this? Hey. Naw, this Flat. What you doin’ this afternoon?”

I looked at Mark. He shook his head slightly.

“Yeah. Knock three times. Yeah. Naw, I got somebody watching me. It’s cool, though.”

I looked. “Flat? What the hell?”

“I’m having some company is all.”

“Dog, we got a couple hours until dinner?”

Mark was still shaking his head.

“Flat,” I was boiling, “I want this dinner, man…please don’t do anything incredibly… stupid.”

This was a decade before Captain Jack Sparrow made this statement part of the lexicon. Mark shook his head.

We were still stuffing clothes into my laundry bag when there were three raps at the door.

Flat hustled over to the door and escorted in a woman six inches taller than he. She walked in with a sneer and tossed her weave over her shoulder.

She was solidly built, devoid of any anatomical extremes that make men say, “Did you see her…”

She sneered at us. “Who they?”

“They leaving.” Flat held the door for us. I grabbed my laundry bag, Mark took the detergent and we walked out. She slammed the door behind us.

We didn’t speak til we reached the laundry room.

“What the hell?” I started.

Mark shook his head.

“Kinda what I’ve been saying about this whole week.”

I started washing, and we amused ourselves making up stories. One of us would stop the story, drop it, and wait for the other to pick it up. Juvenile? Yeah. We had to kill time, though. I was hungry.

“I was gonna wait until tonight, but I think I’ll head home in a little while.” Mark announced.

“What? You’re gonna miss a great dinner. That Emo is a helluva cook.”

Mark shook his head. “Not going to be any dinner, man. You may want to call Harolds, or order a pizza.”

“What is it with you, man?”

“This guy’s personality is…grating. He works on impulse. It’s all about immediate gratification, about some kind of sensory pleasure. He doesn’t really have a sense of loyalty to anyone but himself, and his sense of decency is pretty shallow.”

“Man, you weren’t complaining when his female buddies were getting indecent with you this week.”

“True. I never said that I was perfect. We can all be hedonists sometimes, but this dude…it’s his speed. It is who he is all the time. The only thing of which you can be sure is that he is going to always do whatever brings him some pleasure, so matter how fleeting, and he will choose that over anyone and anything.”

Mark talked funny sometimes.

“I mean, what’s his problem? Did you see her?”

I didn’t answer because Flatbush stumbled in. His face was ashen.

“How could she get in?” he muttered.

It took the entire dry cycle for the story to end.

“Me and old girl were getting into it, right? We must have been going for a good fifteen, twenty minutes when I heard bamming on the door.

“Flat! Flatbush! I know you in there! Open up!”

“Emo?” I ask dumb questions. Mark shook his head. Flat nodded, some color returning to his face.

“So I ignore her. I keep doing my thing with ol’ girl, she says, Who is that? I say, My baby momma. Forget it. I guess Emo went away.

“We keep going. The bamming starts again. Flat! Flatbush! Flatbush Jones! I know you up in some girl in thee! I know you all up in her! You think I’m stupid! I ain’t stupid! How could you do this to me? I’m over here cookin’ for your ass and you do me like this?

“So I tell ol’ girl, Look, this wreckin’ my stroke. Let’s go in the bathroom.

“We in the bathroom, she’s over the sink, havin’ a good ol’ time when the bamming starts again.

“Flatbush! Be a man! You got one minute to come open this door or I’m coming in! I gotta key!

“I’m thinking, Man, this woman ain’t got no key. I never let my keys outta my sight because I know how she is. I keep strokin’ and the bathroom door flies open.”

I shook my head. Mark actually smiled. Then he grinned. Wide.

“Emo?”

“Yeah.”

Mark’s grin turned thermonuclear.

“Where was, ah, your company?”

“Still bent over the sink.”

“Where were you?”

“Still inside her.”

“Oh.”

Mark began giggling.

“So then, Emo starts hollering at me and slapping me around…I am still in the…”

“I get it, move on.”

