Shelved vampire books. Sorted the Cat Warriors. Put the biogs back into alphabet. Gave Robert a mask because his got lost. Bought a pie. Ate it crouched against a fence on the way back from Pestka’s because it started to rain again.
I listened to most of a furious theory of a one world government, which the teller didn’t finish because I put Gregory Porter’s Liquid Spirit through the speaker as a soft drowner. It worked. The angry person moved their head backwards in a slight duck movement. This is because Gregory Porter sings jazz, and jazz is already angry. Liquid Spirit outranks any other noise; it is organized. It pricks at rich rage and lets it all out with brighter and more useful colours. The arguer against masks and government, who is actually a really nice (and tired) person, looked at the dictionary they’d just bought and said that it was a really good dictionary. Then they nodded a couple of time, and they nodded in time to Liquid Spirit. That’s ok; how can you not. Whatever they are, it’s probably me, too.
Another man near us began drumming on his book. He’d been looking through engineering. He tapped his credit card on the books. In time. And banged his books together. In time. How can you not.
Some kids roared past the window, going back to school? and one of them yelled, give it back you fuckhead. Well, why not!
The other person left without finishing their story. It wasn’t that they were wrong.
It’s just that Gregory Porter tells it a different way.
Portrait of Gregory Evans by Colin Able