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BigHead In The Morning
BigHead is not a handsome cat but he is a survivor, which is a thing to admire at least in the sense that surviving against the odds is inspiration to those of us who may occasionally seek inspiration. "Hello BigHead," I said to the black and white tom lounging this morning on my front steps. BigHead immediately got up off the steps and walked across the driveway towards the now out of commission Dodge truck, aka yellow beast. "So how was your night?" I asked him. He faced me and paid attention, which I knew he would continue to do as long as I did not move from the porch towards the steps. BigHead does not flatter me and I do not flatter him, yet we coexist peacefully. That's to say I don't throw rocks at him and only yell at him when I see him spray objects of mine I would rather he did not spray. His head is not so much big as hard looking, and the white areas of his short hair are smudged with street grime and the black spots are dull matted blotches. His markings, that is the contrast of black and white colorations, are not really that pleasant to look at. Kitten has good markings, BigHead does not. BigHead's head this morning was marked with mean looking scratches, which is not that unusual.
"You and that yellow bastard were going on last night weren't you?"
BigHead blinked.
"What's it all about?"
BigHead stared.
"By the way, BigHead, are you pissing on my Mexican Heather?"
BigHead drowsed.
"You know, I don't object to you to home basing under this house. I like you okay. I respect you. I wouldn't go so far as to say I love you but it could happen. The thing is, when you conduct your wars under the house it upsets Watchdog and that new puppy who stay by him, Watchdog Jr. I try to sleep at night, and if I don't, let's say because I was kept awake all night by dogs barking and cats fighting, well, then the next day at work I'm all wiggy."
"Wiggy? What that is?" BigHead asked.
"You know, out of sorts, cranky, disoriented, pissed off, tired."
"Oh man."
"I need to work, that's all, It's what I have to do. And I have to be rested for it."
"Wow, ouch," BigHead said.
"So can you like not do that?"
"It's not really up to me," BigHead said.
"Yeah sure, I know, if that yellow bastard would just stay away..."
"Exactly..."
"But you have to help me here, babe."
"Whyn't you just chill?"
"Excuse me?"
"You know man, chill, stay home, sleep all day, run all night. Know the ladies..."
"I really don't know."
BigHead chuckled. "Well, you should think on it is all I"m sayin'. Look, I gotta roll, find some shade somewheres, and crash. I'll talk atcha."
"Well, yeah, okay, I need to be getting to work, so Ima go too."
"Cool. Look Slim, I'll try 'n kill the yellow bastard next time, that'll slow him down."
"Yeah, good one, slow him down, I bet, but no, don't do any killing on my account, I mean you don't have to kill him."
"Oh yes Slim, I do."
I had to go. I moved toward the steps and BigHead hurried under the truck.
"Slim?" BigHead called after me.
"What?"
"You ain't gonna say nothing about the eleven-year old girl who opened her door in Eastern NO and took an AK-47 round to the head?"
"No."
"Why not? I thought that was your thing. Rocheblave Slim, death reporter." BigHead was wearing one of those cat smiles.
"You are picking a bad morning to piss me off."
"Hey, too bad about that fifteen-year old boy the cop killed the other day."
"You aren't saying the cop was wrong for that?"
"I ain't sayin' nothin'."
"The kid was walking down the middle of the street with a semi-automatic in each hand! At 9:30 in the morning! When the cop approached him he fired off several rounds, missing the cop each time. He was close enough so the cop is deaf in one ear. The cop did what he was trained to do. He's not at fault."
"Slim, calm down man. Who's to say where the blame lies? It's a difficult question. You takin' this shit too personal. People die everyday in many different ways. In the final analysis, what difference does it make how they die.?"
"It matters. That's a stupid thing for you to say."
"Perhaps it is my lacking of grey matter that causes me to think so simply. If I had your quantity of cells who knows what I might be capable of?"
"I've gotta go. You should stay away from here for awhile."
"Whatchu mean by that? What would you do, Slim, given the inspiration and the opportunity?"
