“Eats them like a horse,” said Simple, “when somebody else serves them. The same by chitterlings. Joyce tried to tell me once she did not eat pig ruffles, would not cook them, couldn’t bear to clean them, and loathed the smell. But when my cousin in the Bronx invited us to a chitterling supper, I could hardly get near the pot for Joyce. I do not believe people should try to pass.”

“What do you mean, pass?”

“Pass for non-chitterling eaters if they are chitterling eaters,” said Simple. “What I like, I like, and I do not care who knows it. I also like watermelon.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Some colored folks are ashamed to like watermelon. I told you about that woman who bought one in the store once and made the clerk wrap it up before she would carry it home. She didn’t want nobody to see her with a watermelon. Me, I would carry a watermelon unwrapped any day any where. I would eat one before the Queen of England.”

“A pretty picture you would make, eating a slice of watermelon before the queen.”

“I would give the queen a slice—and I bet she would thank me for it, especially if it was one of them light green round striped melons with a deep red heart and coal-black seeds. Man, juicy! Oh, my soul! Sweet, yes! And good to a fare-thee-well! I wish I had a pot of greens right now, a pitcher of buttermilk, and a watermelon.”

“You would have a stomach ache.”

“It would be worth it! But let’s talk no more about such things. I would settle for a cold bottle of beer on you here.”

“I see no reason why I should buy you a bottle of beer.”

“I am broke and I have dreamed you up a beautiful dream,” said Simple. “You know you like them things, too. If I had not dreamed them up, you might not of thought of watermelon or greens tonight—greens, greens, greens!”

“Thinking of greens is not the same as eating them,” I said.

“No,” said Simple, “but at least we can share the thought. It was my thought. Don’t you intend to share the beer? O.K. Draw two, bartender! Pay the man—and let us wash down those greens we have thought up. Pass the corn bread. I thank you, daddy-o! Now, hand me the vinegar, also the baby onions.”

“You are certainly indulging in a flight of fancy! In fact, your imagination is running riot. Beer is not free.”

“No, but fancy is, and if I had my way,” said Simple, seizing his beer, “I would be a bird in a meadow full of greens right now!”

“Why a bird? Why not a horse, or a sheep?”

“A bird can fly high, see with a bird’s eye, and dig all that is going on down on earth, especially what people are doing in the springtime.”