“When did he have time to do the mining? What with being king of the jungle and all?”
Not Tarzan, Bobby.
“Does this have anything to do with Black Panther?”
No. It’s Tanzanite. It’s just a pretty rock from Tanzania.
“What does it do?”
Catches the light in a way pleasing to the human eye.
“I used to do that.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
Don’t eat it, Bobby.
“It looks like a delicious hard candy.”
It is not.
“The lady took the rock back.”
“I was putting it in my mouth.”
–putting it in your mouth?
“I understand those kids and their Tide Pods now. Are you sure it’s not lozengial?”
“Having the properties of a lozenge.”
Don’t do that to words. Monet looks interested.
“She is, uh, having a very different childhood than I did.”
Yes. But she’s 20 or something like that. You were in the Dead at her age.
“Sure, sure. But we were not allowed in gifting suites at the time. First off, you know, because they didn’t exist.”
“That’s it. Something not existing at the time is one of the best reasons to not have done something.”
You guys would have loved the gifting suite, though.
“Oh, yeah. The drummers would’ve shown up with shopping carts.”
Is there anything there for you?
“They have a sign for me to hold.”
“I better be getting some serious good-dad points for this, man.”
You are absolutely right.
“And, uh, I need to go on tour right fucking now.”
You absolutely do.
“Maybe I could do that thing Josh does. Kinda jam around with an up-and-coming African-American comic.”
“What’s Franklin Ajaye doing now?”
It’s really not your best idea, Bobby. You have the Mexican thing coming up, and the mini-tour with Phil. Oh, who’s gonna be doing those shows with you two?
“Well, now I wanna work with Franklin Ajaye.”
Forget about Franklin Ajaye, Bobby.
“You think Jimmy J.J. Walker would be a better fit?”
I do not.
“Y’know, towns used to pass laws to keep me and my friends from playing there. We used to scare the straights.”
Everything changes; nothing lasts.
The top half of Monet’s face is your wife, and the bottom half is you.
“I told you to look at me, pal.”
“Pain enough trying to keep her away from Josh. You know he wrote her a song?”
No. That’s terrible.
“Yeah. Writing a song for a chick? You do it right, and there’s no defense. It’s like the crane kick.”
What’d you do?
“I learned the song and sang it around the house all the time.”
That must have killed the romance of it.
You ever do that?
“Write a girl a song? No. I would write ’em a little part of a song and promise to finish it, but it would take me five years.”
Oh, God, Bobby.
“Help me. I’ve never asked you for help before, but I want you to help me. Send Precarious. Or Elvis or Katy Perry or Billy. Send Benjy.”
You look like a rancher watching his last cattle die.
“Goddammit, you help me.”
I’m sorry, but you have to ride this out. It’s gonna be over soon. Besides: it can’t get worse.
It got worse.
“They’re called Fingerlings.”