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The Bell Tolls For Thee
A man and a 43-year old woman from the affluent Lakeview neighborhood were parked in the 3000 block of Dumaine at four o'clock in the morning discussing the direction of their relationship. Normally after a night in the French Quarter they exited northerly to the safeness of the Lakeview area by way of Esplanade to City Park to Marconi.
Friends described her as "streetsmart" yet able to quote Shakespeare. The 2900 and 3000 block of Dumaine are not safe. To be conservative let's say the 500 to 3300 block is not safe, especially 1200 to 3300. Dumaine, 500 to 1500 is French Quarter/Armstrong Park. Tennessee Williams lived in the French Quarter, on Dumaine. 1500 to 2700 (North Broad) is Treme. 2700 to 3300+ is Faubourg St. John. The 3300 block of Dumaine crosses Moss, which runs along the south side of Bayou St. John. This is a line of demarcation between safe and untold wickedness. Which side is which is a question for debate.
She saw the man approach and drove off, or her companion was driving, I am unsure, but the man in the street shot at them as they tried to escape to make it those three blocks to the bayou. The shooter was good enough to hit her in the head, and she died. There are more than a few unanswered questions in that one. It is one of several recent violent crimes in the vicinity of either the Dumaine or Rocheblave residence. Which is why I bring them up I guess. It's local news. Murder is noteworthy, an exclamation point, an underscoring of something gone wrong in our cities. The al Qaida terrorist network is less a threat than our neglect towards our weakest, least educated citizens, too many of who between the ages of 18 and 25 show a remarkable propensity for murder. I think this neglect shows a startling weakness in the greatness of character that is the United States of America. If we as a country were only as good as the metaphors of our drill instructors and high school football coaches and were only as strong as our weakest links, how strong would we be?
In a related unrelated story, today's newspaper greeted me with the happy news that Alabama was putting Cherry away for the rest of his (miserable) life. At the same time this is an encouraging picture of perseverance against overwhelming odds, and better late than never is better than not, still, it almost makes you want to cry as it reminds us how far there is to go. It seems to me like 40 years was too long to wait for that.
There's so much to be improved, Slim. Why don't you do something? What the fuck are you doing, Slim?
The Cloth One
My eighty-four year old mom on Mother's Day said, "You know, I read the paper pretty thoroughly," this I believe to convince any and all that she still has her full wits about her. And although there is no major debate about whether she does or doesn't the subject did come up during a recent visit as to the eventuality of such a question and how are we to go about it. How should we act? How should we not act? Clifford asserts of course that she is too young to talk about such things and we the six of us her kids all blindly hope that is true.
"...and there are some people I just don't like."
I had been daydreaming and had to wing it. "I hope I'm not one of them," I said.
"No," she laughed, "but that George Bush, if you really follow him, he...is...so, he really says some stupid things." My mother's short, patriotic hiatus from Bush bashing is over.
I thought I should stick to positive themes.
"You like his mother though."
She had to think about it a moment but relented to say, "Well, yes, I like her, but her son is really," and here the machinery of her emotions and intellect were spinning so fast the gears were stripping and no cohesive thought could find its way into production, so she settled for the simplest way to say it, reiterating her earlier statement, "He is so stupid."
She was in good spirits, my mom, on Mother's Day. Had I encouraged her further she would have told me her feelings about other politicians. She was against the new Democratic Dallas mayor because she felt the woman should be raising her kids instead of running for office. There is, I think, a Republican from Texas in the Senate or Congress whom my mother truly loathes, Kay Bailey Hutchinson (?). Back in the days when my father was a living pollster and they were invited to political functions my mother had been insulted by this woman's gloating manner as Kay Bailey and several women, including my mom, collected their coats from the guest bedroom. My mother wore a cloth coat; Kay Bailey wore some sort of exotic, or farm raised rodent-like, animal skin.
She told me my sister and family are coming from their Bay Area suburb to Dallas and Austin the last weekend in July, and it would be nice if we could all--from Arlington and Lake Highlands, and Austin, and Kansas, and New Orleans--meet and be like a large nice family, briefly. I was thinking well sure at the very least we could give that a try.
"Of course I'll come." After f-ing up last Christmas I am determined to be more family oriented. "I mean unless my name shows up on some list that has me consorting with known anti-government subversives..."
Filling in the pause after an appropriate number of beats, my mother said, "You mean me."
"I'm just saying."
"Well, you try to make it."
"Okay mom, Happy Mother's Day."
"Thanks for calling." (Thanks for answering)
Where Is Susan Cowsill?
I could not really see myself standing shoulder to shoulder in the full 90-degree sunshine with only a hat and maybe an occasional mist of water to cool me off so I stayed home the first weekend of Jazzfest and painted my kitchen. Occasionally I would look out a window and see that plane with its banner advertisement for Tequiza, which is a product I do not want to know anything about. And I could hear the motor of a blimp every so often, so it was like Jazzfest in my kitchen, except I was drinking a lot more beer than if I were at Jazzfest, and there are more trees around here than at the Fairgrounds. I had the radio tuned to WWOZ because they broadcast live some of the acts. I heard Astral Project, a highly reputed jazz group but not one I am that fond of. Gatemouth Brown, however, seems to be getting even better with age.
I have no idea why I picked the color I did, but there it is, there you have it. I could not tell if it was the beer or the brand of cigarettes I was smoking but at one point the color that now surrounded me seemed to be buzzing. The color, you are curious about it now, don't tell me otherwise, is like the yolk of a farm egg plugged into a 220 volt wall socket. I do not spend that much time in the kitchen so maybe this will be all right. Painting is what I do for a living and therefore doing it in my spare time is not always that enjoyable so the chances are better than good that the kitchen will remain in its vibrant state for some time.