“So when I’m finally, um, out, ol’ girl, buck naked, starts talking to Emo about what a dog I am. She starts getting dressed, all the while telling Emo how I’m only good for one thing, and how she should stay away from me. They walk out together, and as they’re leaving, ol’ girl tells Emo, What you expect from someone with no spirituality?”

Mark headed for the door.

“Been real, gentlemen. JD, I be in touch.”

I heard Mark’s laughter until the outside door closed behind him.

“What’s so damn funny?” Flat fumed.

“You got the number to Harold’s?” I asked.

Moving with Flatbush

A few months after I ran into Flatbush on State Street that day, he called me at my dorm room. 731 Plymouth Court was the residence hall for my college, but each dorm was really a large loft with two bedrooms, common area, and kitchen. The building was beautiful, and people who saw my address on checks mistakenly assumed I was some up and coming Buppie with a South Loop address, as opposed to a broke student living with three other guys in overpriced campus housing.

“McCallum?”

“Yep. Who is this?” My roommates and I had just scraped together enough cash to satisfy the phone company they should reconnect our service. His call was the first time the thing rang in a few days.

“Flat.”

“You know your name is an adjective?”

“Funny. You always were a nerd.”

“How is the political game going?”

“It’s OK. Wanna meet the candidate?”

I was rereading Royko’s ”Boss”, and pictured Flatbush in some garish suit, pounding the pavement, ringing doorbells and canvassing votes for the party. The problem with Chicago was there was only one real party, so all of the competition came from within.

“I’m good. I see he’s getting his fair share of press.”

“Yep.”

“You really think he can beat the incumbent? I mean, when your Daddy was mayor, and now you are mayor, and let’s be honest, being Irish doesn’t hurt…”

“We’re gonna give it our best shot.” Flat switched gears. “Look, the reason that I’m calling is that I’m moving, and I need some help.”

Moving in February always sounds like fun. Chicago Februaries are known for their mild, balmy weather, chirping birds and good looking women wearing beachwear to the grocery.

“You leaving the place on Carpenter?”

“Naw. I left there a few months back. Brother Bi En Ali lost his job and couldn’t keep up his end of the rent.”

“Gotcha.”

“We’re moving from my father’s place in Harvey to my new spot in Hyde Park.”

“Where abouts?”

“Right across from Kenwood.”

I hesitated.

“C’Mon…I’ll feed ya. And I’ll buy the beer. You’re looking like you enjoy both.”
I agreed. Reluctantly.
That Tuesday, Flat picked me up in his ancient Jaguar from the dorm. We motored south, stopping at McDonald’s for breakfast. I figured the hash brown and eggs would stave off the sub zero temperatures that refrosted the car’s windows in the ten minutes we were in the burger joint.

“My father,” Flat started, as we kept rolling south, “is a trip. When I moved out of Carpenter, he offered to let me stay with him for a while ‘til I got on my feet.”

“That was cool.”

“Yeah, but with my father…I dunno. All he has left is this house. He used to own two furniture stores, a fish market, two corner stores, and a barbershop. He is probably the reason that I can’t work for someone else.”

“Sounds like a real entrepreneur.”

Flat’s face twisted. “I hate that word. Cats running around Hyde Park with no job, no money, just some damned business cards in their pocket, tellin’ everyone who will listen they are “entrepreneurs.” Please. My father was in business. Nothin’ fancy. I remember working with him, we’d be pullin’ catfish from the tank, clubbin’ ‘em, cleanin’ ‘em, processing them for sale. He had me help him lift that cheap ass furniture off trucks from who knows where and resell it at crazy credit terms…no, most entrepreneurs, as you call ‘em, never did no work. They just talked a lot and went to The Red Onion talking shit. My father made money.”

I grew slightly offended. “I like The Red Onion. It’s down the street from my house.”
Flat looked at me sideways. “How much money you got n you now?”

Ouch.

We pulled up to a small, well kept bungalow.

“Wait a minute…let me tell him I got somebody helping me.”

“How we gonna get your big stuff?”

“He got a truck. He wants my stuff out of his house so badly, he should let us use it.”

Should?

