The Cap And Gown
A small fish looking like a baby shark or a porpoise arced above and then immediately into the water inside a concentric ringing geometry of ripples, circles soon bisected by the graceful movement of four swimming ducks on the bayou this morning at sunrise. I was waiting for the seven a.m. church bells but got scared off by my own noisy insecurity.
In the yellow beast I followed the bayou along Moss to Esplanade, then sightseeing right on Decatur, and right on Canal back home. On Decatur all the way down to Canal the number of people moving at seven a.m. seemed unusual. And the minority looked to be early risers like myself. Look at that group of youngsters; why, that young girl is hardly dressed at all. And right before that at the intersection of Gov. Nichols I watched a well dressed but seriously drunk fellow trying to operate his cell phone and walk at the same time just crumple into himself all the way down to the sidewalk as he apparently did not account for the wheelchair ramp. Once he started stumbling it was obvious he didn't have the dexterity or energy enough to remain standing. Seven a.m. is a long night. The man became like water seeking its own level in a city that is below sea level. He disappeared. I wondered about him for a moment and then still moving slowly up Decatur began thinking about the next one and the one after that. Who are you? I idly wondered.
Passing Jackson Square I thought, again, briefly of murder, as a few days previous a street man had killed a street woman, with a handgun, in front of the Cabildo. And tonight two ten-year old boys and two seventeen-year old girls will be shot outside the Superdome at this year's last night of Superfair.
What I've really been thinking about though is the view from Dumaine. I essentially trespass over there once a week or so to get my mail but mostly truth be told I'm looking for that view through the looking glass which isn't always, or ever, so nice. I guess it was Friday I was over there looking out the front window glass while waiting for the computer to finish its woeful permutations. I think I had come over in a pretty cheerful mood, such as I am capable of it anyway, and two cousins, one just out of jail and one whose often lamentable behaviour would seem to put him perpetually just on the brink of it, were acting out directly in front of me, a desperate, decidedly uncheerful tableau, which if entitled would be--The Cowardly Wolf and the Lamb.
The Wolf is shirtless, lean, with cut black muscles, eyebrows that connect maliciously, glimmering gold teeth, and an attitude as humorless, and dark, as asphalt.
The Lamb is not harmless but wants to be. He was maybe 18 and pretty well rumored as the evil bad seed in an area already over planted in such seven years ago and then five ago when I saw him sitting on those steps out there, recovering from a gunshot to his hip, I began to see in him a longing so far from his reach that to watch him, to think about him, was a gut wrenching ache. But the bullet changed him and his countenance began losing its edge and loosening into something like peaceful resignation. Back in jail shortly after that and two years later he comes out looking mature, and handsome, almost cheerful. I was really sorry to see him go that time. He had only enjoyed a few months of freedom before being sent back and now this day I'm seeing him is his third time out, just in the years I have known him.
I don't see his daughter anymore. She's seven now I guess. Neither her nor her cousins come around this street any more. Which is not unusual. People move away; they don't come back and linger around their old block for years and years and years. Except for the boys. Good and bad they come with varying frequency to this corner they call home. Sometimes the bad boys set up shop, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they play cards or dominoes, not on the porch anymore, but maybe a little off to the left, either on the stoop of Esnard Villa, or between this and that, with a scrap of plywood laid over a trash can for playing surface.
The hardened youngsters, either acting or legitimately pulling off the gangster role, can at times be almost obsequious in their efforts to get along with us (after all, not a one of them are area homeowners and really have no rights to be so omnipresent), and other times they will ignore you, just trying to make it through another day invisible to whichever powers that be. But at times they seem almost too resilient, too ever present, and too loud. And just when you really can't stand it another minute, they leave, and don't come back, and after weeks pass, you begin to miss them. The world you have become so used to becomes too boring without them. And they come back to fill that void.