I do not mean to snub Jazzfest and the myriad related musical venues around town for the two week period even though cover charges at popular clubs double and drink prices are like being in NEW YORK CITY. So after painting the kitchen I took a shower and went to the Mid-City Lanes Rock n' Bowl to hear Anders Osborne. He is a Swedish dude who wanted to play the blues and relocated here six or seven years ago and the best I can tell you is he is sort of like Sting meets Jimi Hendrix. He's good. His jams are about as far out there as you can get, but he always comes back with a little melody to remind you where you were before you left. That's assuming you left with him.
Did I mention that Mick Jagger has been inside the Rock n' Bowl? Which is to say I've never enjoyed myself there because it seems like whoever is in there, besides Mick, is waiting to see Mick, or something, I don't know, I'm not blaming them that, I'd like to meet Mick too, seems like an agreeable chap, but Jesus Christ man, if you can't leave Dallas when you leave Dallas, don't come here. Of course, if you're already here, buy a bunch of T-shirts, have a good time, buy a bunch of stuff, it's your world baby.
Okay, okay, I'll tell you what got me so pissed off that night. I’m just standing there, with my back to the bowling lanes, facing the bar, drinking bottled water, wondering how old those girl bartenders are, wondering if wearing Catholic school girl mini-skirts while selling liquor is legal. I have the backs of my knees pressed up against the edge of a molded plastic bowling alley type seat. It is my not so subtle way of saying I may need to sit down soon, I'm tired. It is the end seat I am protecting. There are four empty seats next to it. They have been empty for ten minutes before a group comes and sits down. Which is fine and good, until a guy comes and stands next to me, in front of his female, and slowly begins insinuating himself into my space so that he can worm his way into the seat I am clearly standing in front of. He did not speak to me or ask if he could have "my" chair, which I would have (begrudgingly) given him. He literally slithered his body up against mine and acted as if he were quite willing to occupy the seat even at the expense of having my ass in his face. With forced politeness I explained the situation to him. How I thought I might like to sit down soon, and then his buddy came into it and ludicrously explained how they had been sitting there and I just raised my hands, in defeat, moved over two feet, and spoke no more to them. At their soonest opportunity they took a group of seats away from me, and I sat down, talked to pretty party chick from Memphis, and her boyfriend, but got bored, and not being able to find a comfortable groove at the Rock n' Bowl, I left very early. I didn't see Anders Osborne but I had seen him for free back dropped by the Mississippi with tankers and sternwheelers moving by at the French Quarter Festival and that would have to be good enough for awhile.
The Rock n' Bowl is a good venue though, and I'm sure does not suffer from me not liking it. And 15 bucks for two stages, upstairs with bowling, downstairs without, is not so pricey considering the talent--Rebirth Brass Band, Rockin' Dopsie (that's Doopsie, he's pop rock rhythm and blues zydeco), Anders Osborne, and Ingrid Lucia (I don't really know who she is, but she's not generic, and I would like to hear her again; she was the soundtrack to the musical chairs ordeal).
After a six-month slowdown work got steady again. The boss and me went to work for his brother, still painting high end, but in Old Metairie this time, instead of River Ridge, and English Turn. Old Metairie is the closest affluent suburb and shares some of the New Orleans charm--albeit watered down and with apparent lesser depravity. But being old the charm is earned more legitimately than a few area imitators with much shorter histories. Also, it seems to be the highest concentration of beautiful people I have encountered thus far, so I may wash the truck, which as far as I can tell is the only thing holding me back from a complete and total discreet integration of Old Metairie.
I have even postponed putting oil in the truck to keep from spilling it on the area's most valuable real estate, where older homes are torn down for the sake of their 200-300 thousand dollar lots and then replaced with four to six thousand square foot two stories with brick and stucco exteriors. In fact I have ignored the truck's crankcase since that disappointment before Christmas when the dipstick was showing such an alarmingly high level of fluid--of course it should be just oil--that I had to reconsider a thousand miles of cross country travel. But I've driven it everyday since and only recently has the oil light alarmed me I might want to check the dipstick. There seems to be a little more smoke and of course the transmission still slips. And instead of adjusting the idle I just drive the (automatic transmission) truck with one foot on the gas and the other on the brake so at stoplights my foot keeps the idle up and I don't stall out. It does backfire occasionally. I haven't checked the oil yet, as of this writing. And the nails in the tires have worn away and a lack of a proper gasket between the manifold and the exhaust has me in the cab breathing gases that should be puffing out the rear pipe.
My second car has two flat tires and an undiagnosed mechanical problem.
I know, I know, where is Susan Cowsill? All the previous words are simply an avoiding of that simple question. I went to Howlin' Wolf Tuesday night between the Jazzfest weekends and saw local band the Continental Drifters, roots rockers, and they were good. And I may have most maturely put a cap on my six-month crush for former Bangle, eight year New Orleanian Drifter, Vicki Peterson on a night that had me acting out a role that allowed me to drink Bud and Jameson till two a.m. on a school night.
Probably marriage and divorce to leading male Drifter, Peter Holpsapple, was a hindrance to her having a happy career with the band but Susan Cowsill was sure missed at Tuesday night's show. Some people you just end up wondering about. I wonder where she is, Susan Cowsill?
More Fur And Less Nicotine 8.21.97
Did I accuse those children, to their face, of being Satan's disciples? I don't remember doing that.
I pull L'il Red to the curb and D'andre is making a purposeful path to the car.
"Mr. Jim?"
"Yeah?"
"My mom said it was all right to come over here and ask you did you want to look after this cat."
"What cat?"
"I got him under your house. He might be sick, I don't know, I think he dehydrated, but he under your house now and I think he cooling off."
I should have given D'andre a big hug right then and there for using the word "dehydrated" in approximately the proper context, but I was just home from work and a little dried out and dizzy myself. Instead I said, "I don't know D, you kids have got to look after your own cats, preferably without torturing them to death. I mean, it ruins my whole day when ya'll torture those cat's, well maybe only half a day, I'm getting kind of used to it I guess."
D'andre is being kind and respectful, and Satan is nowhere in sight.
