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.