Mojo's Guitar by Ran Walker

Author:Ran Walker [Walker, Ran]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cool Empire Press via Indie Author Project

Jason fumbled through the rest of the afternoon in a daze, avoiding ridiculing glances and smirks and pointed jeers. As soon as the three o’clock bell rang, he eased out the side door and started walking briskly away from the school building. Unable to steel his thoughts, he didn’t realize just how far he had walked until he looked up and saw that he was down the street from the building with the huge old couch. Seeing it, he suddenly had the urge to talk to Sangsta. He just hoped that the old man was around.

Rather than plop down on the musty cushions, he opted to walk inside the building. Not knowing what to expect, he found himself standing inside of what looked like a restaurant, old decrepit pool tables grouped near the front door, graffiti written over nearly every inch of the walls by what were probably the customers’ own pens. The thick, smoked-honey-barbecue aroma of ribs and chicken filled the air, and he was suddenly ravenous. He dug his fingers through his pockets, feeling for paper, coins, whatever currency might be hidden in the crevices of his natty jeans. His finger brushed lint specks and the key to Ma Bouf’s house, but nothing else.

“How many people in your party?” a sprite young redhead asked him.

“Uhh, I’m just looking around.”

“Well, we have some really good specials today,” she said, proceeding to rattle off a list of delicious-sounding meals so that all he wanted to do was reach over and smack her so that she’d shut up and stop torturing him.

“Thanks” was all he could offer her. “I was supposed to be meeting someone here.”

“Oh, okay. Are they here yet?”

Jason looked around and realized he was the only black person in this room that looked like the back alley of a back alley. The only other black faces he could make out were from the kitchen. Seated all around him were white people who looked as if they had walked over from their offices for a late afternoon meal. They sat on the shaky old chairs, bent over cigarette-burned vinyl table coverings, thumbs erect and soaked in barbecue sauce. The scene was a bit baffling, as these people looked more like they would be dining at a country club, not a hole-in-the-wall barbecue joint.

“I don’t see him. Do you know Sangsta?” Jason finally asked.

“Yeah. Sangsta has his own table over here,” she said, pointing to a table that appeared to be wrapped around one of the beams holding up the roof.

“His own table?”

“Yeah. Take a look,” she said, walking him around to the table. Above the table, affixed to the beam was a picture of Sangsta and President Obama.

“Whoa!” Jason didn’t know which one was supposed to be the celebrity in the picture by the way the two men were huddled. “Barack Obama?”

“Yeah. That’s really him.”

Jason looked around again. He noticed an elevated stage in the back, but he was distracted by all of the writing on the wall and how worn out the building looked.

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