145th Street
Short Stories
The way I see it, things happen on 145th Street that don't happen anywhere else in the world. I'm not saying that 145th is weird or anything like that, but it's, like, intense. So when I heard about Big Joe's funeral it didn't take me by surprise. It was something that I remember, and that's why I'm telling it. This is the way it went down.
The funeral took place on the Fourth of July, one of the hottest days of the year. People were sitting out on their fire escapes or on their front stoops trying to catch a breeze. If there was a breeze in the 'hood it must have stopped somewhere for an iced tea because I didn't see or feel it. Nobody was doing any unnecessary movements unless their name was Peaches Jones, who was setting out to ruin Big Joe's funeral.
Peaches was what you would call seriously fine. She was fifteen, about five feet three, a medium brown color, and definitely wrong. She was wrong because she was not giving Big Joe his propers, which means his proper respect. A person ought to have respect for other people all of the time, but especially at two times during their life. ...
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