"Well, Miss M say if we have any more sick cats to bring 'em over here and…"
"OK D, I'll have a look." I walk over to the side of the porch and look under the house and see a cardboard box with shit smeared on the bottom.
"He right there," and D'andre points to a little black shape splayed flat on the dirt, about a foot from the box. "I wiped the dookey off him," D assured me.
So later that night M points to a little black shape laid flat on her pillow and I take a closer look. I'm giving this cat the evil eye on account of he might be a Trojan Horse. He recoils from my hard stare and acts all spastic and pitiful. I ain't buying it. "There's nothing wrong with this kitten, we've been duped," I declare.
M ignores me
We already have a ten-year-old black cat that we've raised (badly, I think) from a kitten. This is what I'm thinking an hour later as the black kitten is running full speed across my chest on a collision course for my chin. I can't quite grasp it but is this kitten one of them metaphors? I just won't give it a name, that's the ticket. He ain't smashed between two bricks anyway. I wonder if he is grateful for that? Maybe we're interfering with nature. That could be a bad thing. Is it possible to get too much oxygen to the brain?
My boss started whining at 6:30 this morning because my car was parked in the same spot I have parked it everyday I have worked at Muirfield Place, English Turn. Only today this caused him to have to walk across wet grass to get to the house. "Well, boo-fuckin'-hoo," I said loud enough for my boss and all the early rising, newspaper getting, punk ass bitch English Turner's to hear.
I'm trying to cut way back on my cigarette smoking. Can you tell?
Hot Dogs And Hair Balls 9.13.97
Erica made four on Monday and Mama D made 66 on Tuesday.
The boom box perched on the ledge of Mama D's front windows was playing old school rhythm and blues and soul most of the night of her party, but eventually at any party in front of Mama D's the kids will want to hear a little of their own music so they can "dance."
Magnolia Shorty (?) has a tune that goes something like this--"Monkey on your dick, monkey on your dick, monkey on your dick." The music is high energy hard edged hip hop, and is especially conducive to highlighting the athletic ability of twelve-year-old girls. E's daughter, J, is probably the most proficient of the twelve-year-old exotic dancers on Dumaine. Resembling a hybrid yoga/calisthenics workout at first, the dancing soon evolves into what can only be described as very athletic raw sex with an imaginary partner, much of this from the rear, but the young J is most decidedly not portraying the female as passive submissive participant. I venture a prolonged glance at this spectacle, while trying to maintain the visage of a detached scientist. It is amazing how J can keep her balance in that position, with her back arched so severely, her undulating ass so high in the air, only one arm and one leg touching the ground, the other arm and leg spread wide, balancing and inviting. Four younger girls, from four years to 18 months, try to imitate but aren't getting the encouragement they might on another night. And Magnolia Shorty is a one hit wonder this night as we are soon listening again to Etta James and Sam Cooke.
"Would you like some more of that Canadian Mist?" E asks me.
"Gah, I don't know E…"
"Mama D!" E shouts, "show Jim where is the hard liquor." And I follow Mama D inside and she points to a coffee table in the front room where sits several bottles of liquor, and a few liqueurs.
"Help yourself, Jim, " Mama D slurs.
"Thank you Mama D," I say, and pour myself a double.
Back outside I’m thinking I should have eaten more. Earlier Mama D had passed by me and laid a platter of 30 or 40 individually wrapped chili dogs on my lap. I took the opportunity to pin a five dollar bill to her blouse to go with all the other denominations of paper money pinned to her shoulder. It wasn't until after I pinned the five to her that she offered me ribs and chicken. There's a lot more people staying by Mama D today, that were in jail the last time we got together, so I regretfully decline her offer of real food and forced down a hot dog.
But now I've been at the party over an hour and am fully fortified by the Mist.
"E, did you make any stuffed eggs tonight?"
"Ohhh, I make a wonderful stuffed egg."
"That's very interesting E, but did you make any tonight?"
"No I did not, and are you getting sassy with me? Because if you are I’m gonna halfta divorce you."
"Well you ain't gonna see me boo-hooing over a woman who can't keep stuffed eggs in fronta her man."
"Ohhh that's it, ima divorcin' you."
"No you're not E."
"Yeah you right, darlin.' You want me to see if I can find you some eggs?"
"If Mama D can spare them, yes."
"Oh she can spare 'em, you just wait."
And E comes back with a saucer with five stuffed eggs on it and hands it to me, saying, "Mama D say give all the eggs to Jim."
As I'm stuffing the last egg into my mouth, Mama D walks by and I say, "thank you Mama D, the eggs are delicious."
Mama D smiles, "everybody say I make good eggs."
"I can't argue with that," I say.
E leans over and says, "I make better eggs."
"Show me darlin,' show me."
"Oh I will baby, I will."
Erica sits on my lap and shows me the Minnie Mouse figurine she got for her birthday. E yells at her to "get off Mr. Jim's lap." Jealous.
Jacque Lewis asks me how is the kitten doing.
"Well, uh, I don't know how to tell you this Jacque, but, well, I ate the kitten last night."
"Ohhh nooo, you did really, why'd you do that?"
"I was hungry," I tell him. And then I think of something else and I say, "Jacque, Jacque, come here, do this thing for me."
"No, no, no," Jacque squeals.
"Please Jacque."
He comes a little closer, "OK, what?"
"Ask me, 'how is the kitten, Mr. Jim.'"
He's not sure about all this but he finally says, "How is the kitten, Mr. Jim?"
I suck on my teeth while using my thumbnail as a toothpick, and say, "Delicious."
"Ohhh, that's terrible," but later he drags Shelton over and says, "Shelton, ask Mr. Jim how is his kitten?"
Shelton does and when I say, "delicious," he raises his eyebrows a bit, and turns around and walks off. Because his back was turned, I could not tell if he was laughing, or not.
