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Bloody April
I say this first part to tack on a little vicarious value to a people who apparently have little value to anyone, including sometimes, themselves.
New Orleans is a small town, and the housing projects--which sprang up in the forties with those good intentions leading to hell--are spaced pretty evenly throughout, and there is no neighborhood here, rich or poor, very far from a project. They are inhabited at this point in time mostly by black people, but that was not always the case. When Marlon Brando as Stanley K in Streetcar Named Desire bellowed with angst for the lost love of STELLAHHH!!!, he was doing so at the Desire projects.
So it is with great sadness that I bring you the news that Marlon Brando was shot dead last night outside his apartment at the Desire. No motives, no suspects.
Also, this in the first weekend of the two weekend event known as JazzFest which is a musical (and food eating) event held at the Fairgrounds race track. Each year it draws approximately a half million predominately white people. This is a number equal to the (predominately black) population of Orleans Parish.
So it is with great sadness that I bring you the news that yesterday 220 white people were gunned down in random acts of violence in and around the Fairgrounds. There is a palpable sadness in the air today and enraged citizens marched on City Hall demanding measures be taken to stop all this killing. JazzFest promoters say the event will go on, remarking that as tragic as this number may be it is still considerably less than have been gunned down in random acts of violence during previous JazzFests, citing the 1994 and 1995 numbers when 420, and 360 white people were killed.
That was the first part. The second part goes like this...
To close out the month of April I have to tell you that yesterday an 11-year-old boy was shot in the stomach near his home and is in critical condition at Charity hospital. Police were in the area to break up an altercation between two groups of youths at the nearby Magnolia project, and think the shooting might be related. The critical boy's name is not being released, because as he lays nearly dead, gut shot, with his internal organs a shredded mess,there remains the possibility that the shooter, or a minion thereof, will come into his hospital room and slit his fucking 11-year-old throat.
I have to start working on the Rocheblave house again, soon. That should shut me up, thank God.
Punctuation Bitches8.29.97
Oh those pesky drug dealers. It seems that the beginning of the school
year may be a time of reminiscing for all the Dumaine based dealers as
there has been a swarming of comraderie lately.
Note: KaKa (KK) is Kenosha, LuLu is Keyana, BaBa is Keshonika. Also
Kizzie is Kizzy. Kizzy's daughter Ritisha (3) is Raticia and neither
grandma Barbara nor Mama Kizzy know how to spell Shadrica (18 months).
Shelton doesn't like to see me sitting on the porch alone so he comes
over about nine last night (which is one hour after curfew) and keeps me
company, sitting real close, throwing off heat, asking questions and
telling tales.
"What are you thinking when you sit over here by yourself?" Shelton asks.
"I'm thinking about things that make me happy, and things that don't."
"I had a parent/teacher conference today," he tells me.
"Did you get kicked out of school?" I ask.
"No, I just had to have someone (other than his mother, Myrna, who is
back in jail) come talk to the teacher and they let me back in. Do you
know what happened?"
"The other kid started it," I say.
"How'd you know that?," he says, smiling, obviously flattered that I'm
paying attention to his life.
Heather and KaKa got kicked out of school today.
But I ignore his question and ask, "What really happened, Shelton?"
"I can tell you for real, what I said and all that?"
"Of course."
"Well, this boy, he come up to me and he say, 'fuck you, man,' and I say
right back to him, 'fuck yo' mama, bitch.'"
"So Shelton, when you said 'fuck yo' mama, bitch,' you were using 'bitch'
as like a punctuation mark, huh?"
Nobody around here really appreciates my sense of humor, especially the
children.
But I don't care and I go on and elaborate a bit more with the 'bitch' as
punctuation theme. Shelton has learned to be patient and polite during
these episodes and is clearly willing to wait me out on this one. When
he feels that I am pretty much finished, he says,
"Mr. Jim, when you get ready to go inside, to go to the bathroom or
something, would you ask Miss Amanda if she is coming out on the porch
tonight?"
If the children had to choose between me as a father figure or Mandy as a
mother, they would choose Mandy every time, which is a good choice.
Unsupervised9.19.98
Listening out the back door, you can hear the emergency vehicles coming from all parts of the city to arrive at the construction site of the new sports arena next to the superdome, part of which just collapsed. Construction workers hurt, unknown.
And thirty minutes later the topdrop of fast moving puffy whites against bright blue sunshine has turned angry black again, with wind and rain.
And we've been told to anticipate the worst, so that's what we do.
Sometimes we adults conspire to be thoroughly disgusted with certain children all at once, a blast of dissatisfaction--bad boy, bad boy, what we gonna do. There's too many unsupervised children running around here, way too many, an unacceptable many.
Mama D came over yesterday to tell me Shelton's school (McDonough 28) called and say he kicked out for touching a girl's butt and he know he ain't supposed to do that and I find myself nodding contritely as she scolds me in Shelton's place, replaying her words to me--"You know you can't just go around grabbing a girls' butt, it's not right and they won't put up with it at the school." I feel pretty bad by the time she's done and I didn't even get to touch no butt, dammit.
