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Updated: May 12, 2025
The days before Mo's opening passed quickly. On Friday, Joe walked down Ward Avenue to a gallery and camera shop, and, for once, he wasn't early. Empty wine bottles, a few pupus on bare trays, a glass punch bowl, paper cups and napkins were scattered across white tables. Conversation hummed and collided around the room. A blues guitar kept time in the background.
"So I goes up stairs, as slowly as I cleverly could, jist liftin' one foot arter another as if it had a fifty-six tied to it, on pupus to spend time; lit a cigar, opened the window nearest the rooks, and smoked, but oh the rain killed all the smoke in a minite; it didn't even make one on 'em sneeze. 'Dull musick this, Sam, sais I, 'ain't it?
"So I goes up stairs, as slowly as I cleverly could, jist liftin' one foot arter another as if it had a fifty-six tied to it, on pupus to spend time; lit a cigar, opened the window nearest the rooks, and smoked, but oh the rain killed all the smoke in a minite; it didn't even make one on 'em sneeze. 'Dull musick this, Sam, sais I, 'ain't it?
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