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Shootings, More Work, And Babies
Last week at the corner of Dumaine and Dorgenois a man was shot and then that man walked a mile to the First District police station at N. Rampart and St. Louis. The man was described as being reticent about the location and circumstances surrounding the incident. He said he had been shot somewhere near Orleans Ave. Police later interviewed the few neighbors existing in the area and found four or five shell casings on the ground at the Dumaine/Dorgenois corner, two blocks from Orleans. Perhaps only one of the bullets entered the man's side.
About ten days ago I reacquainted with Fermin after he came sauntering out of the Dumaine backyard with two of his little buddies. I have known Fermin since he was nine-years-old. He is now a few months shy of his twentieth birthday. A graduate of Clark High School where he played baseball and football, Fermin in his senior year in front of several thousand fans at Tad Gormley Stadium returned a kickoff for a hundred yards.
Did anybody touch you?
Nobody touched me, Mr. Jim.
Fermin was also in marching bands, playing the closest thing to a french horn most marching bands will permit, the mellifone? and also plays trumpet, if he had one, and is self taught on the keyboards, and would play that too if the six D batteries we purchased at the beerless Spur on N. Broad had been enough to make the the portable keyboard in M's Dumaine foyer work. But they weren't.
Fermin also likes to drink dacqueries (which I can't spell) at the lake with his girlfriends.
I don't drink 'em myself, Mr. Jim, I just get them for the ladies and then...
That's more than I need to know, Fermin.
That hairstyle I referred to the other day as long braids is not actually braids. The individual braid-like locks are called twists (which I know thanks to the diligent efforts of my research assistant; I can only ask Fermin so many direct questions about fashion).
The same day I reacquainted with Fermin I saw Snow. He was sitting on the steps of Esnard Villa crouched in the same way I showed him pictured up in the top left corner of this page where the cat sits, when I briefly ran revolving pictures up there. He has always a fathomless expression marked by black unblinking eyes. Jailhouse tattooed teardrops spot his black skin just below his left eye. I paused in the truck that day and called out to him.
Hey Snow.
(Nothing.)
You don't remember me, do you?
The faintest nod.
How you doing?
(Nothing.)
You doing all right?
(Was that a nod?)
All right man, I'll see you around.
The first Saturday I put Fermin to work on the Dumaine house I took him and my friend Laureen to Mother's for breakfast.
Sitting at one of the two tables by the kitchen and knowing that Fermin spent most evenings with his buddies somewhere on St. Ann, I said, Hey Fermin, did you hear about that shooting at Dumaine and Dorgenois?
He said, Oh yeah, that was Snow got shot.
Holy cow, who shot him?
Don't know.
Everybody that ends up on Dumaine wants to know when Mandy coming back. Yes, it's nice to see you, too. Mario (who, by the way, minding his own business, was also shot near the Dumaine/Dorgenois corner a year or two ago) and a few other well behaved boys I recognize but don't know that well, were gathered around Fermin as we finished up work the other day and they all want to know when Mandy coming back. I don't tell them not to lose hope, I'm sure she'll be back soon enough, and when she gets her house fixed up I'm sure she'll welcome you all back so you can have a safe house that people don't shoot at, yet, and you can all go about tearing the house up, again.
Somebody called out to me from over by Phillis's house on Sunday and I turned around to see a woman I did not truly recognize, walking across the street towards me. I went out to meet her in the middle of the street as she said, you don't recognize me, do you? I said, not really, and she said, it's Myrna (Shelton's mom). I kissed her on the cheek and told her she looked good and she said, when Mandy coming back? (nice to see you, too). I really been hoping to see Mandy to thank her for everything she done for me while I was in jail. I said, I'm sure she'll appreciate that, I'll tell her you were asking about her. She looked like someone who could really accomplish what she stated as her goal--not going back to jail.
Phillis's baby boy, D, is walking now, and is the king of Dumaine, next generation.