But I agree with her and sympathize with how difficult it must be for her to have those children misbehaving around her all the time instead of just the part time that I spend with them, and yes, Shelton will have to learn he pissin' off too many people too much of the time, and Fermin too, and even Jacque steps from his good boy role today by walking away from me when I tell him it's time to leave the bayou and go home. Hunter can stay if he wants but Jacque is a part timer at Mama D's and they tricked me down here by saying Mama D say they can't fish down there unless they with an adult. It had crossed my mind while driving the seven blocks there that--"ya'll didn't trick me down here just because ya'll too lazy to walk, did you?" No Indeed, they assured me. So anyway Jacque, I'm not that good at this, and in case you haven't noticed, I'm really not that fond of kids in general, and I'm not going to make a scene on the Dumaine bridge over this, so, bye bye, stay dry.
A little later when the sky gets prematurely black Mandy asks me where I left him and I tell her, and offer the advice, "let him get wet," but she ignores me and goes out to do what's right. I'll say this--them children are lucky Mandy got over being disgusted with them because right now she the only friend they got..
Fourth Of July7.6.97
Yesterday, after our trip to the Toys R' Us, where Glynn got a ball and
bat, (Barry Bonds signature) and to the WalMart where he got a batting
glove, I came inside for awhile and psyched up for a trip to Greg and
Sharon's back yard barbeque. Sharon is my age, pretty, about a hundred
pounds overweight. Greg has the shaved head, intense stare, and physique
of a light heavyweight boxer. The barbecued chicken, and ribs, the
macaroni and cheese, and jambalaya were all very good, but the two ice-cold
budweisers in the ninety-five degree (sixty percent humidified) heat hit
me hard and I found myself slipping away to lie in front of the AC at my
house. I woke a couple of hours later, groggy, so I slurped a pint of
XXX strength iced tea. Now I'm wired and groggy.
Its about 8pm now and I go outside and cross the street to Mama D's where Evelyn is sitting on the steps. Evelyn is Mama D's thirty-one year old daughter. A slightly
mannish appearance, and an apparent sexual attraction to both Mandy and
I has not completely precluded all of us from being friends. I ask
Evelyn if she wanted to go around the corner to her front porch on
Orleans and watch the fireworks that would be going off on the other side
of the Quarter by the river. She wanted to go down to the river and hear
the music and see it all up close. I'm not up to it this year, I say,
and besides, I don't want to go off having too much fun while Mandy is
suffering under the weight of a bad monthly. Evelyn doesn't want kids
going either and I remind her that it is Glynn's birthday and then she tells
me she has been fighting with her neighbor, Gambino, but what the hell,
let's go, and Glynn can come with us. Evelyn's children are Julia, 12, and Fermin, 11.
Evelyn wants me to drop her at the Joy on Canal after
the fireworks and so we drive instead of walk around the corner. Its
almost nine o'clock now and the heat still feels like little lead weights
resting on every individual pore of your body. The air is completely
still and has a density that resists you as you move through it. And the
evening sky, black, starless, and thick, rests heavily on your head.
Gambino and Evelyn have been the greatest of friends in the past,
Gambino barbecuing weekly on the little strip of side walk in front of
their double shotgun, sharing regularly with Evelyn. But a dispute over
fish cleaning and a missing porch light has escalated into a run of the
mill neighborly squabble or...
As we turn left on N. Broad the night is lit with flashing red lights.
Police cars coming from all directions, approaching what appears to be a
pretty hairy scene up by the pumping station on St. Louis. We see a
Crime Lab truck and our minds bring up visions of blood on the streets,
again. Another dot on the murder map perhaps. The Saturday Metro
section informs us it was a bad accident. Six men in the back of a
pickup with two cases of beer and a clothes dryer spilled onto the road.
All hurt, two in critical.
Evelyn, Glynn, and I, park on Orleans in front of her house. Gambino and
his wife are out on their side of the porch. Gambino pleads with Evelyn
to stop calling the police and their landlord on him. She had a box
cutter in her hand the other night when the police came. She says they
told her she had a right to defend herself. I'm not really listening.
Gambino makes a gesture of taking the bulb from his porch light and
putting it in Evelyn's. Glynn is eager to get into the bag of fireworks
I brought with me. Gambino's wife is explaining to her husband that
Evelyn is a frustrated woman. "She just loose job, she got two children
to take care of." But these words sound a little bit sinister to me.
Evelyn is not too sure so she just shakes her head and says, "yes I am
frustrated." And it is much too hot for all this. Something is not
right tonight and the hairs on my arms are bristling. Little lasers of
refracted street light bounce off the sweat pouring from Glynn's
forehead. And the voices are getting louder. This thing is escalating
too fast. Evelyn goes inside and calls the police. When she comes back
out I see this rather wicked looking filet knife inserted, blade down, in
her back pocket. I start to tell Glynn something but no words come out.
