Reggie Biggs and the Autumn It All Slid Down

And if on a moonlit night

A touch, a glance should slide my way

Slide right on down into my hands, into my heart

if on a moonlit ni–

"Hey, how much is this one? I don't see a price tag."

Reggie Biggs, one long leg tucked up under her, the other dangling loose in front of the stool she's been sitting on for hours, looks up from her silver-swirl notebook. She sees a young man, Tyrell Johnson is his name, in an oversized basketball jersey pinching one of the T-shirts, pulling it out slightly from the rest on the rack so she can see it.

"The Welcome To Helltroit? Twenty-eight."

Tyrell Johnson's eyebrows shoot up, almost colliding with the brim of his baseball cap, and he clucks his tongue in disapproval.  

"Twenty-eight bucks? For real?"

She smiles and nods, but silently agrees with him. Twenty-eight is too much and she's said so. But the artists at the Collective have a death-grip on their professional pride. Twenty-eight dollars for the sweat of their creative brows is practically giving it away for free, they insist. 

Reggie Biggs gives him the speech. "All these shirts are exclusive, straight-from-the-artist designs. You ain't supporting big business by buying one. You're supporting the community. The black, artistic community of this city." 

 She knows her words won't make too much of a difference. They almost never do. 

Tyrell nods a few times, thinking that's as good a gimmick as any. "Right. Still, twenty-eight bucks." He clucks his tongue again and turns away from the T-shirt cart, strolling farther down the long shopping concourse.  

Where once a series of derelict, burnt-out buildings stood, now ice-cream vendors, clothing alteration services and Vietnamese manicurists occupy small booths sandwiched in between popular chain stores. 

Tyrell's never been here before, but in twenty minutes he's got an interview at a donut chain for the job of floor assistant.  He pauses in front of a window display full of expensive watches, wondering what else he can do to kill time.  

Reggie Biggs takes a deep breath and turns her attention back to the scribblings in her notebook. She's part of the black artistic community, too. Not like the designers. She's a dancer. Recently, she's been trying her hand at poetry. 

The slams she's attended in cavernous rooms with bad acoustics were cool, but the main thing seemed to be how loudly and aggressively the poets could shout their words. Like the participants were hell-bent on punching everybody there just on principle. That's why she's trying something more in tune with her own ideas. 

She's trying some love poetry. 

Which is difficult, she's been coming to realize. Because Reggie Biggs, long and thin as a drainpipe, hair tied up into two big afro pom-poms on either side of her head, has never been in love.

She tells herself she's too independent, too talented, too free-spirited for that. Still, she's smart enough to know that might be pride talking, and she just might melt like a surprised popsicle in the sun if that one special one  ever came along. 

She sets pen to paper.

And if on a moonlit night

A touch, a glance should slide my way

Slide right on down into my hands, into my heart

if on a moonlit ni–