Part II

    He was an old black man.  Close to 80 or even 85, one of those senile farts that would make you laugh at a funeral.  Angus spent the majority of his time out on his balcony talking to Emma, telling her everything while it was happening.  He should have been in a home by now but he wouldn't allow it as long as his social security kept the apartment, Meals-On-Wheels was edible, and someone from the family came by on the weekends.  Still an early riser long after retirement, he would make his way to his balcony by six every morning and wait for Sherry to deliver his breakfast.  He saw everything on that street and noticed everyone on it.  He'd been noticing Jarvis for almost five years now.
    "See't Emma?  He'n done out da build'n now."
    Some horns blared a few blocks over.
    "I spec' he'n goin his jawb like evry'n else."
    He pushed a fly away from his coffee cup.
    "Naw wom'n, he'n n'arnt dang'rous.  He'n too booky ta even skeert da cat.  Lookin like he'n et juss brea'crumbs since he'n got off his maw's tit."
    Sherry had let herself in, unpacked Angus' breakfast and set it on the table while stealing a glance at the empty chair beside him.  "Good mornin, Jef'son.  How's Mrs. Emma doin?"
    He held his hand up and spoke softer.  "Miss Shurry, she'n been jawjackin iver since I'n woke up.  I'n cain' sit myssef down ta da paper 'nemore she'n shootin the bull samuch."  He smiled a toothless grin.  "But she'n got da voice a hea'm, Miss Shurry, 'at she does."
    Sherry finished setting his plate and put her hand on his shoulder.  "Well you tell Mrs. Emma hi for me if you can sneak it in there.  You gonna need anything before I head out?"
    "Naw, I'n good juss righ' hur.  You'n go finish yaw brea'fass run."
    Sherry let herself out just as she had came.
    "Wom'n, now he'n done crossa road.  I ain' bein a fool in wavin a' his back.  Migh' as well go'n as'some fishes fuh sugar."
    His scrambled eggs steamed as he stirred them to cool.  The conversation came to a close as he began gumming the eggs and buttered bread.
    "He'n up ta so'em.  He'n too booky ta be akeepin his lonesome.  Naw wom'n, I says he n'arnt dang'rous.  I see'n his good on 'em like a stank 'at cain' be scrubbed off'n wi' san'paper.  As sure I'n know I'm Angus Jef'son, I'n know he'n up ta so'em."
    That was Angus.  If it wasn't Emma, he was talking to some lucky, or unlucky, person passing by if the weather was right.  The normal crowd were mostly acquaintances and made enough talk to keep him happy although from time to time, he roped a stranger into awkward small talk.  Out of habit and a little mischievous gratification, he'd base his political incorrectness off how much he could see them squirm to keep going on their way.  From six in the morning until supper, he sat out there, barring trips to the bathroom and the weather.  He sat there watching what was left of the life from Southside pass  down the street.