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over to her.
    “Did you know some Africans moved into Gus’s house?” I said.
    “You shouldn’t treat your bike like that, Felton.”
    “I said Africans!”
    “Literally from Africa or do you mean African Americans?”
    “I don’t know. They have masks. I don’t care. People, Jerri, people moved into Gus’s house.”
    “Tayraysa said a poetry professor rented from them,” Jerri told me, digging. “He’s a summer appointment at the college.”
    “Oh, Jesus. They’re gonna be there all summer?”
    “During summer term surely.”
    “I don’t feel good, Jerri.”
    Jerri continued to dig and work the soil like a peasant.
    “Could you go and get me the compost pail, Felton?”
    “Oh, man, I’m a fool.”
    I turned, walked, and entered the garage and then went into the house and into the basement, where I turned on the TV and went to sleep. Jerri woke me up some time later.
    “Felton. Did you say you’re a fool?”
    “What? Go away.”
    “Gosh dang it. You are beginning to really frustrate me, you know that?”
    “I’m sleeping here, Jerri.”
    “Stop it. Go do something. Get out into the world, Felton. You can’t just lie around all—”
    “I’m doing the ridiculous paper route, aren’t I?”
    “Ridiculous? Why can’t you take a little pride in your work, Felton?”
    “You take pride in being a crossing guard? Oh, that’s dignified work, Jerri.”
    “I don’t need to work. You know that, Felton. I don’t work for money. I choose to work because you don’t own your life unless you work for it,” Jerri said, folding her arms across her chest.
    “Well, I don’t choose to work. But I do work. Isn’t that slavery? Do slaves own their lives?”
    Oops. Jerri didn’t like that. She threw her arms out to the side and shook her head, mouth open, rolling her eyes around.
    “I’ve heard this kind of crap before!” she shouted. “Look at you.”
    “What?” I’m telling you, incomprehensible!
    “Look at you.” Her eyes were all whacked out and red. “You are turning into such a little Gosh. Dang. Jerk!”
    “No. I’m not.”
    “Yessss.”
    “Noooo.”
    “Oh, God. Look at you.”
    “Stop it, Jerri!” I was scared because as a peace-loving hippy, Jerri had never been a name caller (although she would shout at times).
    She spat: “You are helping out a friend, you little jerk. You are not a slave.”
    I was scared, yeah, but she was also making me mad.
    “Yes, I am. I’m a slave.”
    “No, you’re…you’re acting like an…effing jerk.”
    “Effing, Jerri? Effing?” I shouted.
    Jerri breathed. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.”
    She did a little instant Buddha meditation. (I could hear it when she breathed out— om shanti shanti shanti shanti —which means peace or heaven or maybe, in this circumstance, don’t let me kill my kid.) Then she looked at me and said really quietly, “Felton. Please.”
    I stared at her. Then I said really quietly, “What is going on, Jerri?”
    She breathed deeply. She said quietly, “You have to get off your butt, Felton.”
    I said louder, “My butt’s got no place to go.”
    She said louder, “Please, Felton. Why don’t you give Peter a call?”
    I said pretty dang loud, “Peter Yang? Please no. I’m tired, Jerri.”
    Jerri exhaled, then sat down next to me on the couch and said really quietly, “Felton, I’m working really hard.”
    I shouted, “On what? What the hell?”
    She tilted her head and scrunched her eyebrows and rubbed her eyes and took a big breath.
    “I honestly appreciate you doing this paper route. I sincerely do. And I appreciate that you went out for track this spring. But now you’ve got to take these gains, this engagement, and continue to grow. You can’t…recoil from life, you know?”
    “Why do you treat me like a retard?” I shouted.
    “I told you not to use retard like that, Felton.”
    “Aw, man, Jerri. Come on. I’m trying to sleep here,” I groaned.
    “Felton, please,” Jerri said.
    “Let me