Man, it was cold. Flat had turned off the car, and a chill set in the ten minutes we were in the house. He came back out and had me follow him around to a side door.
We went inside. To the left, there were steps that led to the basement. To the right, three steps took you into the kitchen.

At the top of the steps, by the kitchen, was a man who so closely resembled Flatbush, there was no guessing who he was.

Flat grunted an introduction. “Bushmill, James. James, Bushmill. We gon’ get started now.”

The man shook my hand, grunted “How ya doin’?” and turned around.
Flat and I worked for over an hour, loading boxes from the basement into the Jag, and loading furniture onto an open truck parked in the alley in back of the house.

“Bushmill?” Flat called inside.

I heard something I couldn’t make out.

“Where the keys for the truck?”

I heard something else.

“We been through that. I got it loaded already. Where are the keys?”
Flat closed the door and trudged back to the garage. “We gotta charge the truck battery,” he announced. He disappeared inside the garage end emerged with two cables and a charger box.

“No idea how long this thing been sitting. We better let it charge for a bit. C’mon. We’ll go inside."

Once we got in and divested of our outerwear, we sat at the kitchen table. Bushmill was cooking something on the stove, some kind of meat. The aroma filled the house.

He flipped whatever was in the skillet onto a plate with some bread, and sat down.

“Ya’ll almost done?” he grunted between chewing.

“Yeah. We’re gonna run the truck down to my place. Emo and the baby are there. We’ll unload, and I’ll bring the truck back, I’ll be out of your hair.”
Bushmill looked up from his sandwich.

“My truck?”

“We been through this.”

Bushmill shook his head. “Why are you using MY truck? Don’t your friend have a truck?”

“He just came to help me. You knew I was using your truck. I told you I was using your truck. You aren’t using it. You want me out.”

Father leveled a look at son that would have shaken the dead.

“That’s your problem. You assume everybody is supposed to do for you. In this world, things cost, man. You just expect to use my truck…”

“You wanted me gone!”

“So now, you gonna take your stuff and leave? Using MY truck?”

“Do we have to have this conversation now?” There was an edge in Flat’s voice I’d never heard before.

“Look, I just want to move my things to my new place, and see my daughter, your granddaughter.”

“Yeah. What? You a father now? You think you a good one?”

“I’m good enough to where if my daughter were leaving home, she wouldn’t have to call her friends to help. I’d be the first person helping her move.”

“You never listened! You always wanna take advantage! Look, if you want to use my truck, it’s gonna cost you a bill. Just like if you wanna borrow the white man’s equipment.”

Flatbush shook his head. “I don’t HAVE a hundred dollars to give you. Can I give it to you next week?”

“No!”

“I have to feed my child!”

“Not my problem!”

“We already loaded the truck!”

“So?”
Flat was seething. I was looking out the window. Stay out of family matters.

“C’mon,” Flat said with disgust. Bushmill yelled some things at Flat’s back, but I couldn’t make them out.

We got in the Jaguar. Flat exhaled, and turned the key.

Nothing happened.

“Shit!” Flat exclaimed. “Too cold…”

“Can we bring the charger from the truck around front?”

“No outlets in front, no extension cord.”

“Oh.”

“Look, c’mon.”

We went back in the house, where Bushmill was drinking something, probably coffee, judging from the steam at the top of the cup.

“What you need?” he growled.

“A jump.”

“A hundred dollars.”

“Look, man, I’m not taking your truck. I just want to get my stuff and get outta here. I have to get my friend home.”

“Not my problem.”

Bushmill put down his cup and quickly twisted Flat’s arm, grabbing his car keys.

“Before this is over, you’re gonna respect me.”

Bushmill disappeared into a bedroom. When he emerged, he locked the door.

“It’s five o’clock,” he said. “I’m going out. If ya’ll still here when I get back, I’ma charge ya’ll a hundred to stay the night. Each.”

With that, he went out the front door, locking it behind him.

I didn’t know what to say.

Flat was all action.

“C’mon,” she said, putting on his coat.

“We’re locked in.”

“He went out the FRONT. We came in through the BACK. Back door is open.”
“He took your keys!” This was surreal.

