Asia is hot. SE Asia especially. Thailand is subjected to 35-40 C temperature throughout the hot season. Eyeballs boil in the heat. Clothing sticks to flesh like snake skin. Tempers flared into deadly encounters. Words are not enough and neither are 3layers of clothing this evening in New York. The city is experiencing a snowacane. Homer and I were sitting at Frank’s Bar on Fulton Street. On the TV the Celtics were playing the Cavs. The point spread was even. The oddsmakers know best. The game was in Boston. Paul Pierce was sitting out and Rashid Wallace showed no interest in playing good. he was on the trading block. Outside snow flew across the window horizontal with the sidewalk.

“I ain’t going nowhere.” Homer’s a bookie. He don’t need to be anywhere as long as his wife doesn’t tell him to come home. Homer is 75. He’s comes Mississippi. They don’t have basketball down on the Delta.

We bought each other two rounds of drinks. Our mood was good. The game was even just like Vegas prediction. Everything changed with the opening of the door. Big Mo entered the bar. He was no one’s friend. I didn’t know what he was and didn’t ask. He was on the phone threatening someone. Ray Allen missed a three. He said hello to Homer. I pretended to be a honkie. The loanshark didn’t buy the act.

“I see you here sometimes. What’s your name?” His hand covered the voice piece of the phone.

“James.” I never told anyone my real name.

“Jimmie, tell Leroy on the other end what to do.”

“Leroy, I don’t know you and you don’t know me, but if Big Mo wants you to do something then I suggest you do it.”

I passed the phone back to Big Mo. He clapped a palm on my shoulder. It felt bigger than stingray’s wing. Big Mo sat at the other end of the bar. I said nothing to Homer. He said nothing to me. Five minutes later an older black man in a suit entered the bar. He sat next to Big Mo. The Celtics were down 10. The bookies couldn’t have seen this happening. Big Mo in Frank’s. He was a buzzkill. I left the bar after paying my bill. The snow was gaining elevation. I looked inside the bar. Big Mo was leaning on the older man. Across the street a cop car was in position to chase speeders.

I walked home driven by the cold wind.

Almost pure.

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