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Shelton's Birthday 6.27.97
Shelton was teaching me to play a card game called pity pat tonight. I had a question in the middle of one of his explanations and he paused and said, real gentle like--"OK, I'm gonna break it down real slow for you."
Saturday: Shelton makes 13 today. He came over early and we drove over to McDonalds for some "food" and went down to the Bayou and ate. I told him I needed some new cheap sunglasses so we headed for the French Market/Flea Market over by Elysian Fields. We travelled along the Bayou on Moss and turned right at Esplanade. On the first or second block after we turned on Esplanade we passed a large church on the right and Shelton asked me if I had ever drunk holy water. "I don't think I have, Shelton, have you?"
"Yeah, in that church right there, on Fourth of July."
"Was it good?" I asked. "Did it make you feel different?"
"It was better than that Mississippi water. I don't know if it made me feel different though. Maybe a little tingly."
We drove on and I parked where I usually park and Shelton asked me why I always park here and I said because it's easy and besides, it's only a two block walk, you're a young man, come on let's go.
I let Shelton pick out the sunglasses for me (two pair for seven dollars) and then we took off for the burbs. Near the Metairie/Kenner line we stopped at the Sports Authority and Shelton picked out a football with tee. He wanted some wide receiver gloves but I thought $34 was too much money for something like that. We went to WalMart to see if we could find some cheaper gloves but whereas they had golfing gloves, batting gloves, racquetball gloves, they did not have wide receiver gloves. And then Shelton saw the BB guns and his eyes lit up. He dragged me by the arm to stand in front of the locked case with BB pistols that resembled .38's, and.45's, an 9mm's. "The answer is no, Shelton."
"Please, Mr. Jim."
"Shelton, you know kids your age are carrying real guns in our neighborhood. I will not have you killed because some punk doesn't realize you just playin.'"
"I'll only shoot it in the backyard."
Oh the old "I'll only shoot it in the backyard" ploy. I used it myself as a boy. "Shelton," I say, "let me tell you a story. When I was just your age there was nothing in the world I wanted more than a BB gun. Every year for two or three years when my mother asked me what I wanted for my birthday and Christmas, I would give her the same answer. 'I want a BB gun, mom.' And every year she would respond with the same tired old question. 'But where will you shoot it, ' she would say, and I would say, 'only in the backyard, mom.' Now Shelton, you know and I know that I was lying to my mom. If she had given me the BB gun I wanted I would have been prowling the neighborhood, shooting everything in sight--busting windows, shooting my friends in the butt when they weren't looking, luring birds into our alley with bread crumbs and then popping them where they lay, maybe having to watch them suffer because I wasn't a very good shot."
"You talking like you really did all them things, Mr. Jim."
"Don't interrupt me Shelton, I'm on a roll. The thing is, after a couple of years I realized my mom was never going to get me a BB gun. So what I did Shelton, I took matters into my own hands. I was maybe fourteen and I had saved a few dollars and I snuck down to Sears on my bike and bought my own BB gun. A nice one too. It was a rifle and it shot both BB's and pellets, and you could pump it up to shoot soft or really hard. I snuck it into the house and up to my room and there it stayed hidden for many years. Sometimes, when my parents were gone I would bring it out and shoot stuff off the top of my antique dresser, until one day I missed and put a BB hole in the beaded molding that runs along the top of the dresser, and I have felt bad about that since."
"Is there a point to this story, Mr. Jim?"
"Truth be told Shelton, no. Except to say I'm my mother's son and I've learned a few things by that. The short version to the story is--'can you have a BB gun? No, no, and no.' So look for something else and let's get out of here."
Shelton tried on a pair of inexpensive rollerblades, rolled up and down the aisles a few times, and decided they would do nicely. I had worked a side job this week and had a few extra bucks so why not spend some of it? These turned out to be the only gifts he got, but still, when we got home I walked across the street with him where Mama D was sitting on her steps and after listening to her say this was nice of me, I told her, in front of Shelton, that if he lorded this over the other kids and tried to make them feel bad we might just take his stuff away from him. Mama D agreed and said, "That's right, Shelton, nobody has to know nothing about nothing." Happy Birthday Shelton.
