Mr. Bojangles let out a laugh that sounded like gravel in a blender. He took a long pull from a hidden flask and wiped his brow.
The streetlights in the French Quarter didn't so much light the way as they did highlight the humidity, casting a hazy glow over the cracked pavement. Near the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann, a man known only as Mr. Bojangles took his place on a rusted milk crate. Mr Bojangles
He began with a soft shuffle, the sound of dry leaves skittering across a porch. Chack-a-tip, chack-a-tip. It was a conversation between his feet and the stone. Then, the rhythm deepened. He’d leap, hanging in the air a second longer than gravity should allow, his silver hair catching the light before he landed with a crisp, definitive snap . "He dances for the ghosts," the locals would whisper. The streetlights in the French Quarter didn't so