Free Losers 10.14.97
Determined to hear Dr. John without paying for it, M and I went to stand on the sidewalk outside Armstrong Park Saturday night. We were a couple of white trash warriors with our go-cups full of vodka and a small cache of cigarettes. It was a black tie optional, open bar, fifty dollar minimum donation kind of affair. The private security guys lingered inside the wrought iron fence, code red, white trash in sector five, but we paid them no mind and waited, in vain, for Dr. John. Cars full of people with bona-fide social lives whizzed by on Rampart, en route to meaningful existence's. Funky Butt owner, RR, walked up and down the sidewalk, across the street, in front of his club.
"I guess we got here too late."
"Or too early."
"On the wrong day."
"Or misread the paper."
"Or we're just losers."
"Undoubtedly that."
Two weeks previous we had gone to the Funky Butt for a no cover birthday bash for piano man, Henry Butler, but at midnight, Henry was still eating birthday cake, and the grand piano on stage was as quiet as a pep rally for the New Orleans Saints.
"We can go whenever you want."
"How about now?"
"Now is good."
The week before that we went to Audubon Park to hear the symphony perform a free concert. We were just one day late.
"Not much traffic tonight."
"Nope."
And as we pull up to the curb outside of 2646, we see lingering across the street, Stink, Chicken, Moose, and other malcontented ne'erdowells.
"Ten o'clock Saturday night and two more losers come home to roost, on Dumaine."
Fools Consultation
Sitting on a four hundred pound square of rough cut granite continuing with the theme of insanity as it pertains to survival in the inner city I am deep into retribution fantasy with my crack consultant when the female sculptor pulls up in her new Nissan truck and says, "having a block party?" I lamented the mail system's lack of proficiency in delivering her invitation and complimented her husband's recent public work (large house shaped piece constructed of half inch ship's aluminum with painstakingly detailed cutout work which sits now in the neutral ground on St. Bernard near the Gentilly/DeSaix intersection). "Is he famous now?" I asked in good humor and she said no more so than he was before and how art is not such a big deal in New Orleans and how he already has pieces in the museum, and I said, "well, I liked it," partly because I do and partly to be polite and partly because her husband seems like one of those interesting quiet type of persons, and she responded to the polite, yet obviously totally ignorant person, artistically speaking, with an expression that said well big fuckin' deal.
My crack consultant went inside to try and bum a cigarette and I waited patiently inside the haze of thirty or so ounces of Budweiser, gazing to one of the corners where a wheelchair-ridden living gunshot victim sat exacerbating the problem currently being discussed.
Sometimes you just have to talk things out and this is what me and my consultant were doing before he left, and continued to do when he returned without cigarette.
I was empathizing with him. And I'm sad to say I was because the subject is not pretty. He too has been seeing Travis Bickle in his mirror. The simple aggravation inherent to co-existence had put my friend on the edge of the brink. My crack consultant, in the most perfectly political correct manner, was seeing beyond the wheelchair of the man, and considering him full equal.
"Ima kill the motherfucker."
"Yeah, but the world's only going to see another jobless hustler done some terrible, terrible deed and that's all it will look like."
"I don't give a fuck."
"Well, you should. You can't set a guy in a wheelchair on fire. It's just not done."
"It's been done."
"I'm sure, but not in polite company."
"The motherfucker showed me the gun in his waistband."
"Yeah, that's why I'm advocating caution. You wanna dedicate your whole life, as defined by the end thereof, to the aggravating tendencies of some punk? 'Oh yeah, whassisname, over on Rocheblave, he got smoked by that Wheelchair dude who been handlin' him.'"
"He ain't handlin' me."
"I know he's not bro, but you should quit worrying if he is or isn't. He's pretty well punished already for being an asshole."
"He is an asshole."
"I believe you. So you wanna die for him?"
Later I called his retributive scheme half-cocked and he called my scheme ridiculous.
"I shouldn't be telling you any of this."
"That's true, you shouldn't."
He noticed an NOPD bicycle cruiser rushing up Bienville and said, "That's new."
"Yeah, for around here I guess, I've seen it in the Quarter (but I was thinking about Seattle)."
"I think it's about to come down."
"Well, it would be about time, if nothing else we have made clear through discussion that there way to many stupid sumabitches on the street right now."
Earlier I had with considerable more aplomb than I ever showed on Dumaine dealt verbally with the two young hustlers, the one of which has taken to calling me "white boy," in an effort to get into my good graces and hopefully, I think he thinks, become my sole supplier for something he hustles but for which I have no pressing need. I asked him not to call me "white boy," and suggested that being good neighbors was more important than feeding this young boy's drug kinpin delusion, and besides, whether or not I was one to partake in certain pleasures outside the law, as he insisted I was, was not something one would want to discuss on the street if one were hoping to instill trust in his clients. I did become impatient a couple of times and I guess with some condescending incredulity expressed an attitude of--Jesus Christ, who's teaching you kids today. I introduced myself by name and his little partner gave me his Christian name but bad boy gave me his street name. And then I bid them adieu.
To show me that he had been listening to my every word, and I must say it appeared he had been, he said to me, "so I can come by you?"
"No brah, you can't."
Talking To Travis
I don't want to be angry, uptight, pissy, threatened, compromised, psychotic. The summertime dude is popping into the picture. He's a dude that inhabits all of us around here. He is a temperature-related phenomenon. As the daytime temps rise with their humid luggage in tow, dude speaks out.
A young local person with whom I have had the utmost, minimal, peripheral contact is calling out to me from the street, while I'm weedeating the property, or--and all this just in the last few days--I've even heard him call out to the house while I'm inside--"Hey white boy." Today walking back from the Robert's around the corner at Bienville and Broad, a place I rarely go because the panhandlling outside is too overwhelming and if I needed another reason, the NY strip steak I purchased from there today was tasteless and tough. Of course that galvanized boat of boiled crawfish first thing entering might get me back. Anyhow, walking back from the store up Dorgenois and I hear the kid about a half block behind me, calling out, for the second time today, "hey white boy." The first time, this morning coming back from the Home Depot, turning into my driveway while he dawdles by on his bicycle, and he, waiting till he's twenty feet away says, "hey white boy," and I call out loud enough but perhaps he did not hear, "hey punk."
