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Tough Love 1.4.98
It is with some trepidation that I report the following exchange between Mama D and Shelton. I would hate for anyone in an official capacity to deem my use of questionable language as gratuitous. Journalism is in the Louis blood, and also it is helpful to the well being of my delicate psyche to expel certain experiences via email to a select group of friends. I am sure my earlier concerns about possible screening of these messages, and the subsequent loss of Juno email privileges, were the result of a mild paranoia, and not, in fact, a still to this day unexplained case of electronic censorship. Now.
Shelton and Eric and Glynn and Fermin went down to the SuperDome on the 20th with 9,000 other children to get their free toys. Shelton, Eric, and Fermin got the same toy--some kind of race track with two cars.
On the 21st Shelton says, "I'm gonna have to bust up on Eric."
"Why is that?" I ask.
"You know we all got the same race track?"
"Yeah?"
"We all be playin' in each other's houses and Eric switched his cars for mine," and Shelton goes on to explain about switched decals and how the glue residue was a dead giveaway and how he's gonna hafta bust Eric up.
I could have said more than I did (which was--"you probably don't want to do that Shelton") but instead I just watched as he went across the street looking for more trouble with Eric. He's probably still on probation from this summer's exposed genitalia episode involving Eric, and D'andre, and M. Harris, and himself.
Later, hearing raised voices, I look out the window just in time to see Mama D punch Shelton smack in the kisser with her open fist.
"You big headed cocksucker," she screams at Shelton.
Shelton starts bawling.
This was a Sunday and all my relatives were on their way out of town, having survived the wedding of my nephew, Ross.
Shelton, Fermin, Glynn, and I were scheduled to attack the mega-bar at Ryan's Steak House later that evening after I picked up Mandy from the airport, who had wisely opted out of the wedding festivities and gone to see her parents in Kerrville, TX.
I convinced Mandy to go with us and as the little inter-racial family sat down to eat off of dirty plates at the Ryan's Steak House in Algiers, I couldn't help wondering, "How the hell did I get here."
Gangs All Where?
I saw Shelton today while gassing up at the Chevron.
I was sliding my brittle Discover Card through the pay at the pump slot and was fantasizing about a meet with someone else--Canal and Broad's most ubiquitous homeless man, who with his shabby clothes and unkempt beard reminds me for no particular reason of the stoic philosopher Epictetus. Or I have convinced myself he is that reincarnation.
It's costing me about 25 bucks a week to drive the yellow beast to work and back.
I was on my way to see Spiderman over at the Elmwood Palace.
I was squeeggeeing my glass, oblivious to everything but my work, and the loud rap music pounding nearby when I glanced over to my left and there was Shelton, passenger in a jeep. We exchanged pleasant greetings; the nice me and the nice him just chance meeting in the neighborhood. He looked like he wanted to say something more and I thought about saying something more, but he didn't, and I didn't either.
I remember equally the times when he was one of a group of kids I gladly spent several hours with every Sunday traveling the streets of New Orleans and surrounding areas in the smallest car Ford ever made, as many as eight of us crammed in there, and also the difficult times while he briefly lived with me and a woman who even at the time was a former lover, and I screamed obscenities into his face like a poor imitation of Mama D before me.
It is more complicated and simple than I am able to figure out at this point in time but partly if you help by action or inaction put a kid in jail you feel a little connected to him in some way and also I feel various degrees of concern for the party who primarily (and correctly) had him punished for a breaking and entering on Dumaine. That he stayed in jail five months waiting for her to drop a charge that he could have pleaded to and been out in two weeks, or thirty days, is his own damn pig-headed business. And besides, a prolonged jail experience is like a badge he can wear on the street better than the high school diploma he opted against by dropping out in his sixteenth year.
