Slapping The Bayou 8.10.97
Harold Armour's restaurant, bar, grocery store over on LaHarpe in the 7th Ward burned down last night. The establishment was 90 years old and was known by the original owner's name--Mule's (Mulay's). Harold and his brother co-owned it with members of that prodigious Ngyuen clan.
Things are sleepy and quiet on Dumaine. Temperatures are a little down but the air is too still and wet. Some of the boys playing football in the street. Sharon stabbed Greg today. The Saints are playing the Chiefs in the Superdome. I'll probably listen some on the radio.
I've been staying inside lately, pondering, stagnating, "resting." Reading a couple decent books--Richard Russo's, Straight Man, and some good detective fiction by a Boston writer named Robert Parker.
Mr. Dave, from around the corner on Dorgenois, died Wednesday, deserves something of an extended obit but I will have to confer with Jim Wolff, who sold the house next door (Esnard Villa), to Yolanda.
I'm going outside to see what happens.
Sunday: (I never did go outside last night. There was no place to sit what with all those kids and coloring books). Got up around 6:30 a.m., went to look for paper but it wasn't here yet. Came in, took a bath, made coffee and toast, loaded up the one hitter, and drove down to the Bayou, parking on Moss, just down from the corner of 3300 Dumaine. I sit at the first set of steps, the Dumaine bridge to my left and that church with the copper dome to my right. Early Sunday mornings are so fine in New Orleans; so quiet the sound of repentance. My coffee is good but I burnt the toast. I light a cigarette and bow my head in prayer. That fisherman two hundred yards away might be jealous of my trained fish, who glitter at sunrise, high above the water, before reaching the arc's pinnacle, where they lay flat and to the right (as per training), and come down slapping the water in high fashion. God, I love those fish.
Joggers, bikers, and dog walkers are making their appearances. More cautious than curious, they seem to carry with them an inherent understanding of the folly of running yourself healthy in a place so casual about killing. Reiterated too often in the news is that discouraging reality that no place in New Orleans is completely safe.
I set fire to the little morsel of weed in my pipe and suck it dry. A little dab will do me. I have to hold the smoke in my lungs longer than I like out of respect for that pedestrian who had sneaked up behind me. By the time I do exhale, very little smoke leaves my mouth. I guess I got all of that one.
I am completely alone on the Bayou when the church bells start clanging what soon becomes a brief melody. Just when I think I might be able to hum along, the notes begin breaking down, slow and easy, until the disintegration completes itself with a single wavering note. Silence.
It's 8:30 a.m. when I get back to 2600 and there are five boys waiting in front the house, ready to clean the street. Only four of them will fit in the Festiva.
So the four boys and I leave out of here, headed for Mississippi, with Michael crying in the rear view mirror.
A white family let the boys play with their nerf football. When I went to return it prior to our departure, the man said--"well you're very welcome, it looks like they're having fun." I'm not sure, but I don't think he was referring to the part where they were holding each other's heads under water, yelling--"stay down bitch, stay down."
These and the "pink eyed prostitute" are among my favorites.
Now, how do you get them back in chronological order ?
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Harold Armour's restaurant, bar, grocery store over on LaHarpe in the 7th Ward burned down last night. The establishment was 90 years old and was known by the original owner's name--Mule's (Mulay's). Harold and his brother co-owned it with members of that prodigious Ngyuen clan.
Things are sleepy and quiet on Dumaine. Temperatures are a little down but the air is too still and wet. Some of the boys playing football in the street. Sharon stabbed Greg today. The Saints are playing the Chiefs in the Superdome. I'll probably listen some on the radio.
I've been staying inside lately, pondering, stagnating, "resting." Reading a couple decent books--Richard Russo's, Straight Man, and some good detective fiction by a Boston writer named Robert Parker.
Mr. Dave, from around the corner on Dorgenois, died Wednesday, deserves something of an extended obit but I will have to confer with Jim Wolff, who sold the house next door (Esnard Villa), to Yolanda.
I'm going outside to see what happens.
Sunday: (I never did go outside last night. There was no place to sit what with all those kids and coloring books). Got up around 6:30 a.m., went to look for paper but it wasn't here yet. Came in, took a bath, made coffee and toast, loaded up the one hitter, and drove down to the Bayou, parking on Moss, just down from the corner of 3300 Dumaine. I sit at the first set of steps, the Dumaine bridge to my left and that church with the copper dome to my right. Early Sunday mornings are so fine in New Orleans; so quiet the sound of repentance. My coffee is good but I burnt the toast. I light a cigarette and bow my head in prayer. That fisherman two hundred yards away might be jealous of my trained fish, who glitter at sunrise, high above the water, before reaching the arc's pinnacle, where they lay flat and to the right (as per training), and come down slapping the water in high fashion. God, I love those fish.
Joggers, bikers, and dog walkers are making their appearances. More cautious than curious, they seem to carry with them an inherent understanding of the folly of running yourself healthy in a place so casual about killing. Reiterated too often in the news is that discouraging reality that no place in New Orleans is completely safe.
I set fire to the little morsel of weed in my pipe and suck it dry. A little dab will do me. I have to hold the smoke in my lungs longer than I like out of respect for that pedestrian who had sneaked up behind me. By the time I do exhale, very little smoke leaves my mouth. I guess I got all of that one.
I am completely alone on the Bayou when the church bells start clanging what soon becomes a brief melody. Just when I think I might be able to hum along, the notes begin breaking down, slow and easy, until the disintegration completes itself with a single wavering note. Silence.
It's 8:30 a.m. when I get back to 2600 and there are five boys waiting in front the house, ready to clean the street. Only four of them will fit in the Festiva.
So the four boys and I leave out of here, headed for Mississippi, with Michael crying in the rear view mirror.
A white family let the boys play with their nerf football. When I went to return it prior to our departure, the man said--"well you're very welcome, it looks like they're having fun." I'm not sure, but I don't think he was referring to the part where they were holding each other's heads under water, yelling--"stay down bitch, stay down."
- jimlouis 4-11-2002 10:00 pm
These and the "pink eyed prostitute" are among my favorites. Now, how do you get them back in chronological order ?
- bill 4-12-2002 3:46 pm [2 comments]