He seems to understand and goes to sit in the car. I look up and Evelyn
is standing up with her shoulders arched slightly back. The blade is in
her hand, in the sneak position--unvarnished wood handle in her clenched
fist, blade point running backwards towards her elbow and pressed tight
up against the inside of her wrist. She is standing two inches shy of
the imaginary line which separates the two porches. If she steps over it
first, its attempted murder. He steps over and she can plead
self-defense. I really don't believe Gambino or his wife ever saw the
knife. I step onto the sidewalk and cross the line so I am standing in
front of Gambino's. The porch is elevated about two and half feet from
the sidewalk. There is a wrought iron railing between us. My voice
doesn't carry that well but I yell anyway and tell Gambino that he needs
to leave my friend alone. The look of shock which comes over his face is
disproportionate to the threat. I can only guess he realized he had been
flanked, a strategic disadvantage to say the least. He mumbles some
obscenities in Spanish and quickly steps inside his front door. Surely
to get his gun my mind informs me. This night was made for it. Fifteen
police cars and two or three ambulances a block and a half away and I'm
about to become pulp. Over a light bulb and some fish guts. Gambino
comes back out and walks off towards the Shell station at Broad and
Orleans ( twenty-four hour beer and liquor).
Fermin and Julia show up about ten minutes later and Evelyn tells them to
stay home for the night. I leave them some fireworks and Glynn decides
to stay with them. I drop Evelyn at the Joy for the ten o'clock showing
of Men in Black. I pick her up at midnight and drop her at her house.
All is well.
A Warm Fuzzy Blanket
"Allegedly," I said.
"What's that?" Glynn said.
"Means he's been charged with the crime, but it hasn't been proven yet."
"Oh. Can I ask you a question? Glynn said.
"As many as you like, however, answers are a dollar a piece."
"If my grandma say it all right I can spend the weekend over here?"
"You're staying with your grandma now?"
"Yes."
"Since when?"
"Since a week and a half ago, and until my mama get out." Nettie's in jail again? And when she get's out its just a matter of time before she going back. Glynn's thinking he staying with her is a sort of "pipe dream," because she has never taken care of those kids.
After the death of Mama D one of the better shuffles of the deck landed KaKa (16), and Glynn (13), with their actual father, Eric, and his wife. 'Lil Eric (aka., Stink, or Stank, 20), when not in jail, would live wherever he could. But for Glynn I thought this was a wonderful deal; a black boy of the inner city to be with his actual father is a rare thing indeed. What went wrong? What happened? Why were you kicked out? Why doesn't anybody love you?, I wanted to ask.
I said, "Where does she stay?"
"On the other side of the Bayou, on Roosevelt. That's why I'm over here a lot lately, 'cause them boys over there, mmm, something wrong with 'em."
"You can stay."
"Thank you."
"Does it surprise you about X. I mean, if he really did it," I said.
"No," Glynn said.
"Really? Why?"
"'Cause he would always hang with them kind."
X lives around here and for a good while before Shelton went off to California, and after he got back, X and he would pal around, and fight, and be pals, then enemies, often fighting over the attentions of the same girl. X is bigger than Shelton (although Shelton has beat him up), and a year older, and is much more polite, well mannered, and mature. And for awhile he was spending a lot of time over here, sometimes I think just to piss Shelton off, but he is always very quiet sitting at the computer playing solitaire or some other simple game. Rarely will he be engrossed in the more lively computer games offered here. There was a brief period where he discovered the Internet, and pornography. I let it slide for a few days but then I started worrying about the implications for all involved and came in one day, and said, "X, you cannot look at pornography on these computers." He went into a denial so thorough that I began to question his version of reality. But he did not surf the Internet anymore. He and Shelton will still play dominoes on occasion, the winner gloating loudly over victory. And X will still play solitaire.
Earlier this week a boy said to me, "Mr. Jim, you aren't going to believe this but they got X locked up for that shootin.'"
I did not respond to that.
"You wanna know how they found it out?"
I nodded.
"X be walkin' around after sayin' 'I got me one, I got me one, I kill a man.'"
I'm shaking my head.
"That's so stupid, huh, Mr. Jim, if you kill a man you don't go around after braggin' about it."
I have to respond to that with agreement, and although I want to explain that you don't go around killing people over trivial matters, I don't; the words in my head sound weak.
There are some things that need to happen for all this killing to stop and I'm afraid, I believe, they are not going to happen. The comfort we take in the temporary downturning of crime trends is all we're going to get, is all we have. And that's so we don't get too scared or despondent about what it is that's really going on here. For true, it is a good thing we blanket ourselves with the fuzzy comfort of denial. Clarity of vision is not in our best interests. It is important that we forget, and smile a bit.
One evening after he left the house, picking up a pear on his way out, saying, "all right Mr. Jim," X got into an argument with a young man by the name of Arthur Brown. When X removed the gun from his pocket, Arthur Brown ran around a car, and X shot him. The first bullet likely entered one of Arthur's legs, bluntly ripping his flesh, and tearing through muscle, tendons, arteries, and veins, maybe chipping some bone too. Six bullets were fired in less time than it took for X to pick up his pear in this kitchen and walk out this front door. Three more bullets were fired into Arthur Brown's legs, but it was the first bullet shot into his neck that had blood pooling blackly in the street on top of the spilt oil of so many Chevys. The second bullet in Arthur Brown's neck was put there because X knew he was supposed to go for the head, but in my mind I'm imagining him too polite, and well mannered, and at this point, even realizing its too late for that, regretful, so he puts another bullet in Arthur Brown's neck. X kill a man.