Now, I try to maintain a placid disposition towards the aggravation that must infiltrate our lives, but the audacity of this young man has really got me boiling. Travis Bickle talks back to me from the mirror. Oh god, please not that again. Give me a break, let me focus on the meager pleasantness of my simple days. I talked to my crack consultant and he said I should dress the boy down, which is exactly what I didn't want to hear because that's what Travis was saying too. We can always hope for an amusing anecdote out of all this or that this brief reporting is the anecdote, and all there is to it.
I had a friend in town some months ago who was similarly treated while he walked up Iberville on his way to the Rite-Aid at Canal and Broad. This crude appellative way of talking to a complete stranger is not appropriate in the least and I would have felt really bad for my friend except that he is one who visits regularly enough that in his case being called "white boy" by a black person on an isolated street in New Orleans is something he would eventually have to experience, due to the prevailing sentiment of the louder minority of the overall majority, and because me being here is somewhat stretching the lines of demarcation for this particular part of Mid-City. One must expect some resentment when one moves and lives outside the "natural order" of things. The black man has an historical perspective from which to judge the white man harshly just as the white man has a relation to his ascendants who throughout history have feared the man of color and moved in any direction which would keep them separate. Still all and all, and not discounting the harsher accountings of history, most people don't give a good goddamn about the color of someone's skin and are at their worst only paying lip service to the weaker judgements of their perspective races. This is what I like to think, anyhow. That is me explaining to Travis why certain actions should be curtailed lest they be judged in the simplest manner by the simplest minds.
French Quarter Fest
My horoscope said to get out of my head and into the society around me so I did, mostly because I was going to anyway.
The mid-April French Quarter Fest is the only major local event I hold in high regard, although Mardi Gras and Jazzfest are full of potential as well. It's the mildest of the oppressively hot spring and summertime festivals, and it was occasionally cloudy at this year's fest, so that kept the temp down as well. It was a week full of taking advice as I had been reading the last of my Thrift City hardbacks, Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night, which is the one that, unfavorably reviewed, led him towards ruin, and death. I connected with all the Hemingway's and Fitzgerald's from that last batch, which is a good thing. I can hardly complain of intellectual impoverishment. Sometimes you can't read and that is a guaranteed hard time. But Fitzgerald's Doctor Diver told me I had to take care of the mundane issues, the little things, or I would suffer emotionally, even into insanity. So I dealt with the plumber; he wanted the last of my money. I paid him a partial and held out for final inspection which we scheduled for noon on Friday, the first day of the fest. I took off from my now steady employment and met him and the inspector, who found it all as it should be and said, "so you want a release on the (gas) meter?" I nodded, dumbfounded. I had two days previous, also on Doctor Diver's advice, had the mechanical inspector out. He busted me on several issues, apologized, and left me with a fair amount of work which I have yet to start. But I felt good. I had dealt with the most pressing mundane issues that were holding me hostage. I was strong. I was ready to socialize.
I bought Friday's delicious thinly filleted fried catfish dinner w/ cajun potato salad, green beens with almonds, and that jalapeno tarter sauce, at the Canal/Carrollton Robert's. Got a twenty ounce bottle of Bass to go with it, and drove over to the side of Armstrong Park, where I brought the yellow beast to rest and walked up St. Philip, crossing Rampart, and headed right to Dumaine where I took the left toward the river. Right on Chartres to St. Peter and a few feet to the left I'm in Jackson Square with the Pontalbas and the Cabildo and St. Louis Cathedral and the enviable wrought iron. I knelt on the grass behind the crape myrtle tree in front of one of the many stages set up over many blocks of the Quarter. I chowed heartily, drank it all down, and discreetly loaded and fired the one hitter. Me and my kit bag and humanity. I was waiting with little expectation for this band Jus Fah Nah to start. And when they did start, with just the one guitar player belting out a very respectable, if somewhat subdued, electrified Star Spangled Banner, I was blown away, completely right with God. In that first hour I fell very unseriously in love with one white woman and one black woman, both of whom danced with their girlfriends, or the girlfriends were just props so each could dance unself-consciously for the crowd, of which I was one.
I moved around some, saw the sights, and met no one but strangers. Eight bucks for the food and beer, plus the one hit and I was in that most attractive "foreign locale," slightly disoriented. How can you not like a place that offers such bargains?
On Saturday the Milano String Quartet played in a little room at the Le Petit Theatre on St. Peter which I heard while leaning against the doorframe, focusing between the music and players inside, and the action on the street. The violin player had a nice smile and like so many classical musicians had that slightly befuddled look, as if wondering why would people listen to them.
But Friday, the first night, is the only night when the festival truly has the advertised "festival for locals" feel, where the crowds on the main lawn by the river are large but not oppressively so. That's where Friday night I was pleasantly surprised by a newcomer named Irene Sage, who sings richly in the blues, jazz, rock vein, and is commanding in her presence and pleasantly comfortable with the fact of her overflowing sexuality. It made me think momentarily of the Maureen Dowd I had read in the most recent Times Picayune. The first with the new picture. I'd been wondering what she'd look like beyond that pixyish picture she's been running for years. Wow. The column called us men wimps for not being more like members of a little known primitive tribe who enjoy sex for it's honest pleasure without the power playing etc. We get the syndicated columnists here on a rotating basis and with a time lag so maybe this was Dowd's April Fools column. Either way, it was a little offputting being called a wimp by Maureen Dowd, but I've always liked her and the new picture is nice and her message is I think a good one for a Pulitzer caliber journalist to be espousing, so all in all, I'm for it, and Irene Sage seems to be singing the same message right at that minute and that's when I see her there across the way looking so exactly right I can't help smiling towards her with all this abundant admiration. She looks back and finds me smiling, unmistakably at her, from a fair distance away, and smiles in sincere appreciation, and I'm immediately catapulted into puppy dog mode, where's my leash? But even though I've been told its like riding a bicycle--which come to think of it I also have not done in a long while--I am totally unprepared for liking anybody this much at this point and place in time. So I'm wasting the most valuable Dowd exhortation to not be a wimp. And watching myself do it. Right back into my own head, which is wherefrom I was intending to get away this evening. When I watched her and her girlfriend leave I was sad, and then immediately glad, when they came back.