“The truck keys still in my coat pocket. We’re going back to the city. NOW. Truck’s been charging long enough.”

We hotfooted it outside, where Flatbush quickly disconnected the charger. We got in the truck, which had a few years on even Flat’s Jag, but it turned over immediately, with a healthy roar.

“Good,” Flat muttered. “We need gas. There’s a station at the end of the alley. We outta here.”

Flatbush hit the accelerator, and we shot forward. We went the half block to the street and rolled into the gas station, where the truck died at the pump.

“Right on time,” I said, shivering. The heat hadn’t kicked in. Flat grunted.

“I’ll pay…you pump.”

Right when Flat went in to pay the attendant, a police cruiser pulled up. My mouth went dry. Everything aside, we’d just stolen a truck. It was so cold and the day so bizarre that the thought of a meal and some heat made jail appear to not be that bad.
I took the handle off of the pump and put it in the tank. The cop looked at me and got on his radio.

I squeezed the gas release and smelled the familiar fumes. The cop got out.

“This your truck?”

“My buddy’s. Well, his dad’s. He’s in there.”

The cop looked at the ground sadly.

“Yeah. These old ones. You guys got a leak.”

I looked below. Five bucks worth of gas had gone from the pump, into the tank, and was on the ground.

“Put a bit in the card,” the cop advised. “House close?”

“Half block up the alley.”

“You’ll probably make it back, but no further.”

“Oh.” Flat came out of the station.

“Keep warm!” The cop waved. He chucked, “Don’t light any cigarettes!”

I laughed weakly.

Flat got in the truck and I shared with him what had happened.

“Damn!” He started cranking the engine. Nothing.

“The cop said put some gas in the carb.”

“Where is that?”

“I can find it. C’mon.”

Fifty cents worth of gas later, the truck roared to life. Flat slammed it into gear and we shot off down the alley. The heat kicked in. The truck engine stalled.

We stopped at a light pole by the garage.

Well, we were stopped by the light pole by the garage. The impact wasn’t that bad.

The truck was made of steel. My head just hit the dashboard. Flat’s chest hit the steering wheel.We lived.

Flat got out, looked at the truck, and shook his head.

As we walked back into the house, it started snowing.

“What we gonna do?”

Flatbush was already prying open the bedroom door. Minutes later he emerged with his car keys.

“SOMEBODY gonna give us a damn jump.”

As we went outside, pickups with plows attached roamed the streets. A couple stopped, but they wanted fifty bucks for a jump. No dice.

We sat in the cold Jaguar, and I swear I saw Flat smile.

“You wanna call Emo?”

“House phone isn’t on yet.” This was before everyone and their mother had a cell phone.

“Irwin?”

“Ain’t home.”

“Brother Ali?”

“Out of town.”

Another truck came around. It was one of the guys from before.

“Ya’ll still here?”

“Twenty bucks is all I got,” Flat announced defiantly.

Was that pity? Humor? The old white guy got out of his truck and hooked his cables to Flat’s battery.

“G’wan and crank her over,” he said. “Generator’s pretty powerful.”

I started the car while Flat paid the guy. As the truck pulled off, I heard shouting.
Flat scrambled in the passenger seat.

“Drive man!” he hollered.

After this day? No coaxing was needed. As I put the Jaguar into drive, the tires crunched snow and we took off. In the rearview, I saw someone running down the street, shaking one fist and with something in his other hand.

“We need gas,” Flat explained, “but let’s not stop at the closest station.”

It was my turn to grunt as I swung the Jaguar northbound on Halsted. I didn’t care if we were on fumes. I wasn’t stopping til I saw the Chicago skyline. Old as hell, that jaguar’s new tires and healthy engine had us on 95th and Halsted in no time, and I stopped at the Amoco there.

Flat filled up the tank and said, “Harold’s?”

“Mild sauce. AND you promised beer.”

He pulled out his burnout cel phone and made the call.

“Who was that running behind us?”

“Bushmill.”

“Oh.”

When we reached his place, Emo and the baby were sitting up, watching television. She had placed a pan of water on the radiator to humidify the dry air.