Arthur's obit is in this morning's paper; they put in a real nice picture; he got a good smile.
The Cross 2
It may have been Big Arthur come looking, marching up and down Dumaine yesterday, asking "who know where it is 'lil Arthur got shot?" Now this was only ten or twelve hours after the shooting took place and six-year-old Erica Lewis, just visiting the neighborhood, offered--not quite within hearing distance of Big Arthur--"I know, it was 'roun that corner." Shelton Jackson, standing nearby, said, "shut your mouth, Erica."
I was reading the Metro section this morning while Shelton, Lance, and Hunter took baths and put on their new easter outfits. I had just started the article about the two shootings, was reading about the 18-year-old girl shot for her bicycle (Evelyn just stopped by, said there's more to that story), by some men in a Dodge truck with extended cab and tinted windows, over around 1900 N. Johnson, and Shelton walked by seeing the obits on the back page and said, "they got all the pictures in there?"
I assumed he was referring to the shooting that everyone was hinting at yesterday, which was likely the second shooting in the article I was reading, so I said, "no, that picture will come out later," and added, "hey did you hear about that girl who got killed for her bicycle?" He asked where and I told him, Seventh Ward, seven blocks on the other side of Esplanade. He offered a general lament for the sad state of things, which did not exactly fit him, and sounded somewhat scripted.
"They got the story 'bout Arthur in there?" Shelton asked, and I looked down the column, seeing Arthur Brown, 22, shot in the 2600 block of St. Philip (one block over from here). "He tried to jack a dude for his crack and the dude chased him down and unloaded his clip." And I read, and translate, "shot two times in the neck, four times in his legs." And I think if he emptied his clip then it was half empty (full?) to begin with, or, in fact, his weapon was a revolver. Either way, Arthur Brown is dead.
Shelton said, "he jacked Mike outa his money a while back."
"Michael?"
"No, not that Mike, and not Big Mike, another Mike."
"So he wasn't really a friend to anyone around here?"
"No, I wouldn't say he was," Shelton said.
The Cross
Its Easter and I'm up early, having heard the rain ping against my air conditioner. There is no newspaper on the porch, so I look around. My efforts as the Barbara Bush of Dumaine have never really amounted to much: trash is strewn far and wide; everday like Mardi Gras. I'm trying to start the day in a productive manner and this is all I know how to do that lets me feel I'm not just wasting my space on the planet. However, the egocentric investment does not always pay the best dividend. What to do?
Kids are out of school for Easter break and along with Shelton, Lance and Hunter have been spending the night here for the last three nights. Today is a big day. Everyone will have new outfits, new Nikes, new hairdos. The ghetto will vibrate with pride.
When those three get up and leave the house, there is a brief pause before the doorbell rings and the house begins to fill up with others. Yesterday Glynn, Jacque, Marqin, Erica, Ritcia, Shadrica, Kizzy, Heather, Julia, KaKa, Eddie Green, and a few others I can't put names to were in and out (in mostly) all day.
Jermaine mentioned it on the porch, and later I heard Heather talking about it on the phone--another friend got shot this weekend.
I did a little work at Rocheblave but am still distracted by the weight of planetary alignments, and cannot string together an overwhelmingly producitve day.
Around six I called my mom, told her what she probably already knew--that Mandy and I are splitting up--but did not in so many words (or any at all) say that its hard to believe seven years have passed since the death of my father.
At 9:45 last night I announced that I would like to have my fifteen minutes of peace and quiet, so whatever has to happen for me to get that, needs to happen now.
Crazy White Renovator
One thing about doing a gut renovation in your spare time is that it taxes your energy and patience levels to such an extent that you often fly off the handle and utter weird, or even mean shit to people who normally would not be victims of your wrath.
A couple of weeks ago I was sweeping the kitchen floor over at Rocheblave (it was a day during which I felt great ambivalence about the fate of nesting pigeons) and I observed through the broken glass panes of the back door--which is in the kitchen--a man lurking directly below me. The house is pier and beam and sits three cinder blocks high. And this man is fiddling with the screen door which I have wedged so tight it can't be open, and the door itself is nailed or painted shut, so I'm feeling almost mirthful standing off to the side watching this man's attempts which will end in failure.
Now the side door and front door of this house do not exist (as well as any steps up to them), so they have been replaced with plywood sheets which I screw (with cordless screw gun) on and off as needed. I have the bottom panel of plywood--there are three stacked panels--off the side entrance and when I see the man head that way I too head that way, leaving the kitchen and entering the hallway. The man does not even hesitate before making his initial leap into the house (even for the most athletic it is a two step process) and before he can follow through with the motion which will have us sharing the same space, I jump, so to speak, all over his shit.
"No uh uh, this shit gotta stop, no more visitors, the house is closed, you have just met the new owner and he is an asshole."
"I heard noises over here so I came to check it out," he responded.
