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Musing With A BB Gun
One day I might look out and see four apparently healthy dogs sniffing around the house and think what a shame what a marvel the existence of these wild inner-city animals, if only they had somebody who loved them, and the next day I've chosen sides (to hell with Love or the lack of it) all uppity about my own personal losses and predators be damned I strategically plan a revenge which is mostly just me with a bb gun shooting at not exactly helpless animals. The sound they make when hit is "yelp." When I feel the need to or can justify the protection of Shorty these yelps are nothing but a noise to me. Other times these yelps make me feel--egocentric as it sounds--as if I've been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, the very idea of which implies so much affluence of choice as to make me tend towards a guilt over the abuse of my power. Power. Ha. Run away doggy, run away.
Is All Good, Friday 4.3.99
Even well educated as you all are, you are probably not aware that it does not have to be raining for there to exist a measure of 100% humidity. The New Orleans air is fully saturated today; the skies are gray; the temp is 70; the season is called spring; the sparrows have fluttering sex on the power lines, and Jermaine waits patiently for Beulah to rise from her slumber and move her car away from the entrance to the parking lot, so he can begin his car washing business on this last Good Friday before the beginning of the
third millenium AD.
This end of the block provides overflow parking for The Barbershop, and there is no weekend of business for haircutters that exceeds Easter Weekend. Cars began parking at seven this morning, and with Cadillac Shelton parking his spare Buick on this end of Dumaine, that lost space only adds to the problem. Which is why Bryan Henry's mom's car is parked in front of Van and Beulah's house, and why Beulah's car is parked in front of the driveway.
Jermaine, who hopes to take advantage of the increased traffic flow, is waiting on Van and Beulah's steps, with Corey on one side of him, and a toddler in her Easter Weekend dress on the other side. Jermaine is wiping sticky donut crumbs from the little girl's hands with a paper napkin, being as thorough as if he were shining the chrome rims on a Lexus sedan. The little girl who turns out to be one of his children seems to appreciate the effort, but still wipes her hand along the crisp fabric of her dress, before eagerly accepting the carton of chocolate milk Jermaine offers.
The doorbell begins ringing a little before noon; it will ring, with a combination of secret knocks, and glass tapping, endlessly throughout the day, until such a time when I answer with--"What?! what?! what?!" This evening the unlucky recipient of my wrath, on his fourth visit of the day, is
Lance. He has won this unlucky lotto more than once recently so I try to be gentle, not wanting him to think my disatisfaction is singular to his being. I try math, hoping to convince Lance that if he will just do the math, multiply that is, all the kids who have been on this porch today by the
number of times he himself has been here, then surely he will see why, at eight o'clock this evening, I am done, fed up, tired of interruptions, and wish to see or hear no more children (my tone suggests, ever), this evening. Lance is cool about it, and goes away. I close the door, feeling like an asshole, and if omniscience is allowed here, Lance is stepping down from the porch muttering, "asshole."