Big Sugar

Big Sugar smiled his golden deceptive smile. “Git on niggah,” he growled, scowling.

All four crack-heads quickly stormed past Big Sugar and ran, stumbling down the stairs, toward the nearest exit in the Port’s main concourse.

Wheelchair Paul smiled upon seeing who it was. “Ah well, Mister Big Sugar—how are you?”

Big Sugar smiled obliquely, his street name, Big Sugar, had stuck from day one in the Port when he had unloaded his cane-field exploits to a homeless man, just before going to St. Paddy’s for confession, on that very first day, his first ever in the city of New York, and as his exploits grew at the Port his name grew with them, until all that was needed for a homeless or helpless Port resident to be assured of being left alone or assured of safe passage in the deadly a.m. hours, was simply to utter his name. It was almost spiritual because those that had called on Jesus before Big Sugar’s appearance now invoked his name in the same breath, knowing from past experience that Jesus was the savior but that if Big Sugar showed up your chances of staying alive in this world multiplied substantially. He returned Wheelchair Paul’s smile. “Ah Paulie, and how are you tonight?”

“Good, Big Guy, good, but I’ll be a lot better if I ever get inside and relieve my bladder. Hey, you look hungry—here I gotta half a sandwich.”

Big Sugar pushed the sandwich back into Wheelchair Paul’s shirt. “Don’t want yo’ sam-itch Paulie—c’mon let’s get you inside.” Big Sugar opened the door and nodded at Wheelchair Paul, who he knew insisted on doing everything himself. “Well? Roll on inside, Paulie.”

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)