A Christmas cactus blooms in August. Pink and white flowers appear and die. We won’t see them again till Thanksgiving.

The television is off. A lamp, gives off a yellow hue. Coffee table with coffee stains on it. Gnats fly around the room.

He sits on a sinking couch. Thumbs through a copy of Subterraneans. He takes a sip of coffee and stands up. The fat man turns on the radio. Mingus is playing Goodbye Pork Pie  Hat. Slow-moving music takes over his soul. He begins to cry.

There is nothing like Mingus in the early morning, he says. Was he the best bass player? He asks the gods. Paul Chambers. Scott LaFaro. Ray Brown. Eddie Gomez. Who was the best? There is silence; dead air on WKCR.

A girl’s voice comes over the airwaves. That was Charles Mingus and his orchestra doing Goodbye Pork Pie Hat.

Wrong, the fat man yells. It was originally done by Mingus and a smaller group, kid. Get your facts straight.

Hold it down in there, a male’s voice demands from the room next door. I’m trying to concentrate, he says. The sound of a bed bouncing and a woman moaning comes through the thin walls.

The two sit on the edge of the bed, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap scotch. He laughs. So. Do you think Mingus was the best?

Who? Says the young hooker as she gets dressed.

Nevermind.