That response did stop me for a minute, causing me to make a more careful inspection of this man: Medium height, medium brown skin, bright (blue/grey) eyes, fiftyish, some facial hair with slight greying, overall a good looking man, but the clothes and shoes register on the homeless meter, and so I start up again.
"Well the noises you heard are me working in here, and I'm going to be living here, and I'm not looking to make any new friends, and if you're the one who was living here before and are responsible for the fire then I'm especially not happy to see you..."
"Naw uh uh," he interupted me, "this house too wide open for me, I stay back there," pointing towards the not very well boarded up Iberville dance hall. And then he further disarms me by introducing himself and offering up (as he is still standing below me, outside the house) his hand. "My name is Joseph, but they call me Pigman."
I shake his hand and offer that I don't have any problem with his general existence but that any intrusion of this property will not be smiled upon. He shakes my hand again as if to say, "that's not too much to ask you uptight whiteboy," and we part company.
There are a couple of churches nearby that offer help to the downtrodden, so there is in the area a pretty fair population of needy, on top of the general population which in many cases wishes not to be classified as such. Also, Rocheblave is somewhat of a highway for scrap collectors, being that it carries not a great deal of automobile traffic and is the most direct path to the recycling plant a few blocks away, closer to the Lafitte projects. Which is to say I'm meeting a lot of transients pushing grocery carts full of treasure and therefore am carefully cultivating my reputation as "that crazy white boy," not a hard thing for a white man to sell to a black man, as our history shows us not always on best behavior.
On another day I was sweeping the cracked pavement of my driveway when a fellow walked right up to me and apoligized for not being better prepared as he tried to hold the sixteen ounce Red Dog in his armpit while seaching for the prop in his wallet. The beer on his breath was ripe and implied that the one under his arm was not his first of the day, even as this was only eight in the morning. He then produced a handwritten list with a heading that was some young girl's name and various signatures with dollar amounts by them. He told me how this young girl was his niece and she had recently been shot dead and the family had no insurance so could I help. A great con. If indeed it is a con. But how can one be sure? I act as if I have no money but would like to contribute if he could give me more information. I ask about the MacDonalds where she worked, because KaKa used to work there and maybe she knew the dead girl. A good con artist does not give up easily and will dance to the steps of his mark. But this mark tires easily and after I make an especially dimwitted response the man touches me on the shoulder, and says, "you don't seem to understand, this girl dead." And his touch and words inject me with more truth than I can bare and his con has become transparent before me and I am immediately furious, going through a transformation like the Hulk, only I'm still rail thin afterwards. And I call him a motherfucker and a bunch of other things and suggest rather harshly that he not bring anymore stupid bullshit by me, and in response to his apology I tell him its too late for that, get the hell away from me. I was relating this incident to my new neighbor, Charles, somewhat of a hustler himself, and he said, "Aw man, that's an old hustle. He should'na tried to run that around here."
All that being said, Rocheblave is a considerably more relaxed neighborhood compared to Dumaine, at least before I got there.
The Slim Dandy Renovation
This doesn't have to be a metaphor, it could simply be the way things are. On the other hand it does make a dandy metaphor: the pigeon poop inside my new kitchen.
I know pigeons ain't nothing but rats with wings but in the wake of recent local teenage killings, and the disappearance of one of our inside cats, and at the same time the disappearance of the newborn outside kittens (great-great grandchildren of Point Blank) from the Point Blank clan, I just could not kick that pregnant pigeon out of her nest above one of my still glassless kitchen windows. I either am a heartless bastard or, for sure, on occasion can be a heartless bastard, but I did not have what it took to do that deed. I feel like I'm being punked by the PETA people, or am suffering from an ingrown conscience, or am paying the balloon on my Karmic debts for shooting those moles with Jeff Franzen's BB gun out near Lake O' the Pines in East Texas thirty years ago.
I've avoided the kitchen for weeks now, instead working on the outside, breaking out the old broken glass window panes so the neighborhood kids won't be so tempted to vandalize (which has me thinking again of my own childhood and yet more Karmic debt). And I have been scraping the windows down to their cypress beginning, all as part of preliminary efforts in what will be the replacing and reglazing of 112 panes of glass.
So yesterday I'm outside on a small scaffold working on the miniature double set of windows above what will be the kitchen sink, and I can see across the kitchen to the other window, above which, on the now exposed framing header, sits the nest. And the grown pigeon is in her nest acting in a way that I will only describe as "unladylike." But soon she leaves the nest unattended, which from my recent observations is an unheard of thing because previously she would only leave after another pigeon (the male?) came to take her place (to sit on the egg, I guess). The settng sun is working against my vision but after some correctional squinting I can see that in the nest is indeed a newborn. A glorious thing, this new birth, but also, I wish I were a geek (or more of one) so I could go in there and bite its little head off. But it's not going to happen that way so I'm left pondering how many days now till this young bird will leave the nest? And who's going to clean up that cumulative pile of poop on the floor?
Pre-Postal
People, all of us, we don't know why we feel the weight of it but we do, like a ton of bricks, or a washing machine balanced on your chin, the pain of it, the endurance.
