The Man in My Basement

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Up in my room, I studied the passport masks on the C 14

windowsill. I had them standing on their chins with their 15

heads propped up against the glass. One’s mouth formed 16

an O, making him seem like he was singing. The two oth-17

ers were tight-lipped, maybe humming the music for their 18

brother’s song.

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Maybe they were black slavers, I thought, and maybe An- 20

niston Bennet’s ancestor owned the ship that they navigated.

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I realized that I wasn’t afraid or upset for the first time 22

in many years. And even though I had had a lot to drink, 23

I wasn’t tired or even tipsy anymore. The talk with Ben-24

net exhilarated me. I didn’t even remember at that time 25

what he’d said. I just knew that it was important, that I 26

was privy to a way of thinking that wasn’t taught in S 27

schools or at the dinner table. In some crazy way it was R 28

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Walter Mosley

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what I liked about the wild. There were no moral laws or 2

rules governing the lives of wolves and bears. Those crea-3

tures lived only by the instinct of survival. What Bennet 4

said about the world was the same thing, only with the 5

added ingredient of sly thought. Looking out of my win-6

dow, I wanted to howl at the moon.

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The night moved along, but I did not tire. Snatches of 10

phrases kept returning from my discussion with Bennet.

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Knowledge and ownership, a hundred times the return on 12