?It's mines. I bought it.? Darryl said. But the defiance was only in the words, none of it in his tone.
Socrates was the only man that had a right to hit him, that's what Darryl thought. Even though Hallie and Costas MacDaniels were his foster parents, Socrates was the one who had taken him out of a life of gangs and forgave his mortal crime. The social welfare department wouldn't let a convicted felon adopt the boy, but Socrates looked after Darryl anyway and made sure that he had a chance.
?You work two weeks for shoes you shouldn't be burnin' 'em like that. Bad enough yo' feet outgrow 'em in six months. I mean where you think money come from anyways??
Socrates could see that Darryl was angry but he didn't mind.
?And what about that report card?? Socrates asked. ?You gonna tell me about that??
?I got dees and stuff.?
?An' what stuff??
?You know.?
?What's wrong?? Socrates wanted to know. ?Don't you do your homework??
?They'ont like me, that's all. They just don't care. I'ont know what they be talkin' 'bout. An' if I ask they'ont even say.? The glower in Darryl's eyes reminded him of the boy who spent so much time with his Aunt Bellandra.
?Why ain't they gonna like you, Darryl? It's a school. You a student. It's their job to tell you what things mean.?
?But they don't. I just don't get it. They think I'm stupid, that's all.?
?You not stupid,? Socrates said. ?You not. But that ain't gonna help if you fail in school. I mean what you gonna do if you fail??
?I could work right here wichyou. People work here. Mr. Gonzalez do.?
?If that's what you want,? Socrates said. ?If that's what you want. But don't make it all you could have. Ain't no shame in bein' a grocer but it's bitch and a half if they think that that's all you're good for.?
Socrates made German potato salad for his dinner that night. He boiled six potatoes and fried bacon on his butane camping stove. He used two tablespoons of good vinegar with mustard and minced onion, garlic powder, and a pinch of cayenne for seasoning. He ate until he couldn't swallow any more.
Then he pulled on his fatigue pants and jacket, stepped into his high army surplus boots, and put two pints of Myrtle's brand brandy in the inside pockets of the lined army coat. In the vacant lot he climbed into a Westinghouse refrigerator box carrying a red plastic milk carton box for his seat.
The sun was down and there was a chill in the air but between Myrtle's brand and Uncle Sam Socrates was snug and warm.
He used the oversized bottle cap for his shot glass and poked a hole in the box to see the night sights. He had brought a half gallon plastic milk container to use as a urinal. Socrates was on a mission like a small boy camping in the backyard, or a sniper laying in wait.
He nodded out now and then, talking to his Aunt Bellandra in a brandy stupor on the plastic milk crate.
?Does the angel play for white men?? the boy Socrates asked.
?No, baby,? Bellandra replied in a surprisingly gentle manner. Socrates thought that she must have been drunk to be so friendly like that. ?White men don't need that angel, neither do white women nor black ones either. It's just black men so hardheaded that they cain't do right even by themselves.?
?Oh Reggie! Oh yeah!? a woman's voice cried. ?Oh do that! Do that! Yeah.?
Socrates came awake to the sound of the lovers. The young woman's pleas got him half hard in his refrigerator box and he had a difficult time getting the right angle with the milk container to relieve himself. After a while he got it right but the stream was noisier than he would have liked.
?What's that?? a man, probably Reggie, said.
?Uh, what?? asked his girlfriend.