Today though, looking out the front door glass on Dumaine and Wolf is up in Lamb's face, a face which is more hardened but still somehow peaceful after two more years in jail, and, I guess this is a love dance or something but why can't Wolf express his love with a hug, or hell, even a kiss on the cheek, instead of...
Com'ere bitch. What, you don't like that? Wuhchu gonna do? (Evil smile).
Lamb is wearing a clean ivory knit shirt, a cross around his neck like Evangelists might give out in the jails, pressed blue jeans, and black cross trainers, brand unknown.
This is like anatomy of an inner city murder. Lamb does not want to inflict harm but he cannot indefinitely let Wolf handle him this way. Wolf is stronger, meaner, more full of himself. Lamb would have to get a gun to handle Wolf. It is conceivable yet highly speculative that he has done such a thing before but I'm telling you what I know to be true--he does not want to do it.
Wolf pokes Lamb in the chest with his right index finger. Lamb gets angry, Wolf gets meaner, and Lamb acquiesces. Wolf blinds Lamb with his golden smile, says, your daddy is glad to see you out, you know who is your daddy. Lamb says, man fuck you. Wolf pokes Lamb in the chest, harder this time, and bringing his head, twisted sideways, right up beside Lamb's, says, you don't talk to your daddy that way, bitch. Lamb shrugs away, regaining his space. I'm fed up and am about to go outside and suggest that Lamb just cap the motherfucker and be done with it. Don't have a gun, we'll get you one. Erase him. Go ahead. No motives, no suspects, baby.
I was really too deep into this and so was almost relieved when God tapped me on the shoulder and with the authority of a senior salesperson asked me could He help me with anything and I red-faced, feeling as if caught mumbling suggestively to myself while fingering the lingerie at Neimann-Marcus said no thank you I'm just looking.
The Lamb, Toy Lewis, 26, died Friday, 8/16/02, from injuries suffered in a motorcycle accident at the corner of Orleans and Galvez.
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A small fish looking like a baby shark or a porpoise arced above and then immediately into the water inside a concentric ringing geometry of ripples, circles soon bisected by the graceful movement of four swimming ducks on the bayou this morning at sunrise. I was waiting for the seven a.m. church bells but got scared off by my own noisy insecurity.
In the yellow beast I followed the bayou along Moss to Esplanade, then sightseeing right on Decatur, and right on Canal back home. On Decatur all the way down to Canal the number of people moving at seven a.m. seemed unusual. And the minority looked to be early risers like myself. Look at that group of youngsters; why, that young girl is hardly dressed at all. And right before that at the intersection of Gov. Nichols I watched a well dressed but seriously drunk fellow trying to operate his cell phone and walk at the same time just crumple into himself all the way down to the sidewalk as he apparently did not account for the wheelchair ramp. Once he started stumbling it was obvious he didn't have the dexterity or energy enough to remain standing. Seven a.m. is a long night. The man became like water seeking its own level in a city that is below sea level. He disappeared. I wondered about him for a moment and then still moving slowly up Decatur began thinking about the next one and the one after that. Who are you? I idly wondered.
Passing Jackson Square I thought, again, briefly of murder, as a few days previous a street man had killed a street woman, with a handgun, in front of the Cabildo. And tonight two ten-year old boys and two seventeen-year old girls will be shot outside the Superdome at this year's last night of Superfair.
What I've really been thinking about though is the view from Dumaine. I essentially trespass over there once a week or so to get my mail but mostly truth be told I'm looking for that view through the looking glass which isn't always, or ever, so nice. I guess it was Friday I was over there looking out the front window glass while waiting for the computer to finish its woeful permutations. I think I had come over in a pretty cheerful mood, such as I am capable of it anyway, and two cousins, one just out of jail and one whose often lamentable behaviour would seem to put him perpetually just on the brink of it, were acting out directly in front of me, a desperate, decidedly uncheerful tableau, which if entitled would be--The Cowardly Wolf and the Lamb.
