Free All the Right Stuff by Walter Dean Myers Page B

my whole life was about Jesus,” John Sunday said. “And when I got the feeling in my heart that He was there, it just made everything all right. Let me tell you—it made everything all right!”
    â€œYou made your peace with that landlord of yours?” Elijah asked. He was taking the money from his wallet to pay for the fish.
    â€œYeah, once I got the Section Eight papers filled out like you told me,” John Sunday said. “You don’t want no oysters?”
    â€œGot some,” Elijah said.
    â€œGot them shucked and in a tub?” John Sunday said.
    â€œCan’t spend all day shucking oysters, John,” Elijah answered.
    â€œCan’t play no checkers, can’t cook, just what are you good for, anyway?”
    â€œI’m good for a lot of things,” Elijah said. “And you know I’m experimenting with your mullet stew. I’m going to get it, and when I do, I’m going to invite you up to dinner. I’m not going to say a thing, either. I’m just going to sit back and watch you eat it. Then I’m going to whip out my ruler and measure the smile spreading across your face.”
    â€œOysters in a tub?” John Sunday said. “I don’t think so, ’Lijah.”
    â€œYou don’t have your scrapbook with you, do you?” Elijah said. “Mr. DuPree here hasn’t seen anything like your scrapbook.”
    The shelf behind John Sunday was filled with sauces in bottles, containers of fish batter, and jars of seasoned salts. Under some bottles of tartar sauce was a big notebook. He pulled it out and handed it to me.
    I thought it was going to be something on religion, but it wasn’t. He had bought a regular composition book and filled it with page after page of magazine and newspaper articles about Paris Hilton. I looked through the scrapbook. There were pictures of Paris Hilton when she was a little girl, pictures of her with her family, and some pictures of her just about naked.
    â€œI guess you like Paris Hilton,” I said.
    â€œI don’t hate her, but I’m studying on her,” John Sunday said. “I figure if I can find out what makes that little girl so famous, I will be the smartest man in the world. Just like some people study on butterflies or different types of roses, I study up on Paris Hilton. She gets on television and don’t do much of nothing and everybody is falling all over her. But between me and Elijah, we will figure it out. Won’t we, ’Lijah?”
    â€œThat we will, John Sunday,” Elijah said. “That we will.”
    Elijah stood up and shook John Sunday’s hand, and then the two men put their arms around each other for a few seconds before they said good-bye.

8
    Me and Elijah started walking back uptown. All the way, he was showing me places he had lived or worked or where famous people had lived.
    â€œBumpy Johnson used to live over on this side of the street,” he said, standing in front of a stand selling caps and cell phone chargers, “and Dutch Schultz used to have his office over on that side. You know who they were?”
    â€œGuys dealing with the social contract?”
    â€œNope, hoodlums,” Elijah said. “Bumpy was black and Dutch was white and they were both tough guys. That’s when everybody was fighting over who was going to control the illegal gambling in Harlem.”
    â€œWho won?”
    â€œThe State of New York. They kicked out the hoodlums and took over the betting themselves,” Elijah said. “Only now they call it the lottery.”
    â€œThings are changing now,” I said. “They’re building up this neighborhood really fast.”
    â€œHarlem is changing,” he said. “But Harlem has always been about change. We don’t stand still up here. Only the image that people carry around with them stays in the same place.”
    Elijah is a slow talker but a pretty fast walker, and it took