Pratt made Rodney feel uncomfortable because he did not fit either side of the coin. The fellow had well over two thousand records: some rhythm and blues, some jazz, some folk, some gospels, but all black. And Charlie Pratt was not. He knew the language and was proud to use the vocabulary Rodney had been trying to forget all his life. He was pleasantly chubby with dark blond hair and a fuzzy Genghis Khan moustache which hung down on either side of his chin. Sometimes the ends dangled when he moved. And sometimes Pratt dangled when he moved. Sometimes Charlie Pratt, his belly hanging over his belt and his chin going up and down in talk, dangled when he did not move. Drying his legs with a towel, Rodney thought of himself and Charlie locked in mortal combat. Rodney had no doubt that he would win; he was slim and wiry, he was quick, he had a history of natural selection in his ancestry. Besides, Charlie was fat. He never used his body. Thinking about him, Rodney realized that he had never seen Charlie dance or move to the rhythm of any one of his two thousand records. He had never seen him snap his fingers once, or voluntarily move any part of his body besides his arms and legs; and even these movements were not rhythmic but something close to an unnatural shuffle.

Rodney did a quick step with his feet as he brushed his teeth in front of the mirror. He moved back from the mirror in order to see his feet. He did the step again, grinning at himself and at the white-foamed toothbrush hanging loosely from his mouth. The foam covered his lips and made them white, and, remembering a fast song in his head, Rodney snapped his fingers and did the step again. And again.

III

“WHEN YOU FINISH,” said Charlie Pratt in between chews on a pork-chop bone, “I’ll let you hear some of the stuff I picked up yesterday.”

Rodney wiped his mouth carefully before answering. “What’d you get this time?” he asked, knowing what to expect.

“Some vintage Roscoe and Shirley stuff,” said Charlie. “We found it in Markfield’s back room. It was just lying there under a stack of oldies full of dust. We figure it must be their only LP. Jesus, what a find!” Both Charlie and his wife smiled pridefully.

“How about that,” said Rodney. But he did not say it with enthusiasm.

Charlie stood up from the table and began to shift his bulk from foot to foot, a sort of safe dance, but more like the movements of someone who wants desperately to go to the bathroom.

“Whatever happened to them?” asked Lynn.