1 March 2007, Thursday. Mottled gray skies, beads of rain on gray hood of LXi. Jim hopping across the street in his Carhart overalls, mass of non-descript hair--en route to gray--and floppy black sweatshirt. "That's money right out the door...," to Greg--regarding wall behind desk, now empty of cards and fliers, photos of bluesmen, labor leaders, children... Lacey's family, gathered in the rumpus room, or in front of some school front in Arkansas. A narrow white corrugated box, too, pinned up at a slight angle--with drawing of bird, delicate, almost invisible. "That's money right out the door." His quasi-Southern diction. "You know, I almost didn't get any sleep last night, knowing I was going to have to come in and do double-sided..."
Empty wall, like a bank of clouds on the horizon--propitious, welcoming--full of possibility. "So, this could be you..."
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