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men do.
    Then he said, “I done built me up a powerful hunger today, Iula. I got two hollow legs to fill.”
    “What you want?” she asked, not at all interested in the story he was obviously wanting to tell.
    “You got a steak back there in the box?”
    “Shit.” She would have spit on the floor if she wasn’t in her own restaurant.
    “Okay. Okay. I tell you what. I want some stewed chicken, some braised ribs, an’ two thick slabs’a meat loaf on one big plate.”
    “That ain’t on the menu.”
    “Charge me a dinner for each one then.”
    Iula’s angry look changed to wonder. “You only get one slice of meat loaf with a dinner.”
    “Then ring it up twice, honey. I got mad money for this here meal.”
    Iula stared until Wilfred pulled out a fan of twenty-dollar bills from his pocket. He waved the fan at her and said, “Don’t put no vegetables on that shit. You know I’m a workin’ man—I needs my strength. I need meat.”
    Iula moved back into the kitchen to fill Wilfred’s order.
    Socrates sipped his coffee.
    “Hey, brother,” Wilfred said.
    Socrates looked up at him.
    “How you doin’?” the young man offered.
    “Okay, I guess.”
    “You guess?”
    “It depends.”
    “Depends on what?”
    “On what comes next.”
    When Wilfred smiled, Socrates could see that he was missing one of his front teeth.
    “You jus’ livin’ minute t’minute, huh?” the young man said.
    “That’s about it.”
    “I used to be like that. Used to be. That is till I fount me a good job.” Wilfred sat back as well as he could on the stool and stared at Socrates as if expecting to be asked a question.
    Socrates took another sip of coffee. He was thinking about another helping of meat loaf and his quarters, about Iula’s nipples, and that long-ago dead girl. He didn’t have any room for what was on the young man’s mind.
    Iula came out then with a platter loaded down with meats. It was a steaming plate looking like something out of the dreams Socrates had had when he was deep inside of his jail sentence.
    “Put it over there, Iula.” Wilfred was pointing to the place next to Socrates. He got up from his stool and went to sit behind the platter.
    He was a tall man, in his twenties. He’d shaved that morning and had razor bumps along his jaw and throat. His clothes were bulky and Socrates wondered why. He was thin and well built. Obviously from the hood —Socrates could tell that from the hunger he brought to his meal.
    “What’s your name, man?” Wilfred asked.
    “Socrates.”
    “Socrates? Where’d you get a name like that?”
    “We was poor and country. My mother couldn’t afford school so she figured that if she named me after somebody smart then maybe I’d get smart.”
    “I knew it was somebody famous. You see?” Wilfred said, full of pride. “I ain’t no fool. I know shit too. I got it up here. My name is Wilfred.”
    Socrates breathed in deeply the smells from Wilfred s plate. He was still hungry—having walked a mile for every two dollars he’d made that day.
    His stomach growled like an angry dog.
    “What you eatin’, Socco?” Wilfred asked. Before giving him a chance to answer he called out to Iula, “What’s my brother eatin’, Iula? Bring whatever it is out to ’im. I pay for that too.”
    While Iula put together Socrates’s second plate, Wilfred picked up a rib and sucked the meat from the bone.
    He grinned and said, “Only a black woman could cook like this.”
    Socrates didn’t know about that but he was happy to see the plate Iula put before him.
    {4.}
    Socrates didn’t pick up his fork right away. Instead he regarded his young benefactor and said, “Thank you.”
    “That’s okay, brother. Eat up.”
    H alfway through his second meal Socrates’ hunger eased a bit. Wilfred had demolished his four dinners and pushed his plate away.
    “You got some yams back there?” he called out to Iula.
    “Yeah,” she answered. She had gone to a chair in her kitchen to rest