Sassafrass made her way out of the kitchen to get Mitch for dinner. She stepped into the studio to see how his art supplies were standing up against his create-every-day saga. The acrylic paints would probably last just another week before Mitch would have only ochre left; watercolors, sufficient; oils, absolutely tubes’ end. Sassafrass was figuring the actual cost or barter price some new brushes would come to, when she heard calamitous booted feet traipsing through her house, and some men’s voices upsetting her resting plants. She hurriedly took an overall inventory of Mitch’s drawing equipment, and copped a gracious hostess attitude for the unexpected dinner guests. Otis and Howard Goodwin-Smith, two brothers from Chicago, had been in L.A. since Korea, most of their growing-up days. They tried, sometimes, to act like they were from Chi-town, but in a couple of minutes that Southern California hip-less-ness would ooze from every word. Otis was a writer, which made Sassafrass uneasy, and Howard was a painter of contorted phallic symbols dipped in Afrikan mystique and loaded with latent rapist bravado. The Goodwin-Smiths from the South Side. Sassafrass held her tongue while she greeted them; she wanted to ask why they hadn’t brought their white wives. She felt her eyes sneer and her mouth smile, saying, “Too bad Jennie and Olga couldn’t make it . . . I never see them, you know.”

Otis and Howard looked over to Mitch, who was looking at Albert the dog, to make sure Sassafrass could enjoy putting the brothers on the spot. Then Albert moved over to Howard, who was kneeling on the floor trying to get a whole idea of Mitch’s new mural. Albert on his haunches was almost six feet, and he got on his haunches to try to hump the chauvinist Howard. Sassafrass saw Albert rear back and slam his front paws across Howard’s back, saw his dick hanging oily-like from its fur pouch, aiming for Howard’s jeans-covered backside. Howard was shocked, and steady trying to get out of Albert’s way. They made circles around the room, Albert chasing Howard past the aging velvet couch, the barber’s seat that doubled as a chaise longue, the driftwood coffee table, and the mural lying on the floor. Round and round they went. Sassafrass glimmered, and went to get the food. Mitch started playing the Lone Ranger’s theme song. Otis was rolled over laughing, and Howard finally tore off one of his sneakers to appease Albert, who always tried to make it with small men. They ate with chopsticks, in time to Ron Carter’s Uptown Conversation.

Otis had reconnoitered the barber’s seat for himself, and from his lofty perch, began, “I brought y’all a copy of my new book, Ebony Cunt . . . I autographed it special, Mitch; see here . . .”

for sassafrass . . .

I know yours is good