Oh, and Fermin told me this too--Erica had a baby. I haven't seen Erica since she was nine-years-old. I just loved that girl, but her aunt adopted her and took her off Dumaine because she felt the influences over there were not conducive to uprightness. Wow, what? she must be...? Thirteen or fourteen, Fermin said. Even as a one-year-old she had a remarkably mature bearing, and just amazing eyes, very worldly, as if she'd been here before, and seen the world turned asunder. I bet she'll be a good mom, probably very strict.
AfterLife
Well, it's March here in New Orleans, and I expect elsewhere too, it is March.
There are still dead bodies being found here, ten or so in the last month, decomposed, in attics, out behind sheds, in debris piles, so in answer to how are things going here, I'm starting with that. There are still dead bodies being found here.
That's not in anyway keeping you from eating at Emeril's or Galatoires or Antoines or Bayonna or Dick and Jenny's or Le Crepe Nanou or anywhere you like to eat. MacDonald's is finally open on St. Charles.
I stopped for groceries at Terranova's on Esplanade after work today because I've been forgetting to eat and then when it gets late and I get hungry I get really depressed if I go out looking for food in this part of town. There is no food at night in this part of town. For the quick fix I used to hit one of two MacDonald's or a Rally's or a Church's Chicken or a Popeyes or the Taco Bell/Pizza Hut or if I were punishing myself, the Burger King. Shut shut shut, all of them, not even gutted, not even an inkling that they are coming back. But they need to because people are coming back, a whole bunch in the last month.
There is here now a semblance of normalcy in a town that was never normal, so it's all about comparisons and it just gets tiring after awhile trying to figure out what's good and what's bad about what's happening here.
Like I should complain. A Mr. George Miller, master plumber, came and put in a new water heater for me yesterday and I took my first hot shower on Rocheblave, last night. It felt good.
The 85 year old couple around the corner still don't have electricity. That the city has accomplished as much as it has and has come as far as it has is really, on one level, amazing. All FEMA fuckups, Corps of Engineer fuckups, Insurance company fuckups, Government fuckups, and just all fuckups in general aside, this city has really come a long way in 6 months. But somebody, please, get the Smith's their electricity turned on, or if they need work done on the wiring, somebody step up and help the Smith's, all the Smith's in the city, first.
I got some french bread pizza sitting out un-refrigerated. Guess I better pop it in the oven, take a hot shower, finishing watching that Japanese flick, Afterlife.
I guess before I do that I'll drive down Canal, pick up a CityofNewOrleans wifi signal, post this while stopped at a red light, and in the unlikely event I see a parking space, I guess I could check my email too.
More Opinionated Rat-Laden Blathering
Only a dickless wonder when facing an unwinnable battle would utter the words Mission Accomplished. But at this point the only reason the trophy rats are even thinking about entering the Dumaine house is because the word on the street is-- there a little peanut butter to be had up in there, if you want it bad enough to die for.
That peanut butter is to die for said the one trophy rat to the other trophy rat.
The mission of a ratless world, while not accomplished, is, well, ongoing, but frankly, not that actively. We got 'em on the run though and if it were up to me I would spend billions, I mean billions of dollars, hunting rats in caves as far flung from here as--well, I can't see going as far as Pakistan, but I might venture out to the 7th Ward.
On Rocheblave the Sculptor has partial electricity, the Chauffeur has his trailer now fully electrified and I'm here on my porch electrified enough to type write, plugged into an actual outlet, not the converter running off the car battery (Oh man, if I could only get a wifi signal here).
I eradicated my tiny yet tenacious Rocheblave mice some time ago.
Rodents really don't get a lot of respect, and they have no religion, which makes them so much easier to kill, with impunity.
I was over at Dumaine the other day, just glancing around, and as I prepared to leave I heard voices over in the side yard, behind the wooden gate, which was closed when I came over, and, looking out, was still closed.
I read an article a while back about those crybaby Houstonians blaming all their violent crime on the bad boys from New Orleans, who had relocated there after the flood.
Houston--ya'll kick some ass when New Orleans needed you and you took in the people most in need, with a mere week or two of preparation, when New Orleans, with 300 years of preparation for catastrophic hurricanes, just fell down on the job. Fell down face in the mud while the rest of the world watched. So don't think I haven't respect for Houston (although, my dear God what a hellhole Houston is).
