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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.