For the record: I believe in the death penalty. By my way of thinking the only problem with the death penalty is that we don't use it enough. Those people in the toll tag lane who know goddamn well their tag is expired, or who don't have it affixed to their windshields and idiotically wave the tag in front of the sensor and are therefore wasting those precious few seconds of my time, under my regime would die, in fact instantly. It could be done. My brother and I figured out the way to do it years ago, over twenty I think. Death ray devices installed atop every light pole in the world. Be smart or die could be a motto.
This month the lunatic menstruators [sic] of the world are joined by a far greater number, and some of us know who we are.
Asked to comment on the full moon this month, he replied, "it was very heavy."
And the planets are lining up as they should and everyone, please, just take a number.
Rudyard Rap10.7.97
If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and
blaming it on you...
Every month or so Shelton checks in with me on the issue of whether or
not he will be spending the night in this house. Originally, months and
months ago, my answer was no. As time passes my answers have changed
somewhat--"Hell no, Gosh I don't think so, Nope, Not gonna happen,
Probably not, and, No indeed."
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, but make allowances for
their doubting too...
I thought we had resolved the issue when Shelton traded all potential
overnight privileges for the opportunity to shave with an old fashioned
razor (without blade) this past summer. I reminded him of this the other
night when he brought up the subject of an overnight visit. "To be
honest Shelton, I couldn't believe it when you traded so cheaply," I
said.
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting...
Often over the months I have thought that if Shelton could memorize this
poem that I had to memorize when I was thirteen, I would let him stay
over for a night. But the poem was not readily available at the branch
library so I kinda forgot about it. I asked Mandy the other day if she'd
had any luck finding it on the Internet and she said she downloaded the
poem about six months ago.
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies...
So I gave the printout to Shelton last night and he sat on the porch with
Mandy, and after studying the poem for a few moments, he began crying,
and wadded up the paper and threw it on the sidewalk. Mandy tried to
coach him some and Shelton said he hated her.
Or being hated, don't give way to hating...
Tonight, he and Mandy are back on the porch, the poem wrinkled and soft
as tissue paper. Shelton runs in here every few minutes while I write
this and recites two or three lines at a time. On his third visit he
asks for a bowl of cereal. "Sure, go ahead," I say.
But don't look too good, nor talk too wise...
"You're gonna get it Shelton."
Erica's Barricade8.24.97
Last night I found myself alone on the porch with three-year-old Erica
Lewis. She cuddled up to me and said,
"Ga-ga-go get me a puzzle Mr. Jim."
"You want a puzzle to play with by yourself while I sit out here next to
you but don't actually have to help you?"
She looks at me like I'm a damn fool and says, "Get me a puzzle."
"Which one do you want?," I say.
"Ma-ma-Mickey Mouse."
So I go in and get the puzzle. Erica is not sure this is the particular
Mickey Mouse puzzle she had in mind but it will have to do her expression
tells me, and then she begins breaking up the 12 or 13 interlocking pieces and
spreading them out on the porch.
Between August 95 and, December, when we actually moved in, I would come
over here after work and spend a few hours a night renovating the front
half of this house. Mandy would join me on the weekends. We had nothing
covering the front bay windows and were able to appreciate about a 140
degree view of the street.
Three boys, probably Glynn, Fermin, and Shelton, and one toddler,
definitely Erica, are playing in the parking lot behind Jack's store.
The game they are playing is smash 'em up derby and they are using the
bottom half of a grocery cart for a vehicle. Erica is sitting
comfortably and confidently in this vehicle and is being given
instructions by one of the boys. Erica would be just shy of her second
birthday. I will not be able to describe this accurately but the
intensity of her eye contact with this older boy as she listened to his
instructions struck me as something from another world. This tiny little
girl has the bearing of a full grown woman with years of worldly
experience. A manner almost flirtatious and calculating.
I was very much glued to the set (as we have come to think of these front windows),
for the few minutes it took to witness this episode. I guess what I'm
trying to say about this child Erica is that even when you witness
something you have never seen before, there is always a tiny thread of
something familiar. But in the case of two-year-old Erica Lewis I can
honestly say I have never seen anything even remotely similar to the
visions I was having of her on this day.
The boy who was giving Erica instructions now gets behind the cart and
begins to push her full speed towards a barricade of boxes, and milk
crates, and scrap lumber stacked precariously high. At the point of
impact the boy pushing the cart ducks his head and turns his body to the
side in a defensive posture. Erica, on the other hand, is looking
straight ahead, chin up, and as the debris cascades down around her, and
the boys are jumping up and down, laughing, and high fiving, Erica cocks
her head a few degrees to the right, smiling at, and challenging with
her bemused eyes, these goofy ten and eleven-year-old uncles who can't
build no better barricade than that.
"I knew you could do that by yourself Erica, on account of, you're so
smart, and pretty too, I don't mind saying."
"Ge-ge-get me another one Mr. Jim."
Slapping The Bayou8.10.97
Harold Armour's restaurant/bar/grocery store over on LaHarpe in the
Seventh Ward burned down last night. The establishment was 90 years old
and was known by its original owners' 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 are playing football in
the street. Sharon stabbed Greg today. The Saints are playing the
Chiefs tonight 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 latest, 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 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 this morning, 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 in the distance 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 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.