But Houston had an already rising crime rate that got a little bit exacerbated by some new gangsters and, in total, five or six or maybe eight murders were attributed to New Orleanians, between the flood and the time the article was written, about a month ago. Houston, I think, has ten times the population of New Orleans and they were crying about one or two extra murders a month? Two or three times a year or sometimes more, in the 10 years I lived here full time, we had 4 or 5 murders in a day, in a town with 470,000 people. You know, just for a little perspective.
I'm not saying Houston should not be upset about more murders. Murder is bad. I am against murder. Everybody I know (expect for that handful of murderers I've sort of crossed paths with) is against murder.
In the article there were descriptions by Houstonians about the New Orleans gangster, how you could tell who they were because they talked funny and because of their distinctive hair styles--the long braids as opposed to the corn row hair style of the Houston gangster. Newspapers can be so laughable in their political correctness but that's another harangue. So we're talking about black gangsters, no disrespect intended to my white gangster brethren with corn rows or long braids. Anyway, it was interesting to hear an outsider's view of what distinguished a New Orleans gangster. The long braids is definitely a trend here among black youth, gangster or choirboy. Ok, probably not choirboys.
I couldn't really see who it was out in the Dumaine side yard, I could only get a glance through the windows above the kitchen sink, but, OH MY DEAR GOD!!!, they were BLACK, and, I think I could see, BRAIDS!!!
I contemplated, briefly, suicide. I would put my skinny neck under the Gempler's rat trap kill bar and just end this pitiful existence of fear and misunderstanding. But, eventually, and I know this, crawfish will be affordable, and where there are affordable crawfish, there is hope. I then heard a faint, mocking voice--they won't be affordable anytime this year, pencil-neck, go ahead, Gemplerize yourself, before them gangbangers outside fuck you up. I will not be berated by faint, mocking voices. I went out on the front porch to meet my fate.
The gate pushed open. There were three of them, oh shit, all with braids.
I said, Hey Fermin, I thought that was you, what's up mane?
Chillin'.
That's nice.
What you been up to?
Chillin'.
I didn't want to make the two younger braided boys nervous so I just ignored them.
I said to Fermin, you working?
He said, yeh.
Where you at?
Uptown.
I may have some work for you if you're interested.
Oh yeah, Mr. Jim, for sure.
So we exchanged numbers and the next morning at 7:30 I got a call from Fermin, but I was already at work, doing the day job, and told him we would have to arrange something over the next few days, working on the Dumaine house, or my house on Rocheblave.
But I got to tell you, Fermin looked really good with his hair like that, and the two younger boys looked respectable with it too. Some people shouldn't wear it though, they should just shave their head so it looks more like their ass. That's right Treme Fatty, I'm talking about you over there disrespecting your Grandma at the laundromat on Dumaine and Rampart. Yeah I know it's been five months but I ain't forgot about you. You should go on a diet too. You getting too old for all that baby fat. All weight and hair issues aside though, you ugly.
Temporary Catholicism
In New Orleans pulling the truck to the curb I see a fellow who once threatened to burn my house down, preparing to smoke a blunt on the steps of Esnard Villa. I called out to him and he stopped what he was doing but I said don't stop on my account. We shook hands and bumped right shoulders together in that approximation of hugging that is popular among some men and then while standing at ease we caught up on that very limited piece of time and space when/where our lives had intersected.
He had once crawled under a car to escape a mad gunman but the gunman got eight shots into him and he went from critical to back on the streets in 15 days. At least one of the bullets had altered his face so that he looked like half of his cheek was just starting to melt.
On this day that I saw him, he had longer hair and some beard and he looked good and I told him so. He said he was in town for the parades, had seen another mutual acquaintance, one I am not overly fond of, and, that having already left New Orleans two years previous at the urging of a wife hoping to extend his lifespan, he had no intention of moving back to N.O. In only a couple of minutes we ran out of things to say to each other. I expressed with some heartfelt directness--It's good to see you, J. He said it was good to see me, too (calling me Mr. Jim, which you know I get a kick out of), and we parted.
