Summary
It takes a night out with Malcolm and his jazzmen for Angela to live again.
“This got me through ‘Macro-and-Microeconomics 3.’ I had them hold the jalapenos and beans. That way, I can’t be blamed if any of y’all keel over.”
Malcolm found his way to the table by holding onto Drake again. When near enough, Claire helped him down into the only seat at the head of the table she had pre-served with food and drink. Malcolm whispered to her, “Appreciate it,” before Claire left to dish for herself.
There was only the sound of grateful crunching and such for a while. Everyone, excluding Malcolm, had the same standing posture—Jarritos soft drink opened and waiting on the table, one hand holding a loaded napkin of food, the other hand using a tortilla scoop dripping with nacho delight. Fats was the first to show some dinner manners.
“So, Claire, you travel much?”
“Much more than I should. Big D’s my home, and I’m not here enough.”
“Yeah?” interrupted Reg. “How do you make your money?”
Drake mockingly cough-spoke, “Personal.”
“So, when y’all were arguing? Corporates hire me in the same way t’arbitrate through whatever mess, without the courts.”
Fats questioned, “With what? Threats?”
Claire responded, “With listening.”
All the players nodded with learning, except Reg. “Na. Not buying it.”
Drake asked Reg with a wry smile framed in salsa, “Not buying what?”
“White gals like her? Chargin’ in on their horse named Chestnut, wavin’ the Liberal flag! Squeezin’ onto their latest doll from ‘da Cripple Store!” His pinky pointed at Malcolm while his hand held a drippy scoop of food.
Another rage of jazz cats overtalking each other. “Faa—” “Cripple Store? She’s feeding us!”
Reg held his ground. “Hey… if I’m lying, I’m dying!”
“Claire—”
“Hold up, Malcolm! She’s all corporate. Let her defend herself.”
Claire kept Reg square in her sight as she finished the last bit of her food. The moment had all the intensity from the old West, using her chewing to distract folks as a proverbial free hand might have moved slowly for a holstered Colt pistol.
“First off, Reg, I was raised Republican Blue. And, bein’ a lady, I’ll let you re-think where t’stick that Liberal flag.”
Overlapping zeal of “Oh! He asked for it!” and “Preach, Claire, Preach!” burst out.
“Second, I’ve spent more time evadin’ LTTE skirmishes than thinkin’ about dolls durin’ two tours with CBM. So, Reg, I’m curious. How many children without sight have you served?”
Drake and Fats laugh-hugged each other, watching Reg get reset.
“Third—just so it’s said—I’m smolderin’ on matters of the heart. If you really want an overflowin’ dollop of white gal TMI, just keep pressin’ my buttons.”
Crumpled napkins rained down on Reg. He had nothing else to say.
Having left the shed, the troupe made their way through the back alleys of Deep Ellum. Drake set the pace, speaking stream of consciousness and keeping topics fresh. Fats tried to keep up, both with witty one-liners and infrequent jogs for his shorter legs. Behind them was Reg, pushing his bass, filling the lows with personal, hurtful digs.
