Open on Saturday night, Harlem USA.

Our camera finds Maxwell in a crowed entering an old-style neighborhood community center. He walks through the doors, slapping five with the boys, kissing cheeks, winks and whispers, promises and teases.

We swing through the doors into the main room decorated with flag streamers, small disco balls, cut mirrors, etc. Simply decorated, but with obvious care and attention.

Small tables crowd a homemade runway, filled with smiling, laughing, conversing brown and black people in their Saturday night finery. Maxwell moves through the room with ease, greeting the folks who respond to him with warmth and welcome. He is a popular, round-the- way boy who has done good in the world and is always welcomed home.

Maxwell takes the table marked, "Reserved," at the end of the runway. The runway is littered with glitter and rose petals. A large banner hangs at the rear, in front of red curtains. The banner reads, "Annual Uptown Beauty Pageant," in English and Spanish.

The curtain parts in the inner corner -- a wide-eyed girl, about 17, peeks out. Cut to her P.O. V. of the swelling crowed: The people at the tables, people sitting in chairs around the edges of the room, people sitting in window-sills, standing in doorways, girls sitting on boys' laps, and Maxwell at his table, hands folded in patient anticipation. He is whom she is looking for. She smiles.

Cut to her P.O.V. as she steps back behind the curtain, to the sensual frenzy of girls applying lipstick and shiny glosses, smoothing lotion on long legs, gracefully putting final touches on thick plaits, gleaming African twists, skinny cornrows, brightly colored hair wraps, afros puffs, etc., mascara, beauty marks, spritzes of perfume and ribbons, earrings, heels, and bikini straps.

At the sound of an off-camera hand-clap, the giggling girls (about 10) line up with military precision. They don their individual sashes, reading "Miss 116th Street," "Miss 125th Street," etc...

At the crowd's applause, the first girl enters to the rambunctious cheers of her block's approval. She moves down the runway, a confident urban neighborhood queen (perhaps the peeker of earlier?) who swings her hips down the runway with a little flash and a lot of sass. To Maxwell, she winks and grins unabashedly. He blushes.

The next girl is shy and a bit demure, but gains confidence as she makes eye contact with Maxwell. His expression is indulgent and proud. She struts back down the runway with an extra twist. The next girl has a boyfriend, and she is clearly torn between her allegiance to her man (lost in the crowd), and Maxwell front and center. She salutes him at the end of the runway, and perhaps blows a kiss.

And so on...until each girl has silently communicated with Maxwell in turn...each being admired and adored by Maxwell, and he sings to each of them, equally.

Finally, we see all the girls lined up onstage. The spotlight falls on Maxwell at his table, which now holds a single trophy and a dozen red roses. The moment of decision has arrived, and Maxwell is cool and collected.

As a drum rolls, the doors in the far back swing open and a man walks in, pushing a grocery cart with 11 more trophies.

Every one is a winner, and the crowd goes wild, audibly and visibly at this grand and creative gesture. As Maxwell finishes his song, we fade to black.

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