Why Slim Doesn't Date
One of the things I like about living in the South besides the oppressive summertime heat that beats you down until you are a mere shell of a man is that waitresses at diners, and others places that aren't diners but sell plates to go in Styrofoam containers, call me honey, or sugar, or sweetie, or baby. Any of these terms will result in the waitress receiving what is the high end of my tipping range. Another great thing about the South is that a man doesn't tend to feel outnumbered by the dreaded palavering intellectual. Thus, not outnumbered, or to the contrary, supported in my archaic thinking, I can say things like: having a woman stand over me while I sit stuffing my face and having that woman say in all earnestness, you ok sweetie?, or, get you anything honey?, or, get you another drink baby? is a great moment in life. It is the type of moment we male Southerners may take for granted but I would wager large that such comments figure heavily in the life flashing before your eyes phenomenon that occurs at the end of our earthly existence. Also, this type of thinking is probably why I don't date much in this 21st century. But I think I'm feeling okay with that. "Yeah love, I'm good."
TV And Drugs
I have some things I need to get off my chest. I don't know where to start. I guess I should go back about three weeks to the day I bought my first TV. Its only a five inch black and white but I had a buyer's remorse that was bigger than a WalMart Supercenter. I felt dirty about it. I was sure it would cut into my reading time. I was sure it would turn me into an idiotic zombie (and to answer your question, I don't know how you would tell the difference?). I was sure this purchase was marking the beginning of my end.
After a week of Simpsons reruns followed by King of the Hill reruns I felt a little better. I had done the right thing. I was still reading. And I was enjoying high comedy. I was watching Seinfeld reruns at night. PBS was running commercial free WWII era movies, with Bette Davis. I was staying up past my bedtime on school nights. But that's OK because maybe I'm getting old enough where I don't need eight hours of sleep. And then...
I finished reading William Gibson's Count Zero and picked up John Grisham's Street Lawyer. But a little sherbet after a meal is fine. I am not a snob. Light reading is important to the overall mission. But light reading and TV, there's a risk there, so I snagged Caleb Carr's The Alienist at the Thrift City and jumped right in. Outstanding. But look at all the back to back movies on Saturday commercial TV. That one where Richard Pryor takes all those kids to Oregon on a bus, and that Charles Bronson one where he grimaces and helps people by killing their enemies. And then I started hearing the voices. Throw it out man, before its too late. Its light, just toss it over into the cat jungle next door. Can I shoot it with my shotgun I asked the voices and they frowned and shook their heads if they had heads, disapprovingly.
I still haven't finished The Alienist but I'm a slow reader so don't give up on me. I'm not giving up on me. I think there is still hope for me. Tell them. No, I don't have to. Tell them yourself or I will tell them. Its not that big a deal. Tell them. All right all right, jimminy. I, uh, I. Go on. I watched recently three quarters of an episode of Touched By An Angel. But I'm not a bad person. I'm not going to hell in a handbasket. I'm not. I was tired, I just needed, I mean I was only...Toss It. No, no no, I will overcome. I will handle this.
Now this next thing I have to tell you is top secret so keep your traps shut about it.
There is scant evidence that the Pentecostals are growing a half acre of weed right next door to me. Here's what little I have: two days ago I walked out my side door, which orients me to look out over the 24 inches of my property and onto the 50 foot by 150 foot Pentecostal vacant lot, half of which is overgrown by six foot tall weeds and underfoot consists of love seat sized slabs of broken concrete growing obliquely from the mucky, oyster shell laden soil. And I am alarmed to see--in this mostly black skinned area--two well fed, well dressed white guys, one with a camera. I had my reading glasses up on my unkempt head, affecting the erudite sloven.
