Buster Brown sidled up to Chester who was in full Obso King regalia, found sitting on a park bench watching fellows play three-on-three. He sat down without a word. Nod of acknowledgement. They sat there and watched the game. One guy was good; three average; one stunk; and one old. The old guy had played before, no doubt about that. He wore black jeans, a black shirt and wore some old Converse sneaks from back in the day. He rebounded with grunts. Never shot more than three feet from the basket. Blocked the occasional shot.
Buster said, “Guy’s pretty good.”
“I could take him,” Obso King said.
“Could take him for a ride on your bike is all .”
“Take you for a ride on my bike is what’s goin’ happen.”
“Man, shut up.”
“Man shut up yesself.”
“You couldn’t take him.”
“I’ll get up and take him right now. Right in front of you.”
“So get up and take him.”
“My knee hurts.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“No, it does.”
“Mine, too. Boy, my knee. That old guy doesn’t seem bothered by his knees, though.”
“Thas’ cuz he’s on drugs. He’ll feel it tonight.”
“How you know?”
“Just do.”
“Just do nothin’”
“I’ll show you nothin’ thas’ somethin’.”
“Get to showin’, then.”
They went on for some time. The game continued. Chester’s bicycle leaning against the bench. Buster tilted his head back and stared at the sky. Cars sounded in bunches on Broadway. Cops screamed by, an angry tone, aggressively somewhere.
“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Buster said. There was not, for a change, a comment from the King. They sat wishing the other had a pipe with some tobacco. Finally Obso King said, “You know, I’m sure somebody said it before he did. I’m just sure of it, the African is so powerful, and those Jamaicans smart and prideful, but Bob said, and you need to get this Buster, ‘Who the cap fit, let them wear it.’” He nodded at a blue corduroy baseball cap in one of the baskets on his bike.
“Nice hat,” Buster said.
“Thank you, sah.”
“Where’d you steal it?”
“I ain’t steal it.”
“Which garbage bin you get it from?”
“From the back of your house is where.”
“Back of my house is your house.”
“You can come back into some of this house,” Chester grabbed his crotch.
“Nothin’ down there,” Buster said, nodding at Chester’s situation.
Buster snatched the corduroy cap and tried it on. Didn’t fit over his hair. He tossed the cap back to the wire basket on Chester’s bicycle throne. “It don’t fit,” he said.
“It would if you’d trim that nappy head.”
“Maybe the hat’s too small. It ain’t going to fit your big-assed head.” And he laughed at his wit. They sat bench. Older ballplayer grunted. Pack of younger kids walked slowly by, going nowhere in particular. Continual sound of traffic. “It fits. Tried it on this morning. Already washed it at Mama Good’s. Fits nice and fine. Got me a new hat.” Buster didn’t look at him when nodding. Then, without comment, without nodding at his comrade, without making note of the game on the court, Buster walked off and away down the avenue, singing “Who the cap fit, let them wear it. I say, who the caa--aap fit, let them we-e-aaar it.” He did not skip. Did not whistle. Moved his body right and fine.