The Bluesiana Snake Festival. Aubrey Bart

      “No Rudolph ‘n’ Clyde?”

      “Ah waited twenny minith, Bobo. Ath wha ahm late.”

      “Why’n y’pick up y’radio? Ah been callin ah dunno how long.”

      “Radio buthit, Bobo.”

      “Ya radio’s busted!”

      “Ah tolya bout dat.”

      “You neva tole me nuttin bot no radio.”

      “Ah tolyadat, Bobo.”

      “Y’tolme da hahdrolik wudn’ right ‘n’ ah had dat looked at.”

      “At wuth night bafaw ah tolya bot d’hahdrolik, Bobo. Memba lath night ah come inna Humminboid . . . you’n Brotha Boike . . .”

      “Yeah, yeah—”

      “Ath when ah tolya bot d’radio wudn’ woikin.”

      “Ahright ahready. Putcha name onna timesheet, Dazzlin.”

      “Wudn’ f’dem otha two ah’d a been heh on time, Bobo.”

      “Think ah didn’ have at figgid up front? At’s how come y’don’t see dem pushcawts dumped way dey at, ah got news fuyya.”

      Beverly Griffin stepped up: “I’ll volunteer for the truck.”

      Leo beamed: “You’ll woik wit me, Beb?”

      Proffit jammed Bev: “Pushin a broom in the street ain’ man enough fuyya?”

      Bev said, “If I were a man it wouldn’t matter, would it, Proffit?”

      Proffit shrugged: “Don’t make me no diffence. Be too confusin if it did.”

      Liz screened Bev; back her off, cool her out.

      The pushcarts wanted dumped before operations got underway.

      Somebody said, “Who’s gettin up in the truck?”

      Proffit said, “C’mon, somebody git up’eh, be nice.”

      Doc made it topside.

      Detachable cans, two per cart, for the hefting:

       Tighten up, Doc.

      Crossway and Blaha hefted one, then another; heavy metal rung on the slamhome. Bev stood ready to gear in with Albert. First can went up without a hitch, but the next only so high and almost back down but for Doc at his reach to weigh the save.

      Proffit yelled, “C’mah, git doze cans up eh. Y’gawna break d’man’s back makin’im gotudda well like ‘at.”

      Bev dropped back, next can all Albert, she was taking off her gloves. She drew full height, hand behind, twist and bow, see could she work out her back, short favoring it. Proffit was watching. She cocked him a snoot—hand at her back passed off strictly casual, strictly unconscious attitude. Crossway, on looksee, brought Albert coverage, no hitch in the getalong. Was Bev broke eye contact—jump steady at the toolshed.

      Proffit said, “No maw volunteeh f’da truck?” He had this smirk now. “Wha hapna voluntee’n f’da truck?”

      Bev said, “Change of heart, Proffit?”

      Proffit said, “Less jess say ahm impressed wit what ah seen.”

      A pushcart jamming ragged blacktop took Blaha flush on the shin; he pitched a fit: one after the other over the tailgate with the cans, then over the wall with the pushcart.

      Proffit said, “Wanna git dat cawt back heh while you still got a job, son?”

      “Bullshit Bobo. You want proper work, get us some proper equipment out here.”

      “Back heah widdat cawt or yo fired.”

      Blaha read Proffit to filth every step of the way. Last word went down with the pushcart retrieved under protest: “Ahm puttin you on notice, son. One maw fuckup ‘n’ you betta be streetwise, unnestan?”

      Johnny Albesharpe swung the market arch in his maroon ’67 Galaxy 500; with his usual showtime stop next Proffit’s truck, the trademark driverside exit feature was in effect (door wouldn’t open/window wouldn’t close). Johnny would be the latest of a streetcrew succession of lapsed scholars (termpaper short a bachelor’s in anthropology). What was more, his senior ranking on upward four years tenure was far an alltime streetcrew consecutive service record (compared, say, to Blaha’s five years in three tours).

      Proffit said, “Saddy night late again.”

      Albesharpe shrugged, “Oldies radio, Bobo. No way I can break away before midnight, what can I tellya?”

      “Well ah’ll tell you somp’n, son. From now on, you ain’ hyeh fa quatuh afta, you will git mawked absent ‘n’ you won’t git paid, unnestan?”

      “Can’t do that, Bobo.”

      “Awyeah? Well you jess see what ah can uh can’t do when ya paycheck comes in light.”

      Albesharpe shook it off, “I got sick days, I got personal days.”

      “Dat’s immaturial.” (A Bobospeak buzzword: immaterial.)

      “Tell Civil Service that.”

      “Ah’ll tell Civil Soivice same as ahm tellin you, son, don’ make me no fuckin diffence.”

      Hidden Dave Crossway took mock indignant: “I do no be-lieve that I am hearing this particular language at a municipal depot.”

      Albert Johnson said, “I share my colleague’s outrage at such indescriminate use of double negatives.”

      Albesharpe smirked, “King’s English with a yattitude!”

      Proffit said, “Yeah you right, ah don’t dot ma oz—but ah do git read—so roll ‘at ‘n’ya zigzags ‘n’ nevamind.”

      Leo came forward, forefinger for begpardon: “Ahm takin Beb, Bobo, no kiddin?”

      Proffit smirked, “Y’wanna putcha gloves on you gonna take Bev.”

      Liz snapped, “Ca-rude, Bobo,” and Shushubaby said, “Really.”

      Leo flustered, “Ath not what ah meant, you know betta’n ‘at. Hith makin ‘at up. You awful, y’knowdat? Ain’ he awful?”

      “Ahright ahready. Evabody present ‘n’ unaccounted fuh? (Bobospeak read hippies did everything stoned.) Ahright, hezza deal. You pickin up Boibon Street—”

       Say fuckin what?

      “Da sweepa machine is down.”

       Saturday night again!

      Hidden Dave Crossway spoke up: “Sir, in the words of the Big Bopper, and I quote: ‘But . . . but . . . but . . .’”

      Proffit told Crossway, “You woik wit Milo.” He cut Milo a smirk. “Ya pawdna voluntidda woik onna truck, wudn’at nice?”

      Crossway told Milo, “Not the breakthrough it appears. Do not be unduly impressed.”

      Proffit said, “Awyeah ‘n’ Fognoggin (Forbert), by d’way, ah got anotha complaint from the hotel. See datcha all git dat got, y’hear?”

      Doc heard that. “Dammit, Proffit, we’re not hotel help. Hotel garbage is hotel work. Where do they get off puttin it on us?”

      “Some folks is f’doin, some folks is done fuh, whattaya gonna do?”

      “Dogs ‘n’ garbagemen scatter hotel garbage, we’re supposed to sweep it up?”

      “Routine heroics, Doc.”

      Doc went away mad.

      “Heah you people talk you’d think y’had real jobs uh somp’n.