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assembly hummed their agreement and the volume of the conversation rose. They were so loud after a while that only Socrates heard the soft knocking at the door.
The small white man looked up at the mountain of darkness before him and smiled.
    “Mr. Fortlow,” Chaim Zetel said in greeting. “Your house is so shiny I could see it all the way from Cheviot Hills.”
“Maybe to you, Mr. Zetel,” Socrates replied. “Some people couldn’t see it if they had their nose pressed up against the door.”
When the two men walked back to the Big Table the loud talk quickly dwindled to a murmur.
“This is my friend Chaim Zetel,” Socrates said, using the correct guttural sound for the ch. “He’s our last membah, at least for tonight.”
“So now you can tell us what we’re here for?” Cassie Wheaton said.
“I know you don’t eat shellfish so I got some fried chicken for you in the kitchen, Mr. Zetel,” Billy whispered behind Socrates’ back. “I’ll go get it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Psalms.”
“We are here because the world . . . the whole damn world is messed up,” Socrates said simply and to the point. “An’ all we do every day is shut our eyes hopin’ that it’ll get bettah while we ain’t lookin’.”
“Amen to that,” Leanne chimed. “Amen to that.”
“Grown men an’ women sittin’ on their ass like slaves chained in the quarters,” Socrates continued, “markin’ time and waitin’ to die. A chance to do sumpin’ good comes an’ goes ev’ry minute but we just sit there.”
“What difference can we make to the world?” lean, whitebearded Mustafa asked.
“Nothin’,” Socrates admitted. “Not a damn thing.”
“Then why try?” Antonio proffered.
“I got here by the back door, Tony,” Socrates replied; still standing, still quivering from nerves. “I heard that Fred Bumpus had lost this place to his wife and her boyfriend. I took it as a fact and humiliated a man who connected so closely with Fred’s pain that he hated him for his weakness. Then it came to me that I was passin’ a chance by, that I could help Fred and make this a place where people could come an’ take themselves seriously. A place where there was good food an’ good company an’ where the only question is what can I do?”
At that moment the tension released in Socrates’ shoulders and neck. He looked around the table seeing that the struggle had passed from him to most of his guests.
“I know what you feelin’,” the ex-convict said. “I might as well ask you to fly. But you know people dyin’ ten thousand miles an’ one block away from here. We go to bed knowin’ it. And when we wake up it’s still true. We bring chirren into this world. We make love here. At least we could take one evenin’ every week or two and ask—just ask, what is it we could do about this shit?”
The small audience fell under a hush. Their eyes were those of people engaged in a serious conversation but their tongues were still, their lips closed.
“You see?” Socrates said. “I could ask you what the weather was and you might tell me I need an umbrella. I could ask you if you knew a joke and you’d have me rollin’ on the floor.”
“Especially Billy there,” Leanne said.
A few people laughed.
“But if I ask you,” Socrates said, “how can we save some child bound for prison or the graveyard you just sit there like some voodoo witch done sewed your lips shut.”
Again Socrates paused. Again he appreciated the struggle in the bearings of his friends.
“Your mother or sister or child could come runnin’ to you,” the host added, “screamin’ that there was somebody after them, somebody that was gonna do them terrible harm. And you would grab a knife or a baseball bat and run out to protect them—to kill if you had to. But when I tell you that there’s millions runnin’ and screamin’ right now all you do is look like you got gas.
“I’m not tryin’ say that it’s just us here. It’s like this all ovah Los