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14 C
“So you gonna call ’im?” Clarance Mayhew asked me.
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“No.”
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“Why not?” asked Ricky, who was no bigger than one 17
of Clarance’s fat legs.
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“I don’t have an apartment down there, man. I mean 19
there’s junk been down there since my mother’s mother’s 20
mother was a child.”
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“You could clean it out,” Clarance said. His face was 22
chubby and pear shaped. Underneath his chin was a crop 23
of curly hair about an inch thick. Hair wouldn’t grow on 24
his cheeks. That’s why the tan-colored man always looked 25
about ten years under his actual age. “I mean you ain’t got 26
no job so you ain’t got no money. You could clean up 27 S
down there and make yourself somethin’ to pay that damn 28 R
mortgage you took out.”
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The Man in My Basement
“You want a drink?” I replied.
1
“Hey.” That was Ricky’s way of saying yes. He was 2
darker than his cousin but not nearly my color. When my 3
uncle Brent used to see us coming, he’d say, “If it ain’t the 4
three shit-colored patches on a tatty brown quilt.”