“Here,” she gave Flat the baby. “I’ll go get your food and beer. I’m sorry. When you were late getting back, I knew there was some silliness.”

Flat had looked dejected, but holding the baby brightened him considerably.

We ate well that night, and even laughed at our misfortune.

A month later, Flat called and asked if I wanted to do some political work with him. I agreed. We spent the night tearing down the opposing candidate’s signs.

“Whatever happened to your stuff?” I asked.

“Man,” Flat put is hammer in his back pocket, “He saw his truck, and the next day, told the first guy walking down the alley he could have everything on the truck if he just took it away.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It is what it is.”

We went in search of more signs.

Daley beat Flat’s candidate in the election.

Flatbush Jones, Esquire

I was in my car when my phone rang. I’d just purchased one of those new Bluetooth speakers that clip to your visor and allow you to communicate through a preset channel on your Bluetooth equipped radio.

“Call from Flatbush Jones,” the British accented voice modulated over the Isley Brothers.

“Sup Flat?”

“This ain’t Flat. This Tessie,” a voice hummed through the car speakers.

“Hey Baby, wha's up?”

Tessie’s history in Flat’s life was a complicated one. Pound for pound, Tess had one of the purest hearts I’d ever experience. She was also a super freak from the word go. She and Flat had become friends a long while back, and after becoming friends, they realized they had something in common: they both liked women. Tess hit for both teams, and happily agreed that teaming up with Flat to seduce curious twenty somethings would be fun. It would be easy, too, as Tess was a twenty something herself.

Tess was buck wild. She’d starred in a couple of low budget adult movies, frequently attended sex parties quietly thrown in outlying hotels (“there’s the orgy room, the lesbian room, the anal room, the squirt room…you pay your entrance fee and join your party.”) and basically would get down in a moment’s notice, if she felt like it. No holds were barred with Tess.

Tess was no hoe. She never did any of this for money. If she liked you, she would allow you to experiment with any sexual madness you could dream up while you were together. If she didn’t like you, kick rocks. She had offered me all types of sexual favors just on GP. There are times to this day when I regret having passed on them. She couldn’t stand Irwin, who made a habit of groping her every time he was within five feet of her.

“For your boy to be gay he sure does like handling my merchandise,” she grumbled to me once, after sternly instructing me to never leave her alone with Irwin, again.

“Irwin ain’t gay. He just ain’t up for a lot of BS,” was all I could reply.

“OK, well, tell him to miss me with his BS the next time he jams his hands down my panties. Ewww…I need a shower.”

Tess got busy for fun. She was like that Schullberg character that agreed sex “was about the nicest thing two people could do for one another.” Even the films she did were more favors for significant others, one male, one female, who waned to break into the industry. Once, when she was broke, and I suggested she let Flat manage her as she makes the circuit of adult film production spots in Chicago, she refused to speak to me for a month.

She was also the closest thing to a wife that Flat had. When he was between places, he lived with Tess. When her kids needed help with their homework, Flat was there with his head full of answers. He helped her with her rent. She cooked for him and fussed over him when he wasn’t taking care of himself. They argued a lot, but I have seen marriages that lasted decades, produced well-reared kids and tons of community standing that lacked the level of love between Tess and Flat.

“Flat is in jail,” she said calmly. “I’m calling you to see if you can talk to Irwin about an appeal.”

“What happened?” Thank the Almighty for Bluetooth. My hands steadied the wheel.

“You know he and Emo went to court today.”

“That was today?”

“Yeah. We know yo’ boy. He went in expecting great things.”

“And?”

“I told you where he is. Great things? I think he missed the mark on that one.”

Emo was the mother of Flat’s fifteen-year-old daughter. She was about a decade older than Flatbush, and while Flat contributed his time and money to the raising of his child, he had left Emo with they type of emotional scars a woman doesn’t forget. With some women, it is best to walk away. To continue to abuse her love and trust would only make her tally the points she had to get even one day, at any cost.

