Last night, 11:30 p.m. I am curled up on the couch, reading about ol’ Richard Pryor again and feeling protective and depressed and afraid for him. Knowing what he means about having no self-image. About feeling like he was a piece of shit, and knowing he can’t get out of the mess he’s in with the people he’s got around him. Stuff about being taken advantage of by people who are supposed to be handling his affairs. He asserts his newfound self by buying a two-hundred-thousand-dollar Rolls Royce. But back to the story at hand. The phone rings. I pick it up and it’s Coretta King! She wants me to work with her on a slide show. She’s been looking for me, she says. She wants me to come see her at the King Center. Amazing. I have just finished reading the Daddy King bio, which was so good, and now she calls me, out of the blue. Only in Atlanta. My first job when I got here was working for her so we’ve come full circle. “Can you do it?” she said. Of course, I told her, I would be honored.