Batman
Harlem’s Caped Crusader. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of a gorgeous 1963, four door Chevrolet on 121st and Lenox Ave. The guy is so fucking cool, it should be illegal. So’s his car. Coal black and polished with black leather upholstery and cherry red trim. But back to Batman. Arms as muscled as a drummer, green eyes beneath a hood and so handsome, he stops traffic. Female traffic. He also happens to be listening to Frank Sinatra.
“Where’s Robin,” I ask.
“Comin’ later,” he says.
“And how come you’re listening to Frank?” I say.
“Because the cat could swing,” he says as my heart melts like an M&M.
“My Dad’s a jazz musician, he adds.”Frank’s been in my house since I was a baby.”
Some baby! I think to myself as a child tugs at my hand, eager to reach the next house, marked with a bright orange balloon.
How amazing. That I never set foot into this part of my own city until a gang of Italians brought me here.