The Wolf is shirtless, lean, with cut black muscles, eyebrows that connect maliciously, glimmering gold teeth, and an attitude as humorless, and dark, as asphalt.
The Lamb is not harmless but wants to be. He was maybe 18 and pretty well rumored as the evil bad seed in an area already over planted in such seven years ago and then five ago when I saw him sitting on those steps out there, recovering from a gunshot to his hip, I began to see in him a longing so far from his reach that to watch him, to think about him, was a gut wrenching ache. But the bullet changed him and his countenance began losing its edge and loosening into something like peaceful resignation. Back in jail shortly after that and two years later he comes out looking mature, and handsome, almost cheerful. I was really sorry to see him go that time. He had only enjoyed a few months of freedom before being sent back and now this day I'm seeing him is his third time out, just in the years I have known him.
I don't see his daughter anymore. She's seven now I guess. Neither her nor her cousins come around this street any more. Which is not unusual. People move away; they don't come back and linger around their old block for years and years and years. Except for the boys. Good and bad they come with varying frequency to this corner they call home. Sometimes the bad boys set up shop, sometimes they don't. Sometimes they play cards or dominoes, not on the porch anymore, but maybe a little off to the left, either on the stoop of Esnard Villa, or between this and that, with a scrap of plywood laid over a trash can for playing surface.
The hardened youngsters, either acting or legitimately pulling off the gangster role, can at times be almost obsequious in their efforts to get along with us (after all, not a one of them are area homeowners and really have no rights to be so omnipresent), and other times they will ignore you, just trying to make it through another day invisible to whichever powers that be. But at times they seem almost too resilient, too ever present, and too loud. And just when you really can't stand it another minute, they leave, and don't come back, and after weeks pass, you begin to miss them. The world you have become so used to becomes too boring without them. And they come back to fill that void.
Today though, looking out the front door glass on Dumaine and Wolf is up in Lamb's face, a face which is more hardened but still somehow peaceful after two more years in jail, and, I guess this is a love dance or something but why can't Wolf express his love with a hug, or hell, even a kiss on the cheek, instead of...
Com'ere bitch. What, you don't like that? Wuhchu gonna do? (Evil smile).
Lamb is wearing a clean ivory knit shirt, a cross around his neck like Evangelists might give out in the jails, pressed blue jeans, and black cross trainers, brand unknown.
This is like anatomy of an inner city murder. Lamb does not want to inflict harm but he cannot indefinitely let Wolf handle him this way. Wolf is stronger, meaner, more full of himself. Lamb would have to get a gun to handle Wolf. It is conceivable yet highly speculative that he has done such a thing before but I'm telling you what I know to be true--he does not want to do it.
Wolf pokes Lamb in the chest with his right index finger. Lamb gets angry, Wolf gets meaner, and Lamb acquiesces. Wolf blinds Lamb with his golden smile, says, your daddy is glad to see you out, you know who is your daddy. Lamb says, man fuck you. Wolf pokes Lamb in the chest, harder this time, and bringing his head, twisted sideways, right up beside Lamb's, says, you don't talk to your daddy that way, bitch. Lamb shrugs away, regaining his space. I'm fed up and am about to go outside and suggest that Lamb just cap the motherfucker and be done with it. Don't have a gun, we'll get you one. Erase him. Go ahead. No motives, no suspects, baby.
I was really too deep into this and so was almost relieved when God tapped me on the shoulder and with the authority of a senior salesperson asked me could He help me with anything and I red-faced, feeling as if caught mumbling suggestively to myself while fingering the lingerie at Neimann-Marcus said no thank you I'm just looking.
- jimlouis 6-25-2002 12:43 am
The Lamb, Toy Lewis, 26, died Friday, 8/16/02, from injuries suffered in a motorcycle accident at the corner of Orleans and Galvez.
- jimlouis 8-25-2002 8:55 pm [add a comment]