A Matter of Love in da Bronx Read Online Free PDF

effecting the spoliation in a heartbeat, nearly shoving into the eager mouth--which, though empty started chewing anyway--waxed paper, sandwich, bag and all. In between mouthfuls, giving the eye-of-a-deadfish in return for Sam's impassive stare, Lincoln Jackson smuggled out one word: Good. With the last bit of it gone, the black man carefully knuckled clean the bit of mustard in the corner of his mouth; then crumpled wax paper and bag, irresponsibly dropping them to the floor, the act of a true wastrel, indeed! Mamma Scopia would tell you about that!
    --Glad you didn't want the eats.
    --Oh! I didn't want it.
    --Or need it.
    --Or need it.
    --I could use the bug juice, Sam, jes to keep me crawlin. Like I can come back when I can and do you one chair...?
    He has no right to ask you to donate five bucks to his cause. He's taking advantage of the fact that he knows you. If you refused and he never spoke to you again, how'd you feel about that? If he did that, he's not much of a person to want around. I'll give him the money, though, because I like him, and he's someone facing more painwaves than I am. Sam counted out five singles and put them on the decking of the sofa he was working on. Now Lincoln Jackson, you gotta wish me a happy birthday.
    Like a hungry bird after scarce seed, Lincoln Jackson's beaky, black fingers quick-plucked the ones.
    --I don't wish you dat. Easy getting in this world, hard working yo’ way out of it. Happy Deathday! And good luck.
    The pride of beggars will have them prize highly arrogance.
    --I need a little luck to turn my luck around to be lucky.
    --For some of us dat never happen. A forelorn testimonial to the belated of the world. I shoots square wid you, Sam, justice soons ah can. You know dat.
    --I know that.
    --Here I be on the road to resurrection! Hoccum though first you be such a good person, Sam, not jus’ to me, but I see you be that way with evybody.
    --It started out I treated everyone like this was their last day on earth. And then I changed to it being my last day on earth.
    --You be sainted you be. With his eyes so wide his eyelids replaced his forehead, he took his strange splayedangle amble to the door where he waved weakly, and wrestled the knob to a half turn giving him an open door through which he started on his quest. Gone.
    Sam considered the strange turn of events. Lincoln Jackson was there for less than three minutes--long enough to affect the rest of his day--as if Sam had to make a short detour that carried him miles around to his goal. For one thing, it was different for reasons dealing with Sol and Lincoln Jackson being in the same place at the same time. For another, he had borne up the minutes without breakfast, but how not to contemplate the millions of seconds without lunch, too? And supper? God! It came down to finances. The budget he was allowed by his parents from his own weekly salary could, with care, carry him from payday to payday. The way it worked was what Sam didn't spend one week was merely included as part of his allowance for the next. Why not? He was the consummate altruist. He was giving them his all, why stain the Holy Grail for a pittance? The home comptroller really didn't need so miniscule a contribution which really would've added to his meager pleasure--and extra cigar, another Pepsi, perhaps--a case of a venal flaw compounding a too-pure flawed fellow. Thinking of his actions so far, he jerked his shoulders, tightened his lips, raised his eyebrows, semaphores to the gods that be, translated as, "Whatthehell!" A passive resignation accepting his shortcomings and weaknesses. He checked his wallet, and searched his pockets. His financial worksheet was not impressive. He had enough money for the movies, for a cigar to enjoy on the way home, for a hot dog at the deli with everything on it, and a donut and Pepsi tomorrow morning. Would it be wiser, more prudent, to have for lunch the wurst? Or have it for dinner best? He'd see.
    But, by no means