This is my favorite part. Where I get to say:
"Can I help you gentlemen?" The one who was the most well fed said he was just taking pictures of their building (the former dancehall that fronts Iberville and sits at the back of and perpendicular to the vacant lot) and I said "so you're with the Pentecostals?" I didn't make it sound so much like an accusation and the man said yes. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked and he said tear it down. I didn't suggest wouldn't it make a nice AIDS Hospice? "For a parking lot? I asked and he sneered like that'll be enough out of you, whippersnapper, but his oily smile said yes. Goodbye dancehall. "Ya'll can maintain this lot any better?" I said, and the man smiled or sneered and said we're working on it. Oh great, I thought, a group effort. The next day another man, well dressed, black, working class, came in a nice clean van and walked down the only avenue you can walk, the one I cut, and inspected the area. A lot of activity all of a sudden so I became suspicious and when the man went away I went out and looked around myself and let me tell you, what I found was a great disappointment to me. Barely ten feet from my side door, out there amidst the Pentecostal weeds, was a five-foot tall cannabis sativa. So that's what the church is up to these days I unfairly speculated. Well, I'll put an end to it. Tonight I'll go out there and rip that illegal rope from the ground. I'll set it afire if I have to. I won't have it around me I tell you. And hopefully this will be a valuable lesson to those Pentecostals: that only hard work and law abiding efforts are the way to the truth, and that the devilry of drugs should not besot thy path. Not to mention, they should have planted indica.
Teenage Birthday
Glynn, Fermin, Hunter, and Jacque came by on the Sunday after the Fourth of July because Hunter's birthday is the 3rd and Glynn's is the 4th and I had told them we could do a movie and the all you can eat buffet. I think its been two years since we have been out together, except for last year when I took Hunter and Glynn to the Westbank to each get twenty dollars worth of fireworks.
Hunter is seventeen and the other three are sixteen so I was trying to impress them with my MP3 player because I don't have anything else they would consider "new," and would not already be entirely hip to. But out of the eighty hours of music I was having a hard time finding anything appropriate to what I know of their tastes. I tried Family Affair by Sly and the Family Stone and they all recognized it and started dancing, in the front room here at Rocheblave. Fermin performed movements from the Michael Jackson school and Hunter was doing Bill Cosby. "This how Bill Cosby dance," Hunter said. And he performed those awkwardly graceful making-fun-of-dancing gyrations that Cosby does pretty well. Hunter also does a great white person imitation, equal in tone to the master, Richard Pryor, which I love, but as a white person feel awkward encouraging him to do. He can make the adult in me laugh hard, so I really apprecitate it when he does the white guy. The other boys will look nervous when he does it because they are being overly sensitive to the insulting aspect of the imitation. I appreciate that too.
I guess if I looked at it too hard I would agree that Men In Black II was not a great movie. I was stuck on the third row and two of the boys were in front of me and two more were in front of them. Like I said its been two years and I didn't want to spoil their fun but I also did not want them acting the fools in the theatre so I gave them the speech about the Palace being better (?), and more expensive, than the (the no longer existing) dollar cinemas and how I would absolutely not tolerate loud goofiness outside of the proper context. And they were perfect young adults, and the two toddlers, boy and girl, who made some noise and played hide and seek on either side of my most bony knee did not distract me from the apparently less than perfect Men in Black. I was happy they liked me enough to balance their tiny little hands on my knee. I generally don't smile on distractions in the movie house, but apparently on this day I was in a most convivial familial mood.
I should tell you about the cats but that would go on and on.
At the all you can eat steak house/buffet even Jacque ate a fairly large portion of some hopefully non-salted food. I was struck by the words that came with his first self-served plate of corn and something else that did not look so appetizing which were him saying he had asked someone about the salt content. So that was heartening, this adult behavior which had him taking care of himself until comes the prophesied outgrowing of his life threatening medical condition. Salt causes Jacque's whole body and most notably, his face, to swell up to alarming proportions. I think to his and their advantages what Jacque has in common with the other three boys is that he has more than one person looking after him (Jacque splits his time between his mom in the Lafitte projects and M on Dumaine. Fermin between his mom in the 7th Ward and M on Dumaine. Hunter between a sister in the 6th Ward and M on Dumaine, and Glynn between his grandma and M on Dumaine), and that's not including my haphazard, very occasional efforts, and those of maybe two fathers and an aunt and uncle or two.
The fried shrimp did not seem very much salted to me and I suggested Jacque try one and he said he sometimes ate them at home. His second plate was full of shrimp and he finished his meal lazily with one ice cream cone after another. "This is my fourth one, Mr. Jim." To see Jacque feast is a treat, his diet as I have seen it, so constricted as to be bleak.
Glynn clicked with the waitress and was never wanting for Hi-C (fruit punch).
Fermin is the only kid I know who given the chance will eat voraciously from the salad/fruit bar.