I think it was Sunday--I kept coming back hoping I would have better courage but I didn't see her again so the point became moot--and I was back in Jackson Square listening to Trombone Shorty, a local kid, who has only recently been coached off the street and is playing on stages with a young band of inexperienced but very talented jazz musicians, and he was doing the circular breathing bit, which is a good one, playing a more or less sustained note for sixty or seventy seconds. But he has the look, Shorty does. So quintessentially the New Orleans inner-city teenager, he represents so many, and will soon, one would hope, leave them all far behind. Don't look back, Shorty. That's my exhortation.
I checked out John Sinclair on the Where 'yat stage, a small setup, on Bourbon, or Royal Street. He recites his poetry about black bluesmen in white society while a band of black and white musicians play the blues. I want to like John Sinclair but his icon status is somewhat disproportionate to his talent as far as I can tell, but I should add that I'm a mostly ignorant judge about poetry. He hosts a radio show an hour or so a day or a week on WWOZ which is in Armstrong Park near where I park the truck, this in the heart of Treme, a neighborhood which just barely includes the Dumaine house a mile to the north, and also a few blocks to the north includes Kermit Ruffin's club on this same street, St. Philip, and he I only mention because he was also background music to the Friday night object of my admiration. And let me say finally, you...you...you...uh...really look nice. I'll have to come up with something better than that.
The Old Man And The Alligator Boy 8.3.97
The killing slowed down quite a bit this week. Some corrections: last week I said three children had been wounded in the crossfire in the past month. That wasn't true last week (only two had been shot), but is true now. Also I said most of the killing was happening in the projects and in Eastern New Orleans but ten of the sixteen recent murders were in the Seventh Ward, a neighborhood of homes which begins about six blocks from here.
Shoot out of the week award goes to the four young men hiding behind a wall in the Seventh Ward who sprayed a passing car (and were sprayed upon) with automatic weapons. One dead, one wounded, one AK-47 left behind. Several homes were pierced. Police recovered fifty shell casings.
Monk buried his wife Friday and seems to be on the upswing.
Sunday: today I took four boys to Fontainbleau State Park on the North Shore near Mandeville. There is a swimming pool and the lakefront for swimming. The boys run for the pool with diving board and I walk to the lake. No one in sight, how nice. The water is calm, with barely a ripple to disturb it reflective quality. Puffy whites up above and a small cypress tree out in the lake to my left with wrist thin root tendrils running above and parallel to the surface before dipping back into the water closer to shore. Old support pilings spaced haphazardly rise a few feet above the water in more or less a straight line and then break into complete random order farther out. I walk into the shallow lake and aim myself for a log floating a hundred yards out. I look to the clouds and see no horses, crabs, or satanic symbols. I look back to the log and see alligator. Floating logs always look like alligators to me, especially since my East Texas oil exploration days where one day I shared a small pond with what I thought was two but turned out to be five or six young alligators. I stop walking and look harder at the log. Really amazing how the various forces of nature have conspired to carve this one living tree into the semblance of a living reptile. The way the back end looks like any old log but the front has that little raised ridge for the "eyebrows" followed by 12-14 inches of nothing then the upturned snout. I dip myself and float on my back for a minute before walking back to the shore. I sit and stare at the log for awhile trying to convince myself there might be a valid reason for a log to move across the current instead of with it. I've almost convinced myself when the log changes directions 180 degrees. And then the boys run up and want me to join them in a rollicking good time of water madness. Sure, but before we go in, see the alligator, and know where it is at all times, and don't go out as far as we did last week. The alligator snaps at a fish and Glynn says, no thank you, goodbye, and returns to the swimming pool. Fermin gets wet but comes out in a few minutes and goes back to the pool. Shelton is still at the pool. More people have arrived and are getting in the lake, we give them fair warning, the alligator has disappeared, the people think we're nuts, I float in, and Jacque thrashes, the water.
"You going back to the pool, Jacque."
"No, Mr. Jim."
"Why not?"
"Because…I am Alligator Boy."
"He was a fine young lad from New Orleans who went missing on the North Shore. Presumed dead by all who loved him. But little did they know he had chosen a new life, wandering the stagnated, mosquito infested waters thought to be his burial ground. He was Alligator Boy."
"Yesss…I am Alligator Boy…and you are…The Old Man."
(Ah kids, you really don't have to love them). "Yes, the old man he found living on the edge of the swamp in a shack made of alligator bones tied together with rat tails. The old man who fed him and soon demanded to be fed himself." I look over at a group of children playing off to our left. "Alligator Boy, I need food, bring me a white child."
"Say no more Old Man," and Jacque thrashes through the waist high water to confront the first white child he sees. "Give me your hat."
"What?" the boy says.
"I want your hat," Jacque says in a high pitched raspy voice.
The boy begins moving faster towards the shore while explaining that it is not really a hat he is carrying and also it does not belong to him…but Jacque quickly bores of this banter and moves off to confront the group of children I had originally been looking at. One from this group had earlier thrown a clam at me. Pay back time.
"I am Alligator Boy," Jacque roars.
No one from this group seems too disturbed by this admission except the teenage girl who jumps and says, "oh!"
"Did I scare you?" Jacque says.
"No, I just didn't know you were there," the girl replies. "Did you really see an alligator? How big was it? What did you do when you saw it? Did you run back to shore?"
"It was big," Jacque says. "And I won't lie to you, I ran from it."
"What did he do?" the girl says, pointing over at me.
OK Jacque, this is a test question. This is just a little girl and I have no need to impress her, but someday a similar scenario may be replayed before a more suitable damsel. Make me look good Jacque, make me look…heroic.