That past summer, they’d argued over what Flat felt was Emo’s lax discipline regarding Ellen. Emo was one of those Black mothers that doesn’t want anyone telling her how to raise her child, and demanded her daughter respect her at all costs. The balancing act was, as in so many similar cases, the child was free to disrespect whomever else crossed her path. That was the way Flat described it, at least.

Flat seethed when Ellen’s grades dipped. He ranted when he caught her talking to boys on the telephone. He blew up when he saw her, clad in only her underwear, posing like a porn star on her myspace page. He lit into Emo, running her down as a mother. Such conversations are rarely productive. Emo lit into him. Anyone having witnessed these confrontations knows the female always wins.

Emo then called Flatbush’s mom, her child’s grandmother. She made it clear that bad, physical things happen to Flat should he continue to interfere. In other cultures, this is a declaration of war. Black Americans have reached such a low point where it is now just communication. It is a sad day where gender solidarity reached such lows where a woman feels confident sharing threats with another woman regarding her offspring?



News of this call sent Flat into another rage, and he lashed out, verbally, at Emo. Apparently, they traded barbed voice mails. Flat listened, erased, and returned them. Emo listened, saved and took them to the local police department, where she obtained an order of protection against Flat. She conveniently forgot to mention her role in the matter. As they are wont to do, police, especially male ones, have little interest in getting an angry Black woman angry with THEM. They gave her the paperwork, and a court date, and return to their search for donut nirvana.

Flat knew none of this. One day he is stopped by erstwhile law enforcement authorities that are concerned the twelve-year-old Caddy Flat is driving has no taillight. Running his license, the fuzz learns that Mr. Jones is wanted for failing to appear in court in regards to an order of protection he did not know existed. Angry, once Flat got out, he began letting Emo know that if she didn’t rescind the order and squash all of the silliness, she would disappear. Although language like that can cause for folk to get orders of protection, apparently this was an off week for Flat, thinking wise.

After getting along for a bit, Emo tells Flat she will drop the order of protection, and there is no need for him to return to court. As Flat explained this to me, he grew resentful that I made references to Charlie Brown, Lucy and an old football.

Things didn’t get interesting until Flat was arrested once again, for not showing up to court. “But she told me not to come!” he told us over the phone. It wasn’t worth reminding him she hadn’t told him about the order at all, either.

Irwin stepped in, doing as he does for so many of his friends who need legal representation badly and need a solid source of funding even more.

Flat had little money. He had no clout. Now he had a lawyer, and he was angry that he didn’t get Johnnie Cochran.

Flatbush needled Irwin. He criticized his technique. He explained that he wanted a more aggressive attorney. Irwin would quietly mutter, “Flat, let me lawyer…” and push on.

One day Flat shared with me something he brought to Irwin’s attention: “Emo says the prosecutor went to school with Irwin and doesn’t respect him at all. I let him know this so he could step up his game.”

After a few months of this, Flat made the announcement that he was terminating Irwin, and representing himself forthwith. I do believe he used the word forthwith.

This led to a heated discussion later that day between he and I.

“Flat, man,” I started over a beer, “you can’t do this. This is a minor, misdemeanor case. If you work this right you can walk scott free. If you screw up, the judge can hit you with a year. Me, you and Irwin are in our late thirties. Are you willing to give up a year of your life?”

“Irwin wants me to take a plea. I didn’t do anything. I’m not pleading guilty.”

“The plea is what? Time served and anger management?”

“Yeah. I’m not doing it.”

“That’s silly. If you get locked up, a condition of release could be having to do anger management anyway.”

“I’ve done time before.”

“Not for anything so stupid.”

“I didn’t do it! I’m being railroaded.”

“Dummy, Geronimo Pratt you AIN’T. You talking about a year of your life over some foolishness. The end result…”

“Plus, I’m not happy with the way Irwin is handling this…”

“Yeah, in light of that air retainer you paid him, I could see why you are so highly critical.”

“Look, I have paid lawyers before. I have seen them get way more aggressive.”

“Those were criminal felony cases! Night and day.”

“He just keeps saying, ‘Let me lawyer’. The type of lawyering he’s doing, I can do just as well.”

