More Boys Home
Riding in the evening has its advantages cooler, less sun, less traffic, more zombies, more sightseers, more sights to see, the River Levee is breezy, the Lakefront levee is breezy,smell of ocean , the quarter is ripe with odors, smells, activities, panhandlers, and me, street urchin....
I traversed the ninth ward from Treme to the Lake, St Roch, great old neighborhoods, the Cemetery is recently redone and its beautiful. Franklin and St Roch Ave's near the lakefront are beautiful boulevards. Its Wednesday night and I'm vowed to repeat Friday night.. I popped out 40 miles , