“Hey there, beloved,” Sassafrass slurred coquettishly, “what’s up?” Mitch was magnificent in an orange crêpe jacket with beaded eagles; Quetzal, the Aztecs’ creativity spirit, flying across his breast, and the Ashanti-styled bead choker Sassafrass had arduously finished for him only days ago. Mitch was grinning and magnificent, but he didn’t respond to Sassafrass; he started walking back and forth in front of her, without taking his eyes off her. He was grinning and quiet, and with all the force he had and all his exquisite grace, he struck her across the face with the tube. Then he laughed out loud, and moved the tube to his mouth; made deep wispy sounds like beer-bottle tooters, then he hit her again, still laughing.

Sassafrass was stunned. She did not move, she didn’t speak. Mitch tossed the tube in the air and it curled up like the toy snakes kids have at circuses; Sassafrass ran to pick it up, and Mitch shoved her to the side. Once he had the tube in his hands again, he twirled it—and he struck again, again, and again.

“Mitch, have you gone crazy . . . stop, stop, stop . . . I can’t stand it, you’re hurting me . . . stop it, Mitch, you are hurtin’ me!” And he stopped, picked up his horn, and began to play the solo from Eric Dolphy’s Green Dolphin Street cut. Sassafrass left the room slowly, bewildered and frantic. And Mitch said nothing.