Now, judgment studios.

When I was a kid, five years old, we lived with it called a transitional neighborhood.

People kept getting their batteries transitioned right out of their cars.

And my father says, he ain't about to be no mart.

So, every evening, he starts carrying the battery out of our Chevy Nova and inside the house.

And one evening, my mama's making my favorite fried chicken, mashed potatoes and red bean gravy.

My mama makes the best mashed potatoes and red bean gravy. Pop's greens over at me.

You ready to tuck in, boy? Yes, sir.

Pop's walks out of the front door, says he'll be right back.

Just gotta get the battery first. Okay.

Mama sets the plate down. I can see the heat, walking off the crispy chicken and I'm waiting, waiting, waiting.

Everybody knows mashed potatoes only taste good when they're hot.

But I don't say nothing. Still, he doesn't come back from outside.

I'm staring at the food, stomach, rum, and my mama tells me to go ahead and eat, baby.

But I don't want to go ahead and eat. Through the window, I see our car hood popped open.

My mother opens our front door.

Bill? Bill?

She's just back down, gets up, sits down again, then slightly higher pitch.

Bill? Bill?

We wait.

We're half an hour, an hour.

Two hours later, she calls my uncles, the neighbors, the church folk.

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