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Human Shields
March on Mamas, I support you.
But would not Rosie O'Donnel be more effective as a human shield in some war torn area like...
I have at 7:30 am finished my ablutions in the bathroom which is in Mandy's bedroom when the doorbell rings and Mandy squints open one eye toward the bedside clock and says--7:30?
It is 17-year-old, KaKa, at my door with my newspaper in hand and unwrapped from its protective plastic. The Metro section has been separated.
"There is something you wanted to read?"
"Oh, yeah, Ima put it back, Mr. Jim, I uh just came to get my flags," and she enters the foyer and picks up what must be some sort of drill team practice flags. I take the paper from her and she leaves.
The front page announces 55% of Orleans Parish fourth graders, and 63% of eight graders failed the state mandated LEAP tests and will therefore not be passing to the next grade.
Kids don't read enough but yesterday about the same time I was screaming about broken eggs, two blocks closer to the Bayou, and one over, on St. Ann, two boys made the ultimate sacrifice to change all that. Because kids will read the Metro section to see which of their friends and acquaintances got murdered the day before. It is pertinent to their lives. That's what I knew when I saw KaKa reading the Metro this morning at 7:30. She could not give a rat's ass that Morial wants friends as judges, or, Bus that got stuck in Quarter is fined. But, 2 men gunned down on a corner at midday, hits her where she lives, or actually dead smack between where she lives, and where she hangs out much of the time.
So March on Mothers, there is much work to be done.
Chill Pill
Awhile back there was a drive-by attempt by someone I hold dear against someone I hold less dear. It was a failed attempt which kept the potentially grieving family from fighting over who would get those gold teeth, because there ain't no way that boy will get buried with those teeth. They are at this point in time the only thing that defines his value. My rant goes like this: You HAVE to have some value to the world around you, otherwise...
Evil courts me. At English Turn this morning I swear to God I passed address number 66 just as my truck odometer read 666666. Shortly after that I was made to pause for the three prominent gentlemen who walked abreast blocking the incoming side of the narrow English Turn Blvd. Is this some sort of revolution of the affluent, a taking back of the streets from those ubiquitous and tiresome construction workers, none of whom by the way wish to be working inside this uptight gated community? Or are these salt-and-pepper-haired stooges my own little Father, Son, and Holy Ghost representation? I've never in my years working the Turn seen such blatant disregard for progress. Am I to make a choice now? Is this yet another crossroads?
For now I choose to not run them over, I creep behind them while I wait for some outgoing traffic to pass.
The vacant lots surrounding the jobsite are abundant with color from these miniature flowers which are everywhere sprouted from the stems of a succulent weed.
...what good are you, who needs you?
And I don't know about all that mystical shit really, I really don't, yet at the same time (exactly the same time), I believe wholeheartedly, and I mean I have no doubt that a piece of Mama D inhabits my vessel for the purpose of eternal retribution against those who helped her to that early grave.
"You motherfuckin' egg throwin' bitch," I introduce myself to he with the gold teeth. This is me after returning home early from English Turn on a Friday, as has been our recent habit and who am I to complain getting full pay? Before my tirade, which doesn't include much variety of wording other than the above, I had spent an hour cleaning dried broken eggs off the front of this house. Several direct hits on the wire mesh of the security door made for an especially gratifying chore after a half day at the Turn.
The dime had been dropped by a neighbor, not on Gold Teeth specifically but on--those boys that sit the porches (this one), and stoops (all the ones across the street). This egg throwing I am told is a game they've been playing since last night.
He just happened to be sitting there, on my clean porch, at the wrong time.
"Get the fuck off my porch, Get the fuck off my porch, you fuckin' bitch."
"Man, Ina get off this porch but you need to quit calling me that."
"Quit calling you what you worthless piece of shit. Get the fuck away, I'm calling the cops."
"Thas all right calla cop."
He's ready to go back, that motherfucker, it's no threat, his destiny awaits. He won't fight it.
Me either, I'm not fightin' any of it. There's other stories than these and I'm trying to retrieve them, but these are what it is for now. This is me and my life, and I cannot even conceive of another way I would have it (because I'm stupid). Although, I think it should be pretty obvious, I probably need to get laid sometime, anytime. Chill, Slim.