Socrates managed to stop urinating but the last few drops were as loud as tapping fingers on a tight drumhead.
?Who's that?? Reggie called out.
Socrates stifled a giggle thinking about how he was hiding in a box way past midnight. There he was with some clown swinging his dick in the night air and calling him out.
?Who's there? Motherfucker, I find you an' I'm'onna cut you too!?
Socrates zipped up his pants because he didn't want to fight with his business hanging out.
?Sh! You hear that, Tanika??
?Let's go, baby. Maybe it's Arnold.?
?Motherfucker!? Reggie shouted. ?Is that you??
Socrates wondered what those children would think if he stood up and busted out of his box, if he broke out on them and yelled boo.
But no. That's not why he was there. He took a sip of brandy and listened to the footsteps of the sneak lovers recede.
?Beety beety dwa dwaaaa! Dwa dwaaaa!? the horn said. Just that fast sleeping Socrates was awake and sober and so excited he began to sweat.
He put his eye up next to the hole and looked. At first he couldn't see anything because his eye was still asleep. But the horn kept playing and he kept looking until finally he saw a foot, a toe-tapping foot that beat out a fast tempo for the slow sweet tune.
Socrates ripped the box apart and was on the small wide-eyed horn-player, a lion on a lamb.
?What who you want?? the little colored man cried. ?What??
He was more gray than brown, more boy than man. He was old and tiny and slender like a child.
Socrates raised the small man by the shoulder and cried, ?What the fuck you doin' out here playin' that gotdamned horn in the middle'a the mothahfuckin' night like a fool??
He didn't mean to say all that. He didn't care why the man was there.
?Lemme go, brother,? the man said. ?I ain't got nuthin' but this beat-up horn an' it ain't worth two dollars.?
Socrates sucked down a deep breath and tried not to squeeze too hard. His grip was a bone breaker, a skull buster. His hands were weapons trained from childhood for war.
?I don't want your horn, man,? Socrates said after a few breaths. ?It's just your music woke me up. I'ont know why, I mean why I'm out here. What's your name??
?Hoagland. Hoagland Mars.?
?My name is Socrates, Socrates Fortlow.?
Hoagland Mars nodded and eyed his attacker with concern.
?You wanna drink, Hoagland Mars??
Socrates took the second pint of Myrtle's brand from his army jacket, cracked the seal and passed it over. The musician smacked his lips over his first sip and took another before passing it back.
?That's the right stuff right there,? he said.
They went back to Socrates' small home after a few sips. Hoagland sat at the kitchen table playing his two- dollar horn and tasting the cheap brandy. Socrates glowered and plodded toward drunk but Mr. Mars didn't seem worried at what his host might do.
?Yeah, man,? Hoagland opined, ?I played behind T-Bone Walker and right besides Lips McGee. I played the Dark Room in Chi and all through Motown records. You know I figure you could hear my horn a hunnert times every day on the oldies radio station. Shit.?
