(Summer, Harlem, 1920s) Charles stared blankly at his typewriter. He had written only two words. The words 'the time...' Sprawled across the white paper, mocking him to the brink of madness. It was all because of party upstairs. The jazz music was still going, the loud thumping noise that shook his ceiling and screams of joy and drunkness. He took a robe and tied it swiped it over his pajamas. He fixed his dark brown hair and his glasses. Charles marched angrily upstairs and soon met the pounding door that held that party. He knocked, exactly three times. No more no less.