‘mr. roney, my name is dred scott.’
i extend my hand and he doesn’t even look over. i continue awkwardly,
‘um…. i just wanted to say that my trio was playing at the same time as your group so we didn’t get to catch your set. and uh, that my jacket noticed your jacket and wanted to be introduced.’
i put my arm next to his arm. i am standing. he is sitting in the back of a golf cart with two of his band mates i don’t recognize. he looks down and sees that my brown batik jacket rivals his african pattern sport coat which is also brown but the design is not so intricate.
‘hmmm,’ he says.
‘hey, there’s a dred scott that’s a dj, right?’ one of the other guys says.
‘and an artist who lives in brooklyn. i’ve actually met him. he’s way cool. and a rapper who’s now more a producer, i think. but i’ve lost track of him,’ i reply.
‘that’s a bit confusing for you, isn’t?’ the third guy says.
‘yeah, but i’m the only white dred scott to my knowledge.’
wallace looks over at me for the first time and laughs a singular chuckle or guffaw.
‘huh.’
the other guys are laughing and one of them says,
‘well, that’s certainly a distinction.’
‘there’s only one wallace roney, though,’ i say.
and looking straight ahead, wallace roney says in a barely audible whisper to noone in particular,
‘you got that right.’
Posted on Monday, 27 July 2009