I keep getting my mail over at that former Dumaine address partly because of the before mentioned (probably unnecessary) concern for the owner of that residence and partly because I'm truly literally incapable of accomplishing certain tasks at certain points in time, and partly because I miss the kids and characters from 2600, and getting my mail over there gives me a chance to run into them. He's not supposed to be there hanging out near the residence he burgled but I see Shelton over there in that block sometimes. Although truly that kid exhibits such bi-polar behavior I can't be sure whom I'm seeing from time to time so don't quote me on it. It might be someone else I'm seeing. Or I might be the one with the bi-polarity. And maybe I hallucinate. And anyhow, why would you take the word of an adjudicated felon? That covers that.
So I'm over there today.
Eddie Green lives in the Dumaine house during his summer breaks from Southern University in Baton Rouge, and is positioned as the good example for the many other kids who hang out there after school, and practically live there during the summer. Eddie is 6 feet and an inch tall and weighs 245 pounds. He plays linebacker for the football team. He offered me his Internet connection and I found some emails I had been neglecting. I answered the two that required that and then went out to watch street basketball. While I had been inside reading mail I could hear Fermin outside, who is trying to act out his role in society the best he can, but he's loud and profane about it. "Fuck" this and "fuck" that, "nigger" this, and "nigger" that.
Eddie, former high school states champion at basketball, had just beaten Fermin at street hoops. But from the tone of Fermin's harangue, somehow unfairly.
Eddie, with his shaved head and elaborately tattooed massive arms, smiled and said, "Why 'nigger,' Fermin, why not...'Black Knight?'" Thank you, Eddie.
I was standing next to Glynn who was sitting on the steps of an abandoned house across from where I get my mail. Above him, tacked to the siding was a warning that some bank had posted with a bunch of verbiage that I think meant--No Trespassing. His team was still in the playoffs but mine had been eliminated. My team had two seven foot white guys and neither one of them were true centers, nor could they jump, nor could they physically intimidate opponents. His team, I chided--"don't you think Chris Webber is a crybaby? I mean its behavior like his that sets a bad example for Fermin. Glynn just stared straight ahead. He seemed tired.
Jermaine was to my right with a clear plastic sack of raw hamburger, some charcoal and lighter fluid. He was going to throw a small to-do for Lance, whose birthday was the day before. I don't even worry about Jermaine burning down that house across the street, like he once threatened to do. Truth be told, he's a nice guy, respectful, intelligent, amusing, cheerful, and a lot better than some as a role model. Lance dropped out shortly after Shelton did. If it's true what the lady said, about it taking a village, then this one is better off for Jermaine being in it, and his taking of certain responsibilities seriously.
Bryan had called out to me, "hey splinter," which is why I came over to this side in the first place. He's hiding behind that car now, and won't come over to shake my hand. "Come on Bryan," I say, "I'm not mad, I won't hurt you, come on over here and talk to me." He acts cautious and I act mad, it’s a game, doesn't take much energy.
Jacque is across the street wandering around behind the fence at Stacey and Brianna's house, which nobody really does. He disappears around the side and shortly comes back with a tiny puppy on a leash, which he then walks up the sidewalk a short distance before bringing it back to Stacey and Brianna, who are now sitting on their steps watching it all.
Lance, who is almost a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter, is trying to man handle Eddie. "Lance, don't hurt Eddie," I say, and Lance, clearly pleased that such a thing could even be considered possible, smiles and says, "I ain't gonna hurt 'em, Mr. Jim."
"245 Eddie, isn't that a little big for your position?" I'm worried about his speed.
"No, not really, no. But I'm going back for summer school and I'll be working out so I'm going to drop ten pounds or so."
"How fast are you?"
"Four seven."
That seems like a slight exaggeration to me but I didn't call him on it. Instead I said, "you should do it in four three."
"Gawwwd." Eddie said.
Of course if he could hit like I've seen him hit and run the forty in four point three seconds he would be bona-fide pro material. "I just think you could be faster."
"I've got three more years of eligibility (he was redshirted as a freshman), Mr. Jim, I'm gonna be workin' on it," he smiled.
"Well, Okay then."
I haven't yet heard from Maureen Dowd but that doesn't mean I won't.