Its 8:30 when I get back to 2600 and there are five boys waiting in front
of the house, ready to clean the street, in exchange for a day trip. Only four of them will fit in the Festiva.
So the four boys and I leave out of here, 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 a lot of fun." I'm not sure, but I
don't think he is referring to the part where they were holding each
other's heads under water, yelling, "stay down bitch, stay down."
One Eyed Earl7.22.97
When the chips are down and you're making a perfectly fine mess of your
life--roll with it baby.
Mandy and I adopted a dead kitten the other day.
I see Chris X (6) walking this way and gripping a little
black and white stuffed animal about the midsection. Chris is twirling
this thing nonchalantly like a baton. The white parts are smudged gray
with street grime and the head is tilted at a funny angle. "Oh look," I
say as he gets closer, "Chris has a kitten he's going to kill today."
Mandy looks over and shakes her head. Frankly, we are all scared of
Yolanda X, this being a woman who told Mandy to stay the fuck out of it if
her kids got run over in the street; a woman who has men running out of
her house leaving trails of blood, so the idea of intervening to save
this kitten's life is not all that attractive. Three-year-old Justin who can spout "muhfuggin' niggah" with the best of his full grown contemporaries, appears out of
nowhere (probably from under a car) and says, "Gimme cat, gimme cat."
Chris gives it to him and Justin grabs it with all the care of a future
serial killer. "Wanna see cat Jim?" My answer, of course, is no, but
why even voice this to a three-year-old. He goes against his mother's
wishes and enters--The Property of the White People. He puts the kitten
in my lap but I won't touch it. It's greasy and it's hair is unevenly
matted down in places, perhaps indicating wounds. The kitten's eyes
appear to be sewn shut, with puss swelling the lids to unnatural
proportions, and scabs dotting the rest of its tiny face. He seems to
weigh a few ounces shy of nothing. I'm thinking a ball peen hammer might
be the most humane solution here. But instead I just say, "Go on
Justin," and he does, taking the kitten with him.
I'm not proud of anything I do here so going inside to keep myself from
having to watch this kitten be tortured to death is just one more thing
not to be proud of. When metaphors start stepping from the shadows and
emerging as full blown realities; when the Grim Reaper becomes a three
year old child with the mouth of a sailor, this is when I run and
hide--pulling the covers over my head and praying for the morning light.
Actually I run off to Taco Bell with Shelton.
Mandy, however, is no punk ass bitch, and so after Shelton and I returned
from the Bayou (St. John), where Shelton talked about being a movie actor
and, I, ate my tacos, Mandy informs me that upon entering the house I
will find a kitten in a box which she will be taking care of until it
dies, which should be anytime. "That's fine," somehow doesn't sound
quite appropriate but that's what I say anyway.
So now this piece of a metaphor is living in our house and I have started
calling it Earl. It seems that after I ran off with Shelton, Justin
began throwing the kitten down onto the sidewalk, repeatedly. Mandy
screamed at him to stop and eleven-year-old Eric came to her aid, taking
the kitten from Justin and giving it to Mandy. Eric explained to the
bawling boy that he had given up his right to own an animal and that it
now belonged to Miss Amanda.
The next day Mandy saw Justin on the street and he ask her if he could
have his kitten back. Mandy explained to him that the kitten was very
sick and would probably die. Justin responded, "can I have him back
after he dead?"
Mandy has been draining puss and swabbing the kitten with peroxide and
betadine. I'm trying to be useful, getting some water down its throat
with an eyedropper. On the third day, Earl arose from the dead, ate
ravenously, drank some water, and played with a ball. I laid on the
floor and let him sleep on my stomach. He purrs and raps his tiny paw
around my index finger for minutes at a time.
Today I come home from work and am careful not to look real close at
Earl, who is reading a book with Mandy on the bed. I am a little
nauseous from the heat and the garbage truck I had to follow up Dorgenois
for a couple of blocks. Mandy says Earl's eye is getting worse. I can't
look. I have to take a bath first. After my bath, Mandy asks me if I
will look after Earl while she makes a late lunch. So I lay on the floor
and place Earl between my legs to give this sightless kitty a sense of
boundary. It takes him awhile but he finds his way to my crotch, up
over my stomach, and then to my neck where he starts digging his claws
into my neck, looking for that nipple that ain't never going to be there.
I take a quick look at his left eye and will not describe what I saw.
I propose to Mandy that maybe we should give Dr. Mike a call and get his
opinion about all this. Mandy calls and talks to an assistant who says
to bring Earl right over. If they have to put him to sleep, they won't
charge. We drive over to Rampart and the assistant says it might be
possible to save the one eye, but the left one would obviously have to
come out. He quotes an estimate which is an exact match to the one I
have in my head and I tell him to go ahead and see if he can save Earl.
Earl died over at Dr. Mike's last night. He didn't want to be no one
eyed kitty--see ya on the next one Earl, and don't be late. He got to
purr a bit. Not everyone is so lucky.
The stories are backing up too fast. They're breeding.
