“I got no math skills, okay? Ya daddy, he tells me the figgahs to collect, but sometimes he gets aftuh me, I vexes him fer sho’, on account of me not exactementay doin’ it right. Addin’ it up, or like…” He paused and bristled. “You’d think he do be saying, oh go rassimble ten dollah from Monjwa Prêteur. But it ain’t, it’s more go get ten pehcent of this or get five pehcent of it wort’ outta sugah from de mill, and ya gotta convuht between dollahs and pounds of sookuh,” Buck said. “And sometimes folks be payin’ in fuckin’ bushels of cohn or automo-bile ti’es or some shit, and I ain’t… Numbuhs ain’t my strong suit, Simon.”
Simon ain’t never seen Buck blush before, but beneath his scruffy chin and cheeks, rouge deluged his skin. Simon patted him on the arm, clad in cotton and with palpable hairs beneath the fabric. Simon smiled too, because he liked hearing Buck swear — Simon was still young, and men often didn’t swear in front of him. Additionally, Simon enjoyed hearing Buck say ‘tires’: tiha’uhz. He fit a universe of vowels into that word.