"Well…," Jacque begins real slow, and then he starts twirling his index finger and pointing to the side of his head. "He's a little…you know…in the head, and he has spent much of his time living in the water with alligators…"
So Jacque fails the test but makes me laugh, and goes to the head of the class.
Slapping The Bayou 8.10.97
Harold Armour's restaurant, bar, grocery store over on LaHarpe in the 7th Ward burned down last night. The establishment was 90 years old and was known by the original owner's name--Mule's (Mulay's). Harold and his brother co-owned it with members of that prodigious Ngyuen clan.
Things are sleepy and quiet on Dumaine. Temperatures are a little down but the air is too still and wet. Some of the boys playing football in the street. Sharon stabbed Greg today. The Saints are playing the Chiefs in the Superdome. I'll probably listen some on the radio.
I've been staying inside lately, pondering, stagnating, "resting." Reading a couple decent books--Richard Russo's, Straight Man, and some good detective fiction by a Boston writer named Robert Parker.
Mr. Dave, from around the corner on Dorgenois, died Wednesday, deserves something of an extended obit but I will have to confer with Jim Wolff, who sold the house next door (Esnard Villa), to Yolanda.
I'm going outside to see what happens.
Sunday: (I never did go outside last night. There was no place to sit what with all those kids and coloring books). Got up around 6:30 a.m., went to look for paper but it wasn't here yet. Came in, took a bath, made coffee and toast, loaded up the one hitter, and drove down to the Bayou, parking on Moss, just down from the corner of 3300 Dumaine. I sit at the first set of steps, the Dumaine bridge to my left and that church with the copper dome to my right. Early Sunday mornings are so fine in New Orleans; so quiet the sound of repentance. My coffee is good but I burnt the toast. I light a cigarette and bow my head in prayer. That fisherman two hundred yards away might be jealous of my trained fish, who glitter at sunrise, high above the water, before reaching the arc's pinnacle, where they lay flat and to the right (as per training), and come down slapping the water in high fashion. God, I love those fish.
Joggers, bikers, and dog walkers are making their appearances. More cautious than curious, they seem to carry with them an inherent understanding of the folly of running yourself healthy in a place so casual about killing. Reiterated too often in the news is that discouraging reality that no place in New Orleans is completely safe.
I set fire to the little morsel of weed in my pipe and suck it dry. A little dab will do me. I have to hold the smoke in my lungs longer than I like out of respect for that pedestrian who had sneaked up behind me. By the time I do exhale, very little smoke leaves my mouth. I guess I got all of that one.
I am completely alone on the Bayou when the church bells start clanging what soon becomes a brief melody. Just when I think I might be able to hum along, the notes begin breaking down, slow and easy, until the disintegration completes itself with a single wavering note. Silence.
It's 8:30 a.m. when I get back to 2600 and there are five boys waiting in front the house, ready to clean the street. Only four of them will fit in the Festiva.
So the four boys and I leave out of here, headed for Mississippi, with Michael crying in the rear view mirror.
A white family let the boys play with their nerf football. When I went to return it prior to our departure, the man said--"well you're very welcome, it looks like they're having fun." I'm not sure, but I don't think he was referring to the part where they were holding each other's heads under water, yelling--"stay down bitch, stay down."
Rapping With Miss T And Satan 8.13.97
The police just got though questioning Charles, owner of Expressive Hair Works, next to Jack's convenience store. They were showing him what looked like a wanted poster but Charles's body language stated he had never in his life seen said person. Yolanda came from out the front of her house and around to our side. M and I started jumping up and down and yelling--"flush the shit, flush the shit, and hide the guns." Her boy-man, James, sauntering across the street with cell-phone pressed to his ear.
G and KK's mom, Nanette, got out of jail this week. I guess she'll be staying at Mama D's for the short term, after that, who knows? It looks like she gained quite a bit of weight.
Sunday, there was a record release party for a couple of local rap groups over in the 2400 block of St. Philip, across from Rodgers Elementary School. Some of the neighborhood kids were there until the shooting and hand to hand combat started. Fermin ran home to Mama E's house on Orleans where E and M were sucking down brewski's. "Where's
(cousin from Slidell) Joe," E wanted to know. "I don't know mom. I just ran when the shooting started," Fermin told her. M went around the corner with Julia who found Joe up on Dumaine. First hand accounts vary as to whether or not there was actually gunfire. Probably just a bunch of seriously bad brothers scaring up the place.
M and a bunch of kids on the front porch and Jacque says, "Miss M?"
"What Jacque?"
"Mr. Jim, He think he black."
"What makes you say that?" M asks and Jacque proceeds to tell her the Alligator Boy story, which M has already heard from me.
"And he told me to get a white child," Jacque explains.
"Jacque, that was Jim making a joke (to himself obviously), and he's just trying to say he doesn't care much about color so he changes things around to make a funny picture.
"Ohhh, I see," Jacques says, real skeptical like.
JD's helper, Mark, is a semi-reformed Neo Nazi, tattooed, recorded punk rock playing, Satanist, who has taken to doing little favors for me at the workplace. After each one, he smiles, and says, "You've got Satan in your corner now pal."
I've made him hip to the Pat Boone classic, Cross and the Switchblade, so I respond--"God loves you Nicky."
The Friends Of Benign Intelligence 7.31.97
If it's fair to say M is a depravity magnet it is also fair to say I attract lunatics. The Heretic of English Turn showed up at the job site in Muirfield Place the other day. It was his day off and he wanted to see if I would be interested in having a meeting of minds at Dumaine. I said I was working late at a second job for the next two days and the two days after that I had a friend from Austin coming in town for a conference and that I would probably be spending some time with this friend in the evenings. The Heretic looked confused, and perhaps forlorn by this news so I relented and said if he wanted to meet as late as eight, I would be home and he could bring whomever he wanted into this ghetto. But don't bring anyone who is likely to be scared of this environment. He told me one of his psychic co-workers would like to meet me before I left for the day and I'm hot and tired and cranky and I said--"If she want's to read my aura before she will come to my house, the answer is no. I need to get to my second job on the other side of town." My aura is probably black anyway.
