It Must Be Lester Young

By E. Ethelbert Miller

Saturday in August. Marie is down from New York.

I take her to see Nagorka, a psychic on 16th street.

Afterwards we go to the New Orleans Café. We order fried

catfish and Hurricanes. If you sit at one of the two

tables near the window people can see you from outside.

Columbia Road is always busy. Marie talks about Nagorka.

I spot a few friends. It takes longer to find an attractive

girl. It's late afternoon. Around the corner the Sun gallery

is still open. I hardly go there but since Marie is visiting

I change my mind. She pays for the catfish and drinks. We

leave a nice tip. For dollars. Our empty glasses stand 

side by side like lovers. Much of what I remember

about my sister can be painted on a small canvas. here we

are at a house party. Marie is in junior high school. I am

eight years old holding a potato chip and a cup of punch. It's

a big night for my sister. many of her friends are here. This

night is uneventful but will change my life. I discover I

can't dance. The music jumps from the record player splashing

my arms, face and legs. My sister's friends laugh at my

awkward attempts at moving. I try to dance. There is a small

stain on Marie's dress. I notice this as we walk down 18th Street.

We pass three Ethiopian restaurants and someone who is majoring

in business at Howard. Inside the Sun Gallery we look at prints

made by Honeywood. I pick-up a post-card of a famous jazz

musician. It must be Lester Young.

*   *   *   *   *