Pennies rained from heaven in thick dirty color. Penny rain, ringing against parked cars, breaking windshields and windows, bouncing off concrete, rolling into sewers, spinning like plates. Sweat and work, Hatch played off-the-wall with a rubber ball against the ugly ribs of an old school building. In one motion, he caught the ball and shoved it deep into his pants pocket. He stood in the vacant lot and watched the world pass.

Open, coons chased pennies with brown grocery bags, coins cutting through. Coons abandoned their places in the lottery line and pulled at the sky with raised fists. Pennies spilled from windows and doorways. Coons fell from roofs with outstretched hands. Stud coons used they asshole for a purse, and bitch coons they pussy. Disbelief--awe--kept some rooted in shock. Not Boo. He plunged squarely into the business, clawing up coins like a bear fish. Stupid coon, Hatch thought. Never knew how stupid til now. Boo lived in a basement dark, damp and smelly like a ship's hold. Once a week Hatch boarded the ship--Ai, mate! Let's take to the seas, he teased. Hol de win, hol de win, hol de win. Don't let it blow--and tutored Boo in math and reading. Boo savored the sweetness of strength and gaffled his peers for their lunch money. Every day he ate two big ass slices of white bread (Hatch liked wheat), two lumps of mayonaise (Hatch liked Miracle Whip), and two long rolls of pennies. To curry favor and keep Boo from beating his ass, Hatch had taught him this penny sandwich. Save for the future, he said. You'll always have something in your stomach.

Save. He bagged and transported groceries for HI-LO FOODS. Seven, he earned a third of a man's salary, but could out think anybody thirty times his size and thirty-three times his age. Boo was at the other end of the vacant lot, open mouth aimed at the sky. He swallowed his fill of pennies, full to the stitch-es like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, then headed home, slow and heavy. Vomiting pennies, shitting pennies, pissing copper.

Old ladies ran out the stained glass doors of the Ambassa-dors For Church of God in Christ, the Elder Milton Oliver, pas-tor. (They sat on pews all day, hoping to levitate the building with their waving fans.)

If coons are this worked up, surely the white folks downtown must be really showing out. Hell, I ain't gon chase no pennies. Be rich some day. His confidence was grounded in a structural vision. Heaven Incorporated. "Try Jesus-You'll Like Him." Dial 1-800-OMYLORD and talk to Jesus directly. (Free Blessing with every call!) $500 will buy you a train ticket to heaven. One time offer. $50 for your key to the kingdom (24k gold). $100 yearly membership for the Angel Club. (Purchase your wings first! Avai-able in nylon, satin and silk. White or off-white.) $25 to re-serve your bed in the upper room. He would build big ass churches the size of football stadiums, rising on every street, on every corner, in every neighborhood. Churches big as cities rising above county, state, and country. Hell, I might even put some on the moon. Hire me the best preachers: Sterling Pickens of the First Baptist Multi-Media Church, Rich "Ducats" Allen (Lay de foundation; build a home in dat rock; lift up this hammer; Gawd'll put you to work), Stallion Blade (It ain't bout the salary, it's all bout reality). Five dollar cover charge or yearly $10,000 membership. Bucket-deep collection plates. Yes, I'm gon be all money someday. Head flat as a dime. Diamond fin-gernails. Jeweled three ton suit. Gold cane fat like an ele-phant's dick. Clockin dollars. Knuckles, pennies punched through faces. Dragon's teeth, chewed up hands and feet. Sprayed brownstones clean. Leveled new houses and coppered old ones with squat layered covering like armored trucks.

In a burst of thunder (God's fart), the sky closed.

The once hollowcheeked were now frog-jawed with pennies. Green eyes were greener. Coons cradled coins in arms like chil-dren. (One bitch coon rocked her bundle back and forth.) The dark streets glowed copper paths. And under the streetlights, yellow blue red things, twitching or still. Some dressed, some naked. Some with calm faces, others with wide looks of terror.

Maybe the next time it will rain nickles, dimes, quarters, half-dollars and round dollars. Maybe the sky will pave streets in silver. Level steel skyscrapers and mold them into tracks. Forge the entire city into a massive silver railroad. Guess who gon be the conductor? Choo choo! Whistling and weaving.

No sooner had he thought this when it began to rain again.

He knew all the names for his people and recited them. Chocolate drops, coons, niggers, niggas, nigras, jungle bunnies, moolies, tarbabies, sambos, spooks, spades, spear chuckers, darkies, geechies, coloreds, negroes, Negroes, blacks, Blacks, Afro-Ameri-cans, African-Americans. Falling like bad dancers. Flopping like fish.