Like a Mule Bringing Ice Cream to the Sun Read Online Free Page A

owner of such an expensive car. I could tell he was suspicious, so I sat quietly as he wrote out the ticket. A few days later when I saw Mike, I recounted what had happened. ‘Let me take care of it,’ he offered. And he did. And at first I felt triumphant. It was like being back in Nigeria where, because I knew someone, I was able to work the system. Mike’s parents came from Italy and I’ve always thought there is much that binds Italians with Nigerians. Not that I approve of corruption, but in this case, where I knew I’d done no wrong, I felt vindicated. And yet the following month when I went to the courts to hear that my case was dismissed, instead of feeling happy, I felt ashamed. So many young black men were at the courts – some of them going out of their way to give me a hand up the stairs. They even let me pass in front of them in the queue to get my papers. They gave me preferential treatment as they would their mother or grandmother and yet I didn’t deserve it. I had connections. I had ‘le piston’ to get me out of there, but they possessed no such social capital. They didn’t have the means or the connections to wriggle out of paying fines as I had. Many, I could tell, were already stuck in the system and would never get out.
    Mike isn’t here today, but there’s the white fellow who always wears Sikh turbans and silver bangles with one of his stupid birds on his shoulder. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to forgive me. I cannot, as a good Nigerian, approve of such a thing. If Selvon’s Sir Galahad had been around, I bet he would’ve eaten all of these birds for dinner. It’s bad enough that the street pigeons feel free to waddle in through the cafe door and that the bird lovers won’t shoo them out, even when they keep returning, greedily waddling back for seconds with their heads jerking to a cocky hip-hop beat. So that’s bad enough, but this business of bringing birds into a restaurant on your arm or shoulder, well I really can’t be dealing with that. No Nigerian would. Nor an Italian, I’m sure.
    I’d come to the bakery to talk to my new friend, the cashier, but because she isn’t here I buy some bread, linger for some minutes in case someone else arrives. When nobody does, I leave. I was hoping to invite my friend to the birthday party because I find that parties in which everyone is the same age aren’t much fun. I can’t have a party just for older people, and in any case, chronological age aside, I don’t feel old. Or at least I didn’t until I started noticing the absence of younger friends, which got worse once I stopped teaching. And that’s another problem with this city. It’s harder to make young friends here than it is in places like Lagos or Delhi. In San Francisco, people tend to stick to those of their own age set. And though I know that my friend, Sunshine, will come – one youngster won’t be enough. I was also hoping to give my new friend some tulips, but now I suppose I’ll have to keep both. I look around, thinking of the young homeless woman and then,for a moment, of Mrs Dalloway and her delphiniums. Mrs Dalloway chose stiff and stately flowers for her party whereas I’ve opted for tulips that arch and curve and keep growing after being cut. Fairly apt I’d say, on a day that started off with the DMV and all that jazz.
    I take Cole Street home and on my way back I say hello to Mrs Wong who lives at the corner of Alma and Cole. At this time of year old Mrs Wong, dressed in bedroom slippers and pink dressing gown, spends much of the day sweeping leaves. Every few minutes the wind whips up new leaves and blows more off the trees. Mrs Wong’s appearance is unfortunate – her terry cloth dressing gown and her hunched posture make her look much older than she probably is. I offer her my extra bunch of flowers which she accepts with effusive thanks, dropping her broom to hug the tulips and then me. I smile and draw back my shoulders. Nobody will ever call me a