The place was packed and we had to sit in the smoking section which was ok until people started smoking. A big fat intimidating preacher lookin' black man dressed to the nines and companioned by a young female escort, who had pushed himself quickly in front of our party when I briefly hesitated at the smoking room option, was now smoking, as was the Joe Dirt lookin' dude behind me.
"Hunter," I whispered, "go tell that big fat preacher man to quit that smoking. It's bothering me. Tell him it is unsatisfactory. We insist that he put the damn thing out. Tell him that and whatever else you wanna tell him. Let him know we ain't scared."
"This the smokin' section, Mr. Jim."
"Tell him we don't care about that, tell him we won't tolerate his behavior."
Hunter smirked, got up quickly and B-lined right to the guy, causing me no small momentary grief, before veering off towards the dessert bar. In a barely perceptible sideways glance he smirked again, and got himself an ice cream cone.
I dropped them all off on Dumaine, where Glynn's dad and stepmother were up on the porch, hangin' with M. I waved, stated the obvious, and drove on home.
Red Awakening 1.14.98
We were all lined up this morning across the street at 4a.m. under the overhangs of the five shotgun doubles, and a steady rain was coming down as I tried to hold my styro-foam dixie cup steady so that Vanessa could pour me a shot of Seagrams. Mama D leaned over and said, "I guess you won't be going to work this morning."
"I was just thinking about that, Mama D."
"No, you should stay home, maybe take care of some business."
"Maybe you're right," I said.
Mandy said, "Mama D could write you a note."
And the fire has now broken through the roof of what was known as Esnard Villa in those few years preceding the Civil War, and is now the headache and heartache of Y.
Her three young boys have been staying with their father so they did not have to jump out the second story window as did Y, and her friend, Chilly. Chill seemed okay but I think Y busted something in her feet pretty bad.
And now here I sit in the undamaged LeBlanc House, as close as six feet away from the remains of Esnard Villa, and I cannot for the life of me fathom what sort of business it is I should take care of. "What do I do now," I could ask Mama D, if she hasn't yet left for the casino.
Crackhead, 1.26.98
S say when I grow up Ima be a cop killer
S say when I grow up Ima be a crackhead cop killer
S say his mama out of jail, staying with his daddy.
S say she back on that rock.
A child named Chris was acting disrespectfully in Miss Amanda's Free School For The Soon To Be Criminally Insane today so she threw him out. I couldn't resist a small act of terror so I followed him out and told him he could come back in the future but that he must not fuck around in this house. He responded by telling me I was using violent language and I said, that's correct, do you understand it? When he nodded, I shut the door. Shelton, who was taking a break from pasting pictures of red and white blood cells on a piece of poster board said, while looking out the window, "You made him cry, Mr. Jim."
"Good," I said.
Sunday, me and the boys, Shelton, Fermin, Eric, and Glynn, were out at Boy Scout Island in City Park and later Sunday I read in the paper that on Saturday someone had wrapped a newborn baby in a trash bag and placed it under the back tire of a Minivan parked in the mud lot at Boy Scout Island. The baby made enough noise to be discovered before being squashed into the mud, and will "live."
After Boy Scout Island, we cruise to the river but the piece of land we usually play on is beneath five feet of water, river's up, and so we hang around for awhile and watch all the well-behaved suburban gutter punks. Check out those bell-bottoms. While I was waiting for the boys to return from somewhere they had disappeared to, I listened on the radio to this rap song by Tupac Shakur that kept asking the question does heaven have a ghetto? It was four years ago that I first wrote this and although I have never heard the song again, that question has become for me one of great spiritual significance.
I seem to be spending the whole day with these little jokers because now we are on our way to the dollar movies and Shelton, Eric, and Glynn are singing made up songs that make fun of Fermin's hands, the palms of which are covered with hard, scaly, cracked callouses. I sigh deeply several times and wonder if these children can ever stop being petty, hateful, and evil to each other. Just one Sunday. And then I threaten them with death, or worse than that, returning to Dumaine and they obediently shut up.