The Big C7.19.97
I wonder what C is thinking out there standing hunkered over my
little car parked in front the house? He is postured in such a way--with
his elephant sized forearms resting on the roof, his head tilted and
drooping like a buddah on the nod--that I find myself imagining him to be
knocking at epiphany's window. Of course, he could also be urinating in
my gas tank.
To that extent you resist the local way, you give up a good bit of what
is in the offering.
At 370 pounds of raw black fat, a nose wider than it is long, and 26-year-
old eyes wanting to pop out his skull, C does not at first glance
inspire the nurturing instinct. Nonetheless, I have resisted efforts
(mostly P and M 's) to have his presence on this block banned.
Good Lord, can you really do that? Ban someone or something because they
are displeasing to you? I guess the answer is yes because they a lot of
punk ass motherfuckers don't hang here no more. C pushes crack on
the street and no question that is a bad thing, but he does what he does
well and I have to respect that in place with so many shiftless
pretenders roaming 'round. I believe the real reason C stays around
here is the same reason there are so many children around here: because
Mama D ain't dead or in jail. A person has to belong somewhere and this
as close as C gonna get. He pays his dues with respect and a few
dollars to Mama D's pocket. And that buys him a few hours inside Mama
D's during the heat of the day and the cold of the night. Aside from the
manner in which he makes his living, Corey behaves better than most
people on this street.
One night there was a knock at the door and when I went to see who it
was, nobody was there. And then I saw movement down below and to my right.
"Hey C ," I said, and he answered, "Sign fell down," and handed up to me the big metal Neighborhood Watch sign that was poorly nailed to the telephone pole in front of our house.
"Thank you C."
"All right Mr. Jim," he nods, bashful as a little boy.
When Phillis says she finds C "disgusting," she is implying that to
refer to his lifestyle but I suspect it is his physical appearance that
most bothers her because she seems none too disgusted by any of the good
looking dealers I have seen her flirting with.
And one night on the front porch, Shelton, in the midst of an anxiety
attack, confided to M that he had not the highest hopes for his
future. He said--"I'll probably end up just like C." And whereas
M thinks that is a bad thing, I do not.
Clifford Lewis5.18.97
This is the first one, second one actually, but due to various catastrophic crashes no one seems to have the first one, except me, as hard copy, and anyway its full of small errors, but for me does have one crucial line which I would appreciate being taken somewhat seriously---"As it would be far too tedious to change all the names of people I will be mentioning I must insist that you read all further missives as fiction. None of these people exist and none of this is happening." ) Clifford Lewis, a twenty-year-old young man raised by Mama D goes by the name Kojak and while shirtless sports the pucker
of bullet wounds across his stomach and back, wounds inflicted during his fifteenth year. More of a ladies man than a street hustling drug dealer, Kojak follows the flow of current events and avoids conflict to the best of his ability. Sometimes seen on the block holding his newborn son, Kojak will smoke that blunt, and rap a few modern lyrics, but mostly stays on the border of any serious business dealings in the area. The mother of the baby boy Clifford, aka., Peanut, is in jail on a charge unrelated to shooting through the front door of Kojak's ex-girlfriend across the street here about six months ago. For a man of his age in this environment, Kojak has been plenty respectful of the two white people at 2646. On one occasion at the Magnolia convenience store across the street Mandy found herself laughing at the sexual advances one young gangster was making towards a young girl, and while the young man was inclined towards getting in Mandy's face over this small humiliation, Kojak, with some theatrics, dissuaded the other young man from pursuing his actions. So Mandy likes him and perhaps Kojak appreciates (and is yearnful of, himself) the time Mandy spends with his younger blood relations on the street. Just a week ago Mandy had put out on the front porch some coloring books and crayons for the younger children to play with and when she came out a bit later she found Kojak proudly displaying his colored picture and asking Mandy her opinion of its worth compared to his sister, LuLu's. LuLu is a fourteen-year-old honor student.
Going Home
Even though I ( in yet another of my freakish screaming fits) kicked Shelton out of the house for the night, I saved him the obituary; its sitting over there on the bed.
"When they come out, usually a few days after?" Shelton had asked.
"Yeah," I had said.
"I went to school (Phillis Wheatley Elementary) with both them boys, Mr. Jim."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, the one that got killed, his name was..."
Charles DaVince "Hubba Bubba" Mabon died Sunday of a gunshot wound in the 1700 block of Lafitte Street. He was 14.
"And that other boy got shot, I knew him too."
(The boys were in a group of four youths walking home shortly before 1 a.m. in the 1700 block of Lafitte Street (near Roman) when the gunman approached. After robbing the juveniles, the robber shot two of them, in their heads, without provocation, police said.)
In other local news ( 12-year-old Troy "MIcey" Harvey, who was living in an abandoned Algiers apartment building with his 13-year-old brother, was shot in the neck by police Thursday after he allegedly leaped out of the closet he was hiding in and lunged for the officer's gun). Both of the Harvey boys have arrest records, a dead father, and a mother addicted to crack. And without TV in their abandoned apartment, and probable sub-standard reading abilities, surely neither of them were fully aware of the tribulations of Elian Gonzalez.