The Adopted Father Of Dumaine 6.15.97
Fun projects for the kids: An empty 20-ounce coke bottle becomes a macabre, lifeless, terrarium, in this easy-to-do project for children ages 6 to 12. Simply put two live chameleon lizards, with or without tails, in bottle. Make sure to screw cap on and don't puncture bottle as any breach in the plastic will extend the life of your lizards. Pass bottle between children, lettting each child torture these fascinating and harmless creatures to their satisfaction. Slick and gooey with bloody contusions, your lizards will soon stick to each other in a myriad of real life positions. Marvel as your children learn to recognize the everyday predicaments of life in an airless vacuum. --Look at 'em making love. --that one on the bottom look none too happy. --Look at 'em fight. --that one on the bottom look none too happy. --I think they dead. --that one on the bottom look none too happy. As an added fun feature to this project, witness your children as they explore the applications of Darwinian theory. Yes, stronger children really can hold down weaker children and place pulverized lizard parts on their heads…
Note: the lizards were already dead by the time I came to witness this little science project. I did not interfere with their fun until they began exploring the sewage line access at the front of the property. It has an eight inch square cast iron lid with the address of a Rampart Street plumber from 100 years ago and is about ten inches deep. A four inch ceramic pipe can be seen at one edge of the hole disappearing under the sidewalk.
The players: Shelton Jackson 12, Jacque Lewis 11, Bryan Henry 9, Marqin Lewis 8, and Erica Lewis 3. All players are now huddled around this hole when Shelton says, "Mr Jim, come see."
Grumbling, I step down from the front porch and stand over the hole. I see the tops of five children's heads.
"You seem "em Mr. Jim."
"No."
Erica squeals, "lookit Mr. Jim, lookit." Erica, the sweet dark angel of Dumaine--father unknown, mother 17, is hiding in California to avoid a local warrant--is now squatting over the hole to get a closer look at…
…"Oh how nice, baby rats." And as I watch these children open and close the iron lid, banging on it with sticks and then opening it again to see what affect they are having on newborn rat babies, I wonder what is going through people's minds when they query me as to why I have no children of my own.
"Shelton! Do not torture those rat babies!
"I won't Mr. Jim."
"I mean it, Shelton. I didn't come out here to watch a bunch of pyscho kiddies torture animals."
"I know that Mr. Jim. Ya'll cut out all that banging."
"And don't poke them with sticks."
Shelton slaps his cousin, Marqin, across his head. Marqin says,
"Why you hit me, Shelton.?"
"Mr Jim don't want us torturing them babies."
"That right Mr. Jim?"
"That's right Marqin."
"We can look at 'em Mr. Jim."
"Just look at 'em Marqin."
And I'm trying to figure when I'll have the opportunity to throw some rat dope in that hole to kill the bitch rat. Fuck a bunch of rat babies.
Don't Pull Out Your Penises In The Park 6.2.97
I proposed a few months ago to some of the neighborhood boy children (ages 6-12) that if they would clean the street on Sundays I would take them on road trips: to Audubon Park (where I say--come on guys, don't pull out your dicks and pee off the jungle gym, go behind a tree or something. Or they call each other "motherfuckin' nigger" in front of the rich white children), or to the New Orleans lakefront where I supervise their illegal swimming until the park police come and bust them, or to that suspect strip of beach in Waveland, Mississippi where a carload of good ole boys drives by yelling out--"hey you niggers," or to an Uptown music festival where Shelton, 12, punches out Eric, 10, or this weekend to a festival in the French Quarter where Mandy and I went with three boys and came back with only one. Even knowing that all these boys roam the Quarters on their own and that they can walk or bike the distance faster than you can drive it didn't relieve me of guilt for leaving the two boys (after waiting several hours in one prearranged spot, which only one of the boys bothered coming back to) behind. And they know I don't mind, would even expect them to stray to Bourbon Street, to ogle outside the titty bars, as long as they check in once in awhile. So while Fermin hung close, got an outlandish balloon hat from a clown (who wouldn't accept my money but took everyone elses), got his face painted (also for free), and shared a po-boy with us, also a special treat because I normally require Mama D provide their baloney on white bread sustenance, Shelton and Eric disappeared to do god only knows what. When Fermin tells us he needs to be home to take medicine, we drive home, I drop him and Mandy, pick up two more boys, Glynn and Michael, and head back to the Quarters to at least make the pretense of a search. I centrally locate myself, next to that damn clown again, and send boys off into the Quarters. They go to the River, the French Market, Bourbon Street and back, get free balloon hats each (the most extravagant that clown made all day), and I say so you guys looked for Shelton and Eric to which they respond, oh yes, and we head back home. Shelton and Eric are there, leaning against the iron railing at Dumaine, and knowing I'll be mad try to sucker punch me with "why did you leave us down there," at which point I yell some grown up stuff at them (although not once did I call them motherfuckin' bitches as their guardians sometimes do), and banished them from the next Sunday's activities. To which they responded--what about the Sunday after that? I guess I showed them.