“At half the price.”

“I asked Ir to get me a fee schedule. He has yet to do that.”

“Perhaps because eh is doing this as a favor for a friend?”

“Don’t be my friend. Tell me what I owe you and let’s nail this crazy bitch to the wall.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

“I’ve been reading case procedure. I can do this. Irwin is wasting my time.”

“Cool. For the record, though, man, ever since this cat got his law license, he is good enough to call when you are going through drama, he is a good enough name to drop as your mouthpiece, but ya’ll never give the man any gratitude for his work.”

“ I said ‘Thanks!’”

“When was the last time you bought groceries with gratitude? I gotta hear both sides here, man. You wrong as hell on this, but good luck.”

Tessie’s voice came through my Altima’s speakers.

“The trial should have been an hour. It took five.”

“Oh.”

“At one point, I just put my head down and prayed, Lord, please let him shut up!”

Every question he asked was a legitimate question, but JD, he has no legal training, so he asked them the wrong way, and they were objected to. The objections were sustained.” Tess sounded tired.

“If he’d had an attorney, honestly? Emo would have been toast. As it was, Flat spent fifty minutes cross examining Emo, every question being objected and stricken, the judge getting angrier and angrier.”

“Male judge?”

“Female. White lady, but JD, she was fair. For real. Sentencing is in three weeks.”

I stopped at a light.

“Three weeks? Why is he in lockup now?”

“I think he angered the judge by wasting the court’s time. She revoked his bail after finding him guilty, doubled it, and sent him packing.”

“Why would he choose a bench trial? He would have done better getting a jury to hear his side.”

Wearily, Tessie said, “I don’t know. Can you please call Irwin and ask if he can appeal? Emo needs her ass beat for all of this silliness, but Flat didn’t make this any better.”

"What happened?"

"He would ask questions, like, You know I wasn't stalking you. Why You lying? When asked to rephrase, it was, You know I wasn't stalking you, why you lying Bitch? It was awful."

“No one testified on his behalf??”

“His mother was supposed to. You know, when he was rolling, she was always hitting him up for five hundred here, seven fifty there. He never refused. He always sent money to his siblings, even when they wouldn’t talk to him. This is crazy.”

“So…his mother?”

“She said she didn’t feel comfortable doing it. Emo probably threatened to not let her see Ellen if she did.”

“Damn. I’m sorry. I’ll get right on this. Be easy Baby.”

I called Irwin and got his voicemail. As I pulled into my driveway a bit later, he called.

“Hey JD!”

“Ir?”

“Hey…”

“Look, man, I know ya’ll got your differences.”

“Who?”

Irwin was being a bit too innocent, a tad too calm.

“You and Flat…”

“Oh. No biggie.”

“He’s back in jail. He pissed off the judge. She raised his bail. Emo won the case. Can we get an appeal filed to get him back in circulation before the holiday?”

“Hmmmm…well, JD, as an attorney, I have to tell you. The max he could get is a year. Knock off time served, plus day for day for good behavior, he’ll be out in four months. An appeal will take at least six months to get before a judge.”

“Oh.”

“Hmmm…he probably asked some good questions. Just didn’t know how to frame them. Probably dragged the trial on with all of his questions being objected to…”

“Hmmm…”

“She probably raised his bail to prove a point. You know, if he keeps his mouth shut at sentencing, she may just go for time served.”

“How do you know all of this? Have you talked to Tess?”

“No. I practice law in Cook County. I know the judge. I was prepared to do a plea with no anger management but counseling for them both. Sometimes, JD, you gotta let a lawyer lawyer. Flat didn’t. Guess his new attorney wasn’t as sharp as he thought he’d be…”

That reminded me of something I’d shared with friends years before. I have the reputation of being the asshole of the group. I’d countered that distinction went to Irwin. No one believed it at the time. Sweet, quiet innocent Irwin? But what I’d seen once or twice before, I was hearing over my car stereo right then.

“Ir…did you set this up?”

“You watch too much TV, JD. Hey, I wanted to thank you for the business you’ve been sending me. As of today, you’re the only one of the crew that pays me for the work I do for you, and I appreciate it.”

