“Niggas think they own the road!” George exclaimed after sitting down in my den early this morning after work. “Black people walk on the sidewalk, but niggas get out in the road and won’t get off.”
I laughed, wondering where this was going.
“What happened?” I asked as I took my morning dose of Tylenol with a soda George had brought me.
“Two niggas were just walking in the street and I had to slow down to miss them,” George said, perturbed. “They gave me the stare niggas give when they are fronting you. I honked my horn, rolled down the window, and hollered, ‘Get out of the road, niggas!’”
I laughed again. I hadn’t seen George this animated since the day we talked about my “needs” and I told him I was chemically castrated by my medications.
“Next time I am going to run over dem sons of bitches,” George said huffily. “That will teach dem niggas a lesson.”
George may be sober these days, but he is still the same ole George I have always loved and befriended years ago.
“Aren’t you hungry?” George then asked me.
“I ate a bowl of the spiciest chili I have ever eaten for breakfast this morning!” I replied, still laughing.
“I was going to tell you to come home with me and let’s get momma to fix us a big breakfast.”
George left for home to get Mrs. Florene to cook him up some grub, and I couldn’t wait to get to this computer to write about this morning. It was like old times except without all the beer and drunken silliness.