It turns out this temporary Catholicism thing I'm embracing as a way to quit smoking (for Lent) has a troubling loophole, in that the thing you give up for Lent you can partake of (it) on Sunday's. Boy, boy, boy. Ain't that some namby pamby shit? I'm so close to trying it. If the Catholics say its ok then it must be ok. Four days without a cigarette and the Catholics are telling me if I want to be weak then go ahead, it's ok. I mean, namby pampy. It's enough to make you wish Saddam Hussein were running your life. I bet Saddam Hussein wouldn't let me smoke on Sunday's. The Pentecostals are tearing down the big pink house that fronts Canal, for more parking said the preacher's son and I don't know how I feel about that so I'm airing it out right here, next to Saddam Hussein's anti-smoking campaign.
My patience has limits. So I just went on ahead (with some advice from the Chauffeur) and pulled that meter out and removed the condoms from the male prongs and then pushed that meter back in and presto, house on Rocheblave is energized. So for the first time in six months you can flip a switch and a light will come on, or ceiling fan will twirl, and the electric glow plugs on the gas oven and gas furnace and gas dryer will ignite. I went ahead and paid Entergy that 225 dollars for the zero service they had performed and if they don't punish me for my renegade actions I won't begrudge them the extortion. We could try to say all's well that ends well but there is so much here in New Orleans that hasn't even begun, it's a stretch to refer to an ending.
Concentrating On Rampart
Continuing with a recent theme, I saw this morning a man walking up the neutral ground near Broad and Canal, and the man was holding by the tail a large dead smooshed flat rat. The man walked jauntily and appeared happy and carefree at
7:30 this morning, a 24 oz. beer in one hand, the crusty flat grey rat in the other. The man wore a black top hat, a black jacket and pants and black shoes.
After gassing up I headed for the diner on Bourbon St. but upon arriving there the doors were locked and through the glass I could see chairs up on tables. A woman who had just tried the locked door herself told me the new hours for the time being are 9 to 9, due to another employee shortage. She was an employee herself but evidently not one trusted with a key.
I walked back to my truck parked on Rampart and drove aimlessly, forlorn by the very thought of that bland and often cold fare from the Trolley Stop on St. Charles. I zigged through a construction zone at the corner of Perdido and tried to be more alert than I had been the other day on Broad, at Orleans, where I had pulled out into the intersection to purposely ram a car that was moving out of turn at the four way stop, but instead of ramming I just paused and gesticulated wildly, with arms stretched wide, head cocked, mouthing--what the hell are you doing?--only to realize Broad and Orleans is lighted, has been for awhile, and this I got when glancing up from the middle of the intersection I saw the light above me was red. And it was me who was the asshole, again.
But this morning, concentrating on Rampart, I turned left on Poydras and it came to me that I should see if Mother's has reopened. I got to the corner, I think it's Camp, and there was not a long line out the door which has always been pretty much the standard at Mother's, especially Saturday mornings. But there was a sign out front that said they were open so I U-turned a couple of times and parked on Magazine and walked over. There were just a few of us in there. A young black college girl with oversized sunglasses was ordering at the counter in front of me and the counter person was grilling her as to why she seemed so out of it. "Girl, what did you do last night?" The girl shyly reported back that she had been, you know, partying all night, and the other counter person just shook her head, saying her niece, who staying with her, had come in at 5:30 this morning and if she expects to keep staying with her, that shit will change.
I placed my order, the special--eggs, grits, ham, biscuits--which had to be served on two plates, and weighed about five pounds, and then slid on down to pay, and get some coffee with milk. The young college girl was in front of me again and a different counter person was trying to ferret out just what the girl had special ordered, and at one point said--"oh no, unh unh girl, that too much bread, you can't have that."
The ham served with my special was three or four gigantic chunks of tender meat, and not too salty and I got one of the slabs between the extra biscuit, wrapped in a paper towel, sitting in front of me right now, parked back at Rocheblave.
