That’s all it took. Imagine sharing dalma and lamb with Laura and Idrina. No, no, not in this life. Cypress wished Sassafrass and Indigo could be with her on Eighth Avenue. They could sing like Martha and the Vandellas to “Come and Get These Memories,” the sound of their voices on megaphones from Times Square to Columbus Circle. They weren’t there, so Cypress sang alone. People on the street thought she was a jackleg panhandler.

“No, no. Take your money back. I’m doing this for free.”

JOURNAL ENTRY #298

whatchu cant have you just cant have

who aint meant just aint in you

who be gone just aint there

what aint yrs/ must be somebody else’s

you gotta bring what you be needin

you gotta unwind-wound-down/ take a look a round

& bring what you be needin

The Golden Onk had never looked so bad. Cypress was sober enough to see the years of dirt mixed with current grime, the elbow spots worn into the bar from night after night of heavy drinkers, the odor of old anything akin to whiskey, folks who stayed too long in the same pair of drawers. What Leroy was doing in this hellhole confounded her. So far only a couple of neighborhood junkies had wandered in from Avenue A. Four nasty-looking beatnik types were reminiscing in the far corner. Cypress had sized up the bartender as one of those whimsical black guys committed to integration at any cost. That was the reason he hadn’t paid her too much mind: she didn’t advance the cause of race relations.

One peach brandy down and one fine nigger coming up, or so she hoped. Leroy would appear in a second to break down the instruments, and she could tell him about everything she’d seen since she left his place. Two black beauties on the corner of 49th and 8th. Four raving queens in crocheted bikinis, 59th Street station. Six perfect sets of nails from 96th to 145th Street. One free colored gal in a red leotard soaring through the skies. One dancer who couldn’t forget the second night that changed her life.

JOURNAL ENTRY #692: