Instead of ending with Chuck Berry, let’s let Mr. Marsalis talk to us too about Radiohead and the Roots. Let’s let him demonstrate his beliefs and knowledge in a positive, and therefore constructive, sense.
I thought I remembered always going to Marine Park to get our Christmas tree—sawdust on the ground, a pile of old cut-up trees in the corner of the parking lot, which would stay there until spring, when the Parks Department trucked them away: same weekend they dragged the baseball fields—but I guess we hadn't been there in a year or two, and three's a pattern for my mother, a math teacher.
The mist accumulated in your hair so that when you went to swipe it back, I got the droplets in my face. We were walking, but with the water down our noses it felt like swimming, like we were doing laps. You were a faster swimmer than I was.
You could smell the rain from here, the water on the window, people going by in heavy coats and windbreakers and inside-out umbrellas. You said wouldn’t it be a great idea to invent one that could be blown inside-out and still work.
I said that was your million-dollar idea.
You put your feet up on the table and said, billions.