“Where’d we be without them?”
• • •
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street bustles. People jam the sidewalks and spill out into the gutter. The afternoon is muggy and hot; but up in Harlem even muggier and hotter.
Tea Bag Perrez stands outside a record store. The music from inside is pumped through a speaker to the street. People seem to move to the music, seem to walk in beat with it, some with their feet going fast; others dragging, shaking some part of their body to it; but with it — in beat — some sitting on stools near the curb, some standing like Tea; and the music blaring out hot on a hot day, like heaping coals on a going fire; and the sweat soaking everyone. And Sara Vaughn’s voice.
Tea checks the clock in the window of the café next door. Ace is half an hour late. It’s not like him. Timing is everything. Didn’t he teach Tea that? If you want to score, timing is everything. It only snows on time. Tea shifts the weight of his body from one foot to the other; makes time pass looking into the faces of the women, playing the game with himself. One day he is standing on a street and he sees her face suddenly in the crowd. Still young. Still pretty. Little. “Mamita mia!” “Tea Bag, my little Tea Bag. I look for you every place. Every place. Now I find you!” One day. One day he is standing there and it happens. “Mamita Mia!”
It only snows on time. Tea is jumpy; nervous. He has to figure it again. He has six caps left. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. If he can’t score today; he can still last. Maybe Ace is hung up somewhere; maybe someone goofed, the heat is on. If it’s too hot it can’t snow. Still no need to get rifty. Tea can joy-pop with the caps he was going to push. Last till Thursday. No need to get rifty. C’mon Ace.
Por Dios.
C’mon Ace!
Tea waits. Three o’clock, four, and half-past. C’mon Ace.
Ratero!
C’mon ooooh, snow, Ace — snow!
• • •
In the clubhouse where Gober has brought her, Babe Limon sits on the yellow couch fumbling with the black plastic straps of her handbag. Gober leans against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette.
“You got a new card table, huh, Gober?” Babe Limon says in a voice that is uncertain and somewhat nervous. “I never saw that here.”
Gober sticks his thumbs into the loops of his trousers and stares down at her, unsmiling. She wears a tight black orlon sweater under which her apple-shaped breasts swell, a black wool skirt which has lint caught over it, the same worn black patent leather pumps, and around her neck a gold chain with a cross hanging on it. Her nail polish is blood-red and chipped, and she sees Gober looking at her nails, curls them into her palms, and sits with her hands knotted into fists.
“We here to discuss card tables, or what?” Gober demands.
“I don’t know. You’re the one brought me here.”
“Whata you jumpy about, if you don’t know?”
“I’m not! Gober, you don’t have the right to talk to me like this.”
“You’re pulling at your bag, aren’t you? You’re peeling all the leather crud off the strap of your bag!”
Babe’s hand drops the strap and goes to the gold cross. She says, “You’re not even like yourself any more. That’s why.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning since you been interested in someone else, I don’t get the time of day.”
Gober drags on his cigarette and lets the smoke through his nose; his nostrils flaring angrily; his voice still calm; his face mean. “I want to go on record, Baby. I’m crazy to go on record. You want to hear?”
“Yes.”
“I want to go on record I’m not interested in someone else. That’s for the record. You get it?” “You don’t even say it nice.” “Next time I’ll sing it.”
“I saw you up there hanging around her, Gober. Me and Marie saw you.”
“You didn’t see nothing. You didn’t see one thing!”
“I don’t see why, if you don’t — well — want
me
any more — why you don’t let me off the hook,
• • •
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street bustles. People jam the sidewalks and spill out into the gutter. The afternoon is muggy and hot; but up in Harlem even muggier and hotter.
Tea Bag Perrez stands outside a record store. The music from inside is pumped through a speaker to the street. People seem to move to the music, seem to walk in beat with it, some with their feet going fast; others dragging, shaking some part of their body to it; but with it — in beat — some sitting on stools near the curb, some standing like Tea; and the music blaring out hot on a hot day, like heaping coals on a going fire; and the sweat soaking everyone. And Sara Vaughn’s voice.
Tea checks the clock in the window of the café next door. Ace is half an hour late. It’s not like him. Timing is everything. Didn’t he teach Tea that? If you want to score, timing is everything. It only snows on time. Tea shifts the weight of his body from one foot to the other; makes time pass looking into the faces of the women, playing the game with himself. One day he is standing on a street and he sees her face suddenly in the crowd. Still young. Still pretty. Little. “Mamita mia!” “Tea Bag, my little Tea Bag. I look for you every place. Every place. Now I find you!” One day. One day he is standing there and it happens. “Mamita Mia!”
It only snows on time. Tea is jumpy; nervous. He has to figure it again. He has six caps left. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. If he can’t score today; he can still last. Maybe Ace is hung up somewhere; maybe someone goofed, the heat is on. If it’s too hot it can’t snow. Still no need to get rifty. Tea can joy-pop with the caps he was going to push. Last till Thursday. No need to get rifty. C’mon Ace.
Por Dios.
C’mon Ace!
Tea waits. Three o’clock, four, and half-past. C’mon Ace.
Ratero!
C’mon ooooh, snow, Ace — snow!
• • •
In the clubhouse where Gober has brought her, Babe Limon sits on the yellow couch fumbling with the black plastic straps of her handbag. Gober leans against the brick wall, lighting a cigarette.
“You got a new card table, huh, Gober?” Babe Limon says in a voice that is uncertain and somewhat nervous. “I never saw that here.”
Gober sticks his thumbs into the loops of his trousers and stares down at her, unsmiling. She wears a tight black orlon sweater under which her apple-shaped breasts swell, a black wool skirt which has lint caught over it, the same worn black patent leather pumps, and around her neck a gold chain with a cross hanging on it. Her nail polish is blood-red and chipped, and she sees Gober looking at her nails, curls them into her palms, and sits with her hands knotted into fists.
“We here to discuss card tables, or what?” Gober demands.
“I don’t know. You’re the one brought me here.”
“Whata you jumpy about, if you don’t know?”
“I’m not! Gober, you don’t have the right to talk to me like this.”
“You’re pulling at your bag, aren’t you? You’re peeling all the leather crud off the strap of your bag!”
Babe’s hand drops the strap and goes to the gold cross. She says, “You’re not even like yourself any more. That’s why.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning since you been interested in someone else, I don’t get the time of day.”
Gober drags on his cigarette and lets the smoke through his nose; his nostrils flaring angrily; his voice still calm; his face mean. “I want to go on record, Baby. I’m crazy to go on record. You want to hear?”
“Yes.”
“I want to go on record I’m not interested in someone else. That’s for the record. You get it?” “You don’t even say it nice.” “Next time I’ll sing it.”
“I saw you up there hanging around her, Gober. Me and Marie saw you.”
“You didn’t see nothing. You didn’t see one thing!”
“I don’t see why, if you don’t — well — want
me
any more — why you don’t let me off the hook,
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