I was born in the south myself. But I live in New York now. I write for a large magazine. My boss had asked me to go to Nashville. The magazine had received some stories and poems from a writer in Nashville, named Azalea Adair. The editor liked her work very much. The publisher asked me to get her to sign an agreement to write only for his magazine. I left the hotel at nine oclock the next morning to find Miss Adair. It was still raining. As soon as I stepped outside I met Uncle Caesar. He was a big, old black man with fuzzy gray hair. Uncle Caesar was wearing the strangest coat I had ever seen. It must have been a military officers coat. It was very long and when it was new it had been gray. But now rain, sun and age had made it a rainbow of colors. Only one of the buttons was left. It was yellow and as big as a fifty cent coin. Uncle Caesar stood near a horse and carriage. He opened the carriage door and said softly, Step right in, sir. Ill take you anywhere in the city. I want to go to eight-sixty-one Jasmine Street, I said, and I started to climb into the carriage. But the old man stopped me. Why do you want to go there, sir? What business is it of yours? I said angrily. Uncle Caesar relaxed and smiled. Nothing, sir. But its a lonely part of town. Just step in and Ill take you there right away.