Are You Sure You Want Out? 2.7.99
Fermin can't figure out why everything good has to be tainted with something bad. He's learning he can't brag about the new bedroom and TV he has all to himself over on Touro and expect to be treated with the brotherly love he desires while on Dumaine. His good fortune over on Touro further limits his appeal with his cousins on Dumaine, who didn't like him that much to begin with, and have always treated him more like the visiting relative with whom they have fun only when absolutely necessary.
Leaving a piece of trash on the steps leading to the front porch is like taking a big dump and then using it as the ink to scrawl a message like: "Thank you for your futile efforts, not good enough, fuck you." The insult on top of injury in this metaphor is the lack of proper sentence structure.
And how gleefully they drop dimes on each other--"Look what Fermin did,"one of his cousins reports while pointing to the pile of trash on the steps, as Jacque and I, returning from fishing on the bayou, exit the vehicle.
Jacque turned thirteen yesterday. For his birthday I went fishing with Van, down to the river, our lines weighted to the muddy river bottom with spark plugs. "We'll go in the morning," I had told Jacque, tempted to buy off his disappointment with a ten dollar bill.
The kids are bored and have hours to kill before the day's parades so let's sic Mr. Jim on Fermin, see what happens. Can't blame them that, although they should know by now that flying sparks can burn the unintended as well.
Fermin saunters back from Jack's with the second of what will be a four course breakfast, each course consisting of one of those frozen tubes of colored sugar water that you squeeze into your mouth by pinching and squeegeeing the plastic from the bottom up.
While the audience of kids--Shelton, Marqin, Lance, Bryan, Irvin, and Jacque--enjoy the spectacle of Fermin and I pissing off each other, I sink to the common low and interject with, ... and I sure feel like hitting you right now. I don't agree with it but Ican understand why people hit their children in anger, that's what I've learned from being around here, and while you're sucking on that thing empty this trash can over in the dumpster." Shelton and Lance laugh; Lance mimics my words and delivery.
"...While you suckin' on that thang."
And I go off into harangue number 28, "If you're going to hang around here, keep it clean, I mean, look at this street, look at all the candy wrappers inside this property alone, you got it looking like a ghetto around here...,"
"This is a ghetto, Mr. Jim," Lance interjects.
"No, you're mind is a ghetto."
"I don't know about that, Mr. Jim."
And then I give Marqin (9) an earful not knowing that two days later Mama D would drag him literally by his ears past the Sunday morning beer breakfast gathering of the Dumaine Gentlemen's Club, exhorting, "get inside and iron those pants like I told you to," while Monk (62), Van (39), and myself (39), cheer her on with encouragements, "good work Mama D," and "show him what's what, Mama D." And last night Marqin made Mandy's shit list with his aggressive misbehavior at a work related Mardi Gras function in the CBD, near the end of the Uptown parade route.
Monk has stepped out of blue collar unemployment into the mail room of some St. Charles firm in the CBD. The trimming of hair and beard removed much of his grey and combined with the slacks and tie give him a new profile which causes me to address him as Mr. Louis (first name), or, Mr. Gibson (last name). He answers like the dignified Englishman, "yes, really, we must do lunch."
This morning at the Shell, corner of Orleans and Broad, a man needing bus fare sold me a bag containing ten pounds of oranges of suspect provenance. Discarding the ones with punctures and rinsing the rest has me with a still life of sweet smelling fruit.
Times Picayune writer, Petula Dvorak, checks in with this--"Samuel Gaines Jr. didn't get a chance to stand up from his milk-crate seat to greet his visitor before the man shot him in the head Thursday afternoon, police said." Gaines had been released from prison one month previous.
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Fermin can't figure out why everything good has to be tainted with something bad. He's learning he can't brag about the new bedroom and TV he has all to himself over on Touro and expect to be treated with the brotherly love he desires while on Dumaine. His good fortune over on Touro further limits his appeal with his cousins on Dumaine, who didn't like him that much to begin with, and have always treated him more like the visiting relative with whom they have fun only when absolutely necessary.
Leaving a piece of trash on the steps leading to the front porch is like taking a big dump and then using it as the ink to scrawl a message like: "Thank you for your futile efforts, not good enough, fuck you." The insult on top of injury in this metaphor is the lack of proper sentence structure.
And how gleefully they drop dimes on each other--"Look what Fermin did,"one of his cousins reports while pointing to the pile of trash on the steps, as Jacque and I, returning from fishing on the bayou, exit the vehicle.
Jacque turned thirteen yesterday. For his birthday I went fishing with Van, down to the river, our lines weighted to the muddy river bottom with spark plugs. "We'll go in the morning," I had told Jacque, tempted to buy off his disappointment with a ten dollar bill.
The kids are bored and have hours to kill before the day's parades so let's sic Mr. Jim on Fermin, see what happens. Can't blame them that, although they should know by now that flying sparks can burn the unintended as well.
Fermin saunters back from Jack's with the second of what will be a four course breakfast, each course consisting of one of those frozen tubes of colored sugar water that you squeeze into your mouth by pinching and squeegeeing the plastic from the bottom up.
While the audience of kids--Shelton, Marqin, Lance, Bryan, Irvin, and Jacque--enjoy the spectacle of Fermin and I pissing off each other, I sink to the common low and interject with, ... and I sure feel like hitting you right now. I don't agree with it but Ican understand why people hit their children in anger, that's what I've learned from being around here, and while you're sucking on that thing empty this trash can over in the dumpster." Shelton and Lance laugh; Lance mimics my words and delivery.
"...While you suckin' on that thang."
And I go off into harangue number 28, "If you're going to hang around here, keep it clean, I mean, look at this street, look at all the candy wrappers inside this property alone, you got it looking like a ghetto around here...,"
"This is a ghetto, Mr. Jim," Lance interjects.
"No, you're mind is a ghetto."
"I don't know about that, Mr. Jim."
And then I give Marqin (9) an earful not knowing that two days later Mama D would drag him literally by his ears past the Sunday morning beer breakfast gathering of the Dumaine Gentlemen's Club, exhorting, "get inside and iron those pants like I told you to," while Monk (62), Van (39), and myself (39), cheer her on with encouragements, "good work Mama D," and "show him what's what, Mama D." And last night Marqin made Mandy's shit list with his aggressive misbehavior at a work related Mardi Gras function in the CBD, near the end of the Uptown parade route.
Monk has stepped out of blue collar unemployment into the mail room of some St. Charles firm in the CBD. The trimming of hair and beard removed much of his grey and combined with the slacks and tie give him a new profile which causes me to address him as Mr. Louis (first name), or, Mr. Gibson (last name). He answers like the dignified Englishman, "yes, really, we must do lunch."
This morning at the Shell, corner of Orleans and Broad, a man needing bus fare sold me a bag containing ten pounds of oranges of suspect provenance. Discarding the ones with punctures and rinsing the rest has me with a still life of sweet smelling fruit.
Times Picayune writer, Petula Dvorak, checks in with this--"Samuel Gaines Jr. didn't get a chance to stand up from his milk-crate seat to greet his visitor before the man shot him in the head Thursday afternoon, police said." Gaines had been released from prison one month previous.
- jimlouis 12-23-2002 4:29 am