“Naw suh, dat’s de standin’ rule in dat lodge—jes’ soon ez you is ’niciated you gits a office.”
“What office did they confer upon you?”
“Imperial Supreme King.”
“What?”
“Dat’s whut dey calls it—Imperial Supreme King of de Universe.”
“Isn’t that rather a high office for a brand new member?”
“Why, naw, suh, Mist’ Campbell, dat’s de lowes’ office dey is in dat lodge. W’en I’s been in a spell longer dey is goin’ give me somethin’ really wuth while.”
§ 75 The Confusing Geography of Jersey
Years ago, when I earned my daily bread and occasional beer on Park Row, one Andy Horn ran a cozy bar in the shadow of Brooklyn Bridge. A grubby person known as Smitty was a fixture at Andy’s. He cut up food for the free lunch counter, did odd jobs and in rush hours helped to serve the trade.
He had been born on Cherry Hill, right around the corner; he had been reared on the Bowery and he had never ranged farther than Coney Island or Far Rockaway. Greater New York city was all the world he knew or cared to know.