“Uh, OK. So, what we gonna do about Flat?”

“Oh, nothing we can do. That’s why it always pays to screen your counsel. More decent people get screwed because they have bad lawyers. The worst are those who have never set foot in anyone’s law school, passed not one bar exam nor practiced anywhere. Remember, a man who represents himself has a fool for a client. Let’s grab a beer next week. Tell ya girl and J I said “hey!” I gotta draft some briefs.”

Damn.

Intro

I was walking out of a pawnshop on State and Randolph when I heard someone call my name. He may have called twice. My mind was all over the place. I think I had a bill due, and broke student I was, I needed my lights for my South Loop loft more than I needed my camera. Plus, after I put in my share with my roommates, I needed a drink, and there would be enough left for that.

“McCallum!”

Who the hell is hollerin’ my name on a busy Chicago street? I snapped out of my daze and whirled around.

He didn’t say, “It’s me?” Or “Don’t you know who I am?”

Flatbush Buford Jones, Flat to his friends, assumed the world met him once and remembered him forever. For the most part, he was right.

Flat was about as ordinary as ordinary got. He was below average height, wore thick spectacles and was easily forgettable. In high school, a classmate took pride in reminding Flat his momma looked like James Brown. No, I think the claim was that his momma WAS James Brown. Coulda been. Mr. Brown was supposedly a short cat, too.

People remembered Flatbush because of his presence. And women loved him. Still have yet to figure that one out. One lady whose opinion I greatly respect said he must be something else in the sack, because a need for platform shoes, beady eyes and crooked teeth didn’t make her want to drop her drawers. I’ve known other women who said the same thing who later sheepishly admitted to servicing Flat in restaurant bathrooms. Go figure.

“What up man?”

“Damn. You used to be skinny. Most college kids gain the freshman fifteen. What you on? The senior sixty?”

“Fuck you short bastid. How you been?”

Flat stepped back, took in as much of the skyline as he could, smoothed the lapels on his suit jacket and beamed.

“If I was any better, I’d be twins.”

“If I had not one but two kids yo’ height I’d drown them and get a vasectomy.”

Nothing fazed Flatbush. He guffawed and fell in step with me as I started walking.

“You still out in Athens?”

“My folks are. I live down here now.”

“You got it like that?”

“I have a loft I share with 3 other students. We’re all in our last year at Columbia.”

“I thought you wanted to be a lawyer?”

“That changed. I think I have a knack for writing. Been doing it long enough. Figured I’d try my hand at advertising.”

“Cool. I’m doing good. Working on some campaigns. Thinking about breaking into this politics thing real heavy here.”

“Who you with?”

One of the dummies trying to oust our mayor for life was showing a better shot at running a campaign than any other opposition. Which means he was only way behind Daley, not dead last. Flat was on his crew.

“That sounds interesting. What do you do?”

“I’ll bring you out and let you see sometimes. Hey, lemme give you a ride home.”

We walked a block or so where an ancient Jaguar sat at a curb.

“Just picked this up. This is what you can get when you get outta the classroom and into money.”

I was happy for a ride. One doesn’t gain weight because they like walking.

Flat started his ride and drove south, dropping me at my place on Plymouth Court.

“You see any of the old crew?”

“I see Irwin. He works for the power company. Good gig. I see Roger. He’s in the Nation now. His new name is Bee En Ali. I still get out south to College Grove whenever I can. I'm thinking Irwin would be a good run for politics, but he a bit lazy. I ain't amd a t him, though. You know he and Jamilah split up."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Flat shook his head. "Irwin ain't built for that."

"Marriage?"

"Women."

“Oh.”

‘Anyway, man, gimme your number. I’d give you mine, but I’m on a burnout, so I can call you, but you know. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yah, OK. Good seeing you Flatbush.”

As he drove off, I thought, “That was interesting.”

Flat backed up.

"Hey, next time I come back, find some honies we can roll with. You don't have to mention the Jag. I keeps me a luxury ride." He honked and pulled off.