“Paul and over to the viaduct. Rush-hour traffic played around him, the people in the cars seeing him but pretending not. The boy trailed a few steps behind, lost in a daydream, tossing off some freestyle, trying for some flow. Boy thought he had something with his rhymes, but Tate, being so much older, couldn’t really say one way or the other. “Ain’t no one ’bout a song no mo’?” he asked. The boy smiled. It was a thing between them. “Singin’ an’ shit, you know. Key of whatevah.” “Nigga, please....” The boy shook his head, as if Tate were beyond hope. “’Cause you old school, I gotta be?” Tate leaned into the cart, fighting the wheel. The boy followed, still in his flow until Tate made a point of throwing out a loud line or two of back-in-the-day sanctified music. “Oh happy day …” “Country-ass songs,” the boy said. “Please.” Halfway across the viaduct, the bad wheel flopped left, pulling the cart off the sidewalk, hanging it on the edge, spilling some of the aluminum strips onto the asphalt.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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