I had talked myself into a luxurious three-bedroom apartment in a classic Tudor building in Jersey City. It was 1969. Back then, a suit and a little grooming would suffice if accompanied by a few months’ rent . . .
The first time I bought weed in Los Angeles, I listened to—and talked about—vintage synthesizers for hours. I was high . . .
There was a reason I only smoked weed occasionally after college—and it wasn’t just due to that one Hash Bash where I smoked too much and momentarily passed out . . .
As Chessy slowly approached Thomas’s house, he offered up his usual fervent litany: that Thomas’s mother or father wouldn’t answer the door, and if they did, the strained, obligatory small talk would somehow be less excruciating than usual. But fortune was smiling on him this evening—Thomas was perched right outside. For now, at least, the parents could be avoided . . .
The cop’s fingers were as thick as the sausages he stabbed with the fork and stuffed in his mouth. Probably as greasy, too, Tual thought as he drank coffee in a booth. He watched the cop sitting at the counter . . .
Featured: Black Interest
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- Getting It Right
- New-Generation African Poets: A Chapbook Box Set (Tano)
- Haiti Noir 2: The Classics
- Loving Donovan
- Around Harvard Square
- Bernice L. McFadden Digit
- So Many Islands: Stories from the Caribbean, Mediterranean, Indian, and Pacific Oceans
- Iron Balloons: Hit Fiction From Jamaica’s Calabash Writer’s Workshop
- Becoming Abigail
- Gathering of Waters
- Gomer’s Song