Telegraph Avenue

facing, Brother Nat,” Flowers said with perfect sympathy. “But come on, man. Show some faith in your partner and yourself! What’s with the defeatist attitude? Maybe you want to consider the possibility your anxiety might be premature.”

“I have never actually experienced anxiety that turned out to be premature,” Nat said, always happy to keep punching in the clinch. “It usually shows up right on time, in my experience.”

“Just this once, then,” Flowers suggested. Itching to get out, tugging at the lapels of his jacket. “Premature.”

“Are you saying that Gibson Goode, the fifth richest— What is it?” Nat turned with an audible creak of his neck bones to Garnet Singletary, who drew back, tight smile noncommittal; in no way, shape, or form interested, not being a fool, in openly taking up against his favorite enemy from way back in the day. “Fifth—?”

“I believe I read in Black Enterprise that he is currently the fifth most richest African-American,” Singletary said carefully. “I didn’t see my own name anywheres on the list.”

Again all the men in the store laughed, happy to let Singletary break up the tension, all the same feeling sympathy for Nat, Archy was certain. The place was part of their lives, including the life of Chan Flowers, who had for years come every week to get his hair cut by Eddie Spencer and afterward never lost the habit of stopping by.

“Are you saying, Councilman, that Gibson Goode does not have an open field ahead of him, thanks to you, to start putting in this Thang two blocks down from here, thus effectively cutting not only my throat but the throat of this great big ex-baby of whom you are so very fond? Because what we heard, and I believe we even heard it from your lips, was that Mr. Goode was having serious trouble with some of your friends on the zoning commission, and that because of that, in this climate, was the term I believe you employed, the banks were giving him a hard time.”

“If I told you that,” Flowers said, “I was only reporting what I knew to be the case.”

“So what changed? Or let me rephrase that, how much change did it take?”

“Nat, here’s that warning,” Archy said.

“How much cheese. Right, Moby?”

“I— What am I agreeing to?” Moby said.

“Jesus, Nat,” Archy said.

“You had better watch what you say, Mr. Jaffe,” Flowers suggested. He was looking at Archy when he said it. Not quite in appeal, not quite making some kind of threat. Inquiry widening his eyes when he looked at Archy, something that he would have liked to know. Archy wondered if this question Flowers did not feel comfortable asking in front of a crowd, and not Nat’s call about a Sun Ra record, lay behind today’s visit from the councilman.

“I checked out Dogpile,” Nat said. He smiled at Moby. “Last summer Archy and I went down to play that wedding in Fox Hills. It was, truly, extremely bangin. They had a sweet Nubian Lady, Roy Meriwether. The pricing was more than competitive. What’s more, I got into a very interesting discussion, forty, forty-five minutes, with the manager of the used-vinyl department. Young guy, college guy, black, good-looking, very passionate about Ornette Coleman. Making a case that Coleman basically rediscovered the original tone of the New Orleans cornet players, basically thought his way back to it like Einstein thinking about passing trains. And that closed the circuit. The story ended. That was the end of jazz as we know it. Kind of an ouroboros thing, the snake swallowing its own tail. I don’t know if I completely agree, but it was an interesting argument. Oh, I also picked up a really decent Out There.”

“I don’t go in for the hyperbole the way my partner does, Councilman,” Archy said. “You know that. And I apologize on his behalf for the disrespect, which you won’t hear any more of, or I’m going to kick his ass from here to the Carquinez Bridge. Right, Nat? But look here, if you come through for Gibson Goode, after all this time you been such a good customer to us, not to mention, you know, blessing us with the example of your coming in here and meeting some of your music needs from time to time, then with respect, excuse me, but you really did turn your back on us. Seems like.”

Flowers’s gaze slid over to the sleeping baby. He seemed to be seeing little Archy himself lying there, hearing some wah-wah echo of 1968.

“I sincerely hope that is not true,” he said, returning to the present. “I would miss this place, I truly, truly would. But a Dogpile Thang is going to be a real boon to the community.”

“The community.”

Ho, shit, Archy thought.

“The community!” Nat repeated.

“Be cool, Nat,” Archy said.

“Oh, sure, I’ll be cool. I’ll be really fucking cool when I’m down the street selling my blood plasma!”

“Nat…”

Having to sell his blood plasma was always Nat’s worst-case scenario, the example he gave to his son, his wife, his partner, anyone he needed to persuade of the dire expedients and financial ruin that loomed before him.

“You know, Councilman, I don’t know why, but I was under the impression that this place right… here”—and Nat pounded the counter, Right! Here!—“was a community! But I guess I was wrong.”

Nat reached under the counter and pulled out a copy of The Soul Vibrations of Man (Saturn Research, 1976) and hurled it across the room. You could hear it crack, a snapping like wood in a fire. Along with fretting about having recourse to selling his blood plasma, Nat liked to throw record albums, usually the slag. Alas, this one was rare and valuable.

“You can ask Gibson Goode and the community to find you a sealed original mono copy of The Soul Vibrations of Man. Because we’re closing. Right now. As of this moment. Why delay it? Why draw out the suffering? We are closing this store today. You can all leave, thank you very much for your support all these years. Goodbye, gentlemen.”

Flowers started to say something, to remonstrate with Nat, reproach him for the destruction of that beautiful disk. Thought better of it. Fixed those searching peepers on Archy one last time, seeming to see some kind of answer in Archy’s blankness.

“Well, then.” Flowers touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, bowed to the men at the counter. He walked out of the store, and the nephews took up their places on either side of him. “Enjoy your day. Mr. Jones, Mr. Singletary.”

“Gentlemen, goodbye,” Nat said.

The customers turned, looking dazed, Mr. Mirchandani and Moby appealing to Archy. Archy shrugged. “Sorry, fellas,” he said.

Archy picked up Rolando, snoozing in his caddy, and made a formal transfer of custody to the grandfather, England turning over Hong Kong, mournful trumpets of farewell, a weird ache in Archy’s heart like the forerunner or possibly the distant memory of tears. The men slipped from their stools and trooped out.

Mr. Jones stopped in the doorway, unhunched himself from the perpetual ghostly keyboard, and turned back. He shot a look at Nat in which sympathy and scorn contended. Fished his pipe and tobacco out of his hip pocket. Then, gesturing with the stem of the pipe toward Rolando as the King carried out the baby, Mr. Jones nodded to Archy. “You keep on practicing, Turtle,” he said. “You going to get it.”

“I hope I do, Mr. Jones.”

“You got the good heart. Underneath all the other stuff. Good heart is eighty-five percent of everything in life.”

Tears ran burning along the gutters of Archy’s eyes. Generally, he tried, following the example of Marcus Aurelius, to avoid self-pity, but Archy had not experienced a great deal of appreciation in his life for his good qualities, for his potential as a man. His mother had died when he was young, his father had bounced early on. The aunts who raised him died with their ignorance of his good qualities perfectly preserved. His wife, though no doubt she loved him, was the latest in a long line of experts and connoisseurs, reaching back through the army and high school to his aunties, to underrate the rarity and condition of Archy’s soul. Only Mr. Jones had always stopped to