Skin Folk Read Online Free PDF Page A

make change from bills that large
     for old women or guys in suits. He handed Artho a couple of twenties and some coins, scowling. Artho held each twenty up to
     the light before putting it into his pocket. “Thank you,” he said sweetly to the guy, who glared. Artho took his avocados
     and went home. When he sliced into them, one of them was hard and black inside. He threw it out.

    “So,” Artho’s brother said, “I’m out with the guys the other night, and…”
    “Huh? What’d you say?” Artho asked. Something was obscuring Aziman’s voice in the phone, making rubbing and clicking sounds
     over and around his speech. “What’s that noise?” Artho asked the receiver. “Like dice rolling together or something.”
    “One dice, two die. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, so I’m…”
    “What’re you eating? I can’t make out what you’re saying.”
    “Hold on.” Silence. Then Aziman came on again. “This any better?”
    “Yeah. What was that?”
    “This hard candy the kids brought home. Got me hooked on it. These little round white thingies, y’know? I had a mouthful of
     them.”
    “Did you spit them out?”
    “Well, not round exactly. Kinda egg-shaped, but squarer than that. Is ‘squarer’ a word?”
    “Did you spit them out?” Artho was just being pissy, and he knew it. He could tell that Aziman had gotten rid of the candies
     somehow. His voice was coming through clearly now.
    “Yeah, Artho. Can I tell my story now?”
    “Where’d you spit them?”
    “What’s up with you today? Down the kitchen sink.”
    And Aziman started in with his story again, but Artho was distracted, thinking on the tiny white candies disappearing into
     the drain, perhaps washed down with water.
    “… so this man walks up to us, akid really, y’know? Smart-ass yuppie cornfed kid with naturally blond hair and a polo shirt
     on. Probably an MBA. And he says to me, ‘’s up, man?’ only he says it ‘mon.’ I mean, I guess he’s decided I’m from Jamaica
     or something, you know?”
    “Yeah,” said Artho. “I know.”
    “He gives me this weird handshake; grabs my thumb and then makes a fist and I’m supposed to touch my fist to his, I think,
     I dunno if I did it right. But he says, ‘’s up’ again, and I realize I didn’t answer him, so I just say, ‘Uh, nothing much,’
     which I guess isn’t the lingo, right? But I dunno what I’m supposed to say; I mean, you and me, we’re freaking north Toronto
     niggers, right? And this white guy’s got Toronto suburbs written all over him, too. Probably never been any farther than Buffalo.
     So what’s he trying to pull with that fake ghetto street shit anyway, you know? And he leans in close, kinda chummy like,
     and whispers, ‘Think you could sell me some shit, man?’ And I’m thinking,
Like the kind you’re trying to sell me on right now?
I mean, he’s asking me for dope, or something.”
    Artho laughed. “Yeah, happens to me, too. It’s always the same lame-ass question, never changes. I just point out the meanest-looking,
     blackest motherfucker in the joint and say, ‘Not me, man, but I bet that guy’ll be able to help you out.’”
    “Shit. I’ll try that next time.”
    “Though I guess it isn’t fair, you know, my doing that. It’s like I’m picking on guys just ’cause they’re blacker than me.”
    “Heh. I guess, if you want to look at things that way. You going to Mom’s for Easter?”
    “Is Aunt Dee going to be there?”
    But Aziman’s only reply was a rustling, shucking type of noise. Then, “Shit!”
    “What?”
    “I stuck my hand into the bag for more candy, y’know? Just figured out what these things are.”
    “What?”
    “Skulls. Little sugar skulls, f’chrissake.”
    Dead people bits. That’s what the candy was. It was all in the way you looked at it.
    “No,” said Artho. “It’ll be just like last year. I’m not going to Mom’s for Easter.”

    A few days later it happened again, a weird