The Heretic has a Born Again Christian brother who lives in a cornfield in Indiana and has just published one of those Christian books. I think the Heretic is feeling a little pressured now to bring all his "God Is A Myth" ideas to fruition and get them into a publishable manuscript. I had told him long ago that I would be his devil's advocate meaning if I thought he was talking with a mouth full of shit, I would tell him so. Lord knows I could use such an advocate. Arkansas Julie Smith once told me I was being bombastic and I have liked her ever since.
The Heretic comes over and brings his 36-year-old daughter who, frankly, talks a little too much but is otherwise delightful, and has a rather interesting spin on life, and The Heretic reads a few thought provoking passages from some books he brought, and the evening is pleasantly uneventful. The Psychic nor the Theologian were able to make it this time. I'm have all these people back though. I think we could all use a break from the Death and Depravity.
Death And Diet Tips 8.15.97
I have often noticed an almost sinisterly interesting layout of your news stories and editorials. For example, the way a front page metro section news story might relate to an editorial, or a letter, in the back pages. I have to reckon you do this on purpose to stimulate interest, and even response, to various crises that afflict this fine city.
In this case, I refer to the Metro headline Aug. 15 which reads--4 killed within hours in N.O. What an outright drag for the mayor you chose this same day to publish one of his finer pieces of puffery--Bon appetit from mayor, wherein the mayor delivers to his adoring public--diet tips? Violent Death and Diet Tips all in one section of the newspaper? I do feel compelled to respond. Or rather, question, the mayor.
In your letter Mr. Mayor you suggest that "[we] enjoy the food of New Orleans in moderation and take a long walk on the streets and avenues to stay in shape…" When you say "streets and avenues" does that include Magazine Street, where on Aug. 14 "[a] teenager was ambushed in a hail of nearly a dozen bullets…," or how about 2700 St. Ann, a block from my home, where a young man was shot three times, "…once in the head…" When you say "streets and avenues," do you mean to include the 1500 block of Conti, which I believe is pretty close to the corner of Claiborne, a major thorough-fare many of us travel everyday, where a man "…walking around with a sawed off shotgun…" killed a young man in the Iberville courtyard. Mr. Mayor, did you realize there were 15 murders in one week in July? Are we all ignoring this because we imagine that none of the dead were registered voters, or because it seems like a cost effective way to eliminate the bad elements in our city? I would very much like to take a walk around the city with you, Mr. Mayor, but I'm not always sure you and I are living in the same one.
(So I confess I am no great admirer of Mr. Morial's public image, but at the same time I must begrudgingly admit that, as mayors go, we could probably do a lot worse. As the son of a former political consultant, I would like to make this one time offer of free advice--Mark, to assure re-election a year or so from now, lower your public profile to a point just shy of nonexistence. And please, no more diet tips. I will look forward to the next four or five years of your inspiring leadership).
Going For The Gold 7.27.97
Five more murders last night, makes twelve in five days. One of the murders happened right across the street from Harold Armour's bar in the Seventh Ward. Harold is the Neighborhood Watch cop for this district. Phillis was over this evening giving Mandy some Night Out Against Crime paraphenalia. Party over at Mama D's in a couple of weeks. Barbecue chicken, and whiskey, maybe deviled eggs. Anyway, Phillis said Harold heard the shots and when he went outside there was no one there--except for this young man lying on the sidewalk with the top half of his head missing. Last time there were this many murders in one week, the citizens marched on City Hall. I went with down with Mandy and Phillis. My brother, Alex, was in town and he came too. Our smarmy mayor had set up an image control team outside on the grounds. Had a stage, some inspirational speakers, maybe even a little gospel music. Then we all rushed for the chambers. Again, the mayor had the fix in and the chamber was filled mostly with city employees and lackeys. But there were enough piss off screaming citizens that it was quite a show to behold. The mayor never did show up though. Safety concerns. Unlike this week, that week's murder count included three white people (employees of the Pizza Kitchen in the Quarter. The young killers used potatoes for silencers on their guns). This week, as the boys at work might say, is just a bunch of niggers killing niggers. Punks and gangsters who aren't productive members of society so fuck 'em. This is our last favor to the young urban black as a society. To let them die without too much fuss. We have not been able to help them without making them weaker, we are not educating them, and we can't relate to them as being anything but a problem. It's the least we can do really, to let them die quietly, to let the young bad boys kill each other off, to accept their demise as an efficiency, not to disgrace them with our concern after the fact.
Monk's wife would not respond to calls from her sister today so her sister called emergency services and they busted the door down. His wife had been living with cancer for awhile and it killed her today.
It's ten o'clock Friday night and The Magnolia closes at eight so I walked over to Kim's on N. Broad, near the corner of St. Ann. I wanted a 22-ounce Heineken. Monk was standing in front of the iron gates that Kim puts up late at night. I gave him a feeble wave as I approached. We shook hands and he told me what I already knew and I told him how sorry I was. He had a lot of gin in him and he was looking for more. He had been married for 33 years. He walked off with a man I didn't recognize in search of something I cannot imagine.
Happiness is the absence of intellectual thought.
Saturday: Three more dead last night but one of those might be a repeat in the count so let's just say 14 in six days. One more day to go. Murder cannot continue at this pace but if it did the toll would top 600 for the year. The per capita equivalent in NYC would be 12,000. The actual count in NYC is closer to 1,200 for a year.
But overall the murder rate is down for the year, and all crime in our district is down, and the 2600 block of Dumaine is pretty quiet, so maybe I should just cheer up. There is no TV here and if I didn't read the newspaper I wouldn't even know any of this was happening. I wonder if ignorance is an option at this point?
Sunday: Some punk shot his lawyer last night and that makes fifteen.
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.