35
We ate at Wizmo’s.
We had the restaurant to ourselves. We even ate at the same table that Uncle Leroy dreamed about.
Just being here brought back memories. The smell of fried chicken, the shiny linoleum floors, the funk music playing from the speakers overhead, and the occasional customer strutting in and walking out with bags of Wizmo’s signature orange buckets.
Uncle Leroy and Destiny tore through two baskets of fried chicken and a bowl of collard greens. Must have been the fact that they had been lions all night.
Uncle Leroy licked his fingers and sat back.
“Now that was a meal, niece,” he said. “Appreciate it.”
Crispin finished a drum stick and wiped his hands.
“Gotta tell ya,” he said. “Nobody does fried chicken like black people.”
“That's racist, dog,” Darius said.
Crisp