We get to the show a little early so I give the movie listings to the boys and tell them to decide on the movies they want to see. Glynn says, "I'm going to the movie Mr. Jim is going to." I say, "Okay, but if you go with me you can't talk, you can't act goofy, you can't make jokes, and you can't leave your seat more than once." Shelton chimes in with, "That's right," and Glynn pauses to consider the value of the father figure versus having real fun, and says, "Forget that."
I saw Alien Resurrection, thought it sucked, and the boys saw Home Alone III, and seemed to have enjoyed it immensely. Glynn and Fermin returned to the car first and were telling the best part of the movie, how this kid had a gun and stuff, and also that Shelton was cutting up and cursing at some girls through the whole movie.
"I am not sure that surprises me," I say.
"Why?" Glynn says.
"Because ya'll always act bad when I bring you here."
"No we don't," Glynn says.
"How about the time you laughed at that retarded kid."
"Yeah, but then you said if I couldn't keep from laughing to just walk away and that's what I did, I walked away."
"No," I say, "that was the week after you laughed at the retarded kid and we came back here and there was a whole group of retarded children you wanted to laugh at."
"But I walked away," Glynn says.
"You were laughing as you walked away."
"But I walked away."
And then Shelton and Eric show up and Glynn reminds me that Shelton was cussing in the theater and Shelton says, "I most certainly did, I most certainly did do that."
On the way home I yell at them all again for good measure, and, as they frequently do on the return to Dumaine reality, they all curled up into little balls and fell asleep, or pretended to.
Wake Up And Smell The Phlegm 1.27.98
There come those times in a man's life when the everyday pressures build to a point where the release of a little back pressure is inevitable. A man in the company of friends will be forgiven these small transgressions, perhaps a pat on the back with some kindly advice. Like--hey man, you need to get laid.
As a follow up to making a kid cry yesterday, today I verbally abused an indigent person.
I was over to Sam's place (the Magnolia #2) at Broad and Esplanade this morning at 6 a.m. to get a pack of cigarettes and as I pulled into a parking space by the front door I noticed this white bum sitting on the curb with his legs stretched into the parking space. I turned off my lights so as not to blind the old man and stopped halfway into the slot so I wouldn't run over his legs. Hey, live and let live, right? As I got out of the car, the bum raised his head and in some language similar to American English, growled a deep and phlegmy request. Considering the cold blowing wind, there was an unnatural stillness to the morning. I responded to this bum with more voice than I would have thought possible at this early hour, by saying--"Hey man, don't fuck with me," with a particularly harsh emphasis on the F word. I then walked in and greeted Sam, who was behind the counter. He was more than a little solicitous, and with pantomimes seemed to be asking me did I want him to go out and cap the no good scum who upset me this early in the morning. Sam is from Lebanon, and being so reminds me of the paternal grandfather I never met who also came from that country at the very end of the nineteenth century or the very beginning of the twentieth century and, like Sam, ran a grocery store, but in Austin, Texas, rather than New Orleans. Also, Sam's 21st century New Orleans requires that he keep a 9mm holstered to his hip, which, with the proper papers, is legal here. I pantomimed back to Sam (I guess I had used up all the really choice words already) to the effect, no Sam, let the bum live. "Have a nice day, Jim," Sam said, and I left the store. As I'm getting into the car one of Sam's unofficial employees is explaining to the bum about cause and effect, policemen and jail. The bum shrugs, as if to say--three squares and a bed, please don't throw me into that briar patch.
Thirty minutes later I'm on a refrigerated 24 foot ladder with another to my left and another to my right. This way if someone is down there to move my ladders I can just step sideways around the house without climbing up and down. The wind is kicking so fierce that the ladder to my left starts screeching against the brick, moving towards me. The ladder to my right is making the same noise, moving away from me. My fingertips are bloody and throbbing from the caulking I have done over the last two days. Mortar and brick dust broken free by the scratching ladder has found its way into my eyes. The hair under my hat is blowing wildly across my face and reciprocating strands of it are also sawing against my browns, which were already tearing up from the mortar bits scratching their way across my retina. Boss man comes around the corner, and with what vision I have left I can tell he is looking up at me. Careful Boss man, be very careful. I am fully loaded with the F word and I'm not afraid to use it. He said, "Jim, I got a hooded jacket in the van if you want to use it."
That was a close one.