While working late one night, A. Quincy Jones fell asleep.
And before his cheek touched down upon his drafting table and his perfectly-drawn cubes, A. Quincy Jones began to dream.
He dreamed of his houses pulled by a great tentacled beast until they sat crooked in their yards.
The Wonk! Destroyer of straight lines and “best-laid plans”.
He dreamed of steaming bowls of menudo and carne asada sizzling on huge charcoal grills made from oil-drums.
He dreamed of arguments about who cooked the best menudo and,
“Yes, he can put a smoker on that grill, but it’ll cost extra.”
And still A. Quincy Jones slept. (a little puddle of drool on his papers.)
He dreamed of chrome-plated Impalas glittering in the sun and chihuahuas owning the street.
He dreamed of gardens sprouting from the hard brown dirt, tamed by Nanas with tough-love snippers.
And right before A. Quincy Jones awoke, he dreamed of hands coming together to make houses into homes and churches into prisms unfolding the sunlight into every color of the spectrum.
He dreamed of a neighborhood lived in, of a school saved, of fearless families, of laughing children.
He dreamed of Pueblo Gardens.