Turns out the King of the Projects couldn’t even tie his shoes. Couldn’t draw or make love. Hell could barely even read and definitely didn’t know how to sing the blues.
Turns out the King got his crown after two and half games of basketball on the weedy court at sundown the day before his tenth birthday.
Turns out the King was the roughest, toughest, scabbiest fourth grader in the whole **** grade, raised from good Somalian stock and willing to sucker punch kids darker than he.
Turns out the 4 ft 5 King of the Projects stood mighty tall over the class pet ferret, ephemeral creature of habit, watched the rodent with eyes peeled as if the two shared the same beating heart boombox.
As it turns out, every day at noon we had music but the drums were always taken by the King who pounded a steady beat to the shake shake shake of the music teacher's 'script of benzos, eyes still glued to the ferret, seeking a ritualized dance.
Turns out the class pet escaped last week.
Turns out the King stopped coming too.
Shame really. As the teacher, I felt I had to have something to say to him.