Thought I Was Wrong Once Before...
It is a thing that happens so rarely I am not upset, but, rather, bemused by it. I was wrong about something. Gosh, what alien words to hear coming from my mouth. I was wrong? That must be a misprint, a mis-utterance.
After getting up at five-thirty a.m. and spending a long hard day breathing paint fumes and construction dust I like to head to an American ghetto and dig through a dumpster where rumored there is the biggest f-ing rat ever attached to the phenomenal Gempler's reusable rat trap.
Because I appeared to be pretty damn serious about my beloved rat trap M had to suffer the mild embarrassment of asking the visiting general contractor via email where the hell did he put the rat w/trap attached that he reported removing from her house on Dumaine, like he a can-do man, not afraid of hard work, and fastidious with rats by putting them in dumpsters, give me the job. Not a bad angle really. Dead rat removal.
It's been about a week so the sun beating down on the black plastic top of that dumpster behind the shut down Magnolia corner store had caused this man's biggest rat ever to sort of decompose quickly. Maggots had helped to remove all the unnecessary fleshy matter and yet by shear toe to tail length I am giving this man his props. Although technically he didn't catch that rat, I did. I set the trap in a strategic locale. I waited patiently. All he did was carry it across the street. But I'm giving him his due for that because that rat could have re-animated while he carried it dangling heavy from the Gempler's reusable rat trap, and bitten his hand off, him thereafter writhing in pain, supine on the pavement, in a practically de-populated American ghetto, never to be seen again by his loved ones.
People, more than a few, hell, I've said it myself--oh, the nicotine fit only lasts three minutes, you can withstand that, be strong, you can do it, be a hero, be an inspiration to all the weak, fun-loving, doing what they want and enjoying it folks in the land who may or may not suffer any long term consequences from it.
I would badly like a cigarette.
I mean, holy shit, how long do you want to live anyway?
If this part of the city weren't still so devastated I would find an old used up and disease-ridden set of works in the gutter and I would round up some shorts, butts, squares or rounds and boil them down and shoot them up, straight into my veins. Okay, not so many words written but that was a lot longer than three minutes and I'm still feeling very crazy in an unappealing way. I'm chewing some nicotine gum now. Calm down. Not smoking cigs is better for a number of reasons, none of which I can think of right now. Only losers smoke, happy, doing what they damn well feel like losers, luxuriating in the smoke, it's sooo good, being a loser is the best thing in the world... I don't know if I'm going to make this happen. Just being honest. That's how I feel right now, knowing that I could walk a few minutes and buy me a fresh pack. Do you hear that? Jimmmmy, jiihimmmy? Come buy me, come smoke me. Love me Jimmy. I will love you if you love me.
So, the dude's rat was bigger than mine, big deal.
Mardi Gras is over, than God.
Now there is nothing left but work, thank God.
Oh, March 1st, six months after the rising waters de-energized and de-populated that 80% of New Orleans existing outside the tourist grid, they flicked that little fuse up on the pole in front of my house on Rocheblave, my street light is on, the street in on the Entergy grid, and If I wanted, I could play basketball at night, and I could also, with some assistance, illegally turn on my own juice, but Ima wait a little longer, because obeying the law is every bit as rewarding as not smoking.
I was going to tell you how frustrating it is to get through to Entergy but every time I mention it to someone around here their eyes insta-glaze because they have been there, done it, heard it, lived it, and are trying to think about something else. I have failed so many times at it I can confidently wave the consolation prize trophy of run of the mill failure, at unadoring fans. I got through to a human last night, I thought by a little trickery, but the trick was on me and she couldn't help me, wasn't even based in New Orleans, wasn't the kind of operator who could (or was allowed to) pull up my account. When she asked where I was from I said New Orleans, is there anyway you can help me with my New Orleans issues? and when she said no and I said okay I'll start over, it seemed she was someone getting a lot of these calls, and was feeling the pain of it, and it was really through an awkward silence that she communicated this and if only for that silent second or two, it was nice to be felt.