Pool_1

than black, recess within the drummer's eyes? There was a connection within that gaze to something else. Whatever it was, it was something. Franklin, himself, had nothing, was nowhere. What he saw, it could be life. It could be death. But, it WAS something. The other three knew enough to not second guess Franklin when he felt compulsion. He had those instincts that beget survival. He always knew when cops were coming before the cops knew where they were going to go. Three black youngsters would follow their leader, Franklin-Roosevelt. But what was this all about? A set up, maybe? No. The pres-eye-dent, as they sometimes called him, would have felt it. It was the offer and the look. The hook. The look was important. But, what's an offer without want? They could take whatever they wanted. Right? The drummer offered them manhood, somehow that was exactly what they didn't have, couldn't find and couldn't take. He offered manhood and respect. Franklin later reframed it, "Pa-pow! He jabbed me with manhood from the left and right crossed with respect. I was weak knee'd and went down for the count. Man, don't fuck with drummers." The room was well lit, though still darkly moody in mixed old Italian and Victorian, richly wooded, appointed in cut glass mirrors, and elegantly layered walnut trim. A vintage deep red Persian rug graced the well cared for old hand hewn pegged wooden floors. It had the feel of a men's club. You could imagine old fellows with brandy and cigars quietly at their reading across butler tables. A gold colored braided rope with a conspicuous red trimmed tassel hung over the central table. One of the boys walking about the rope with his eye on it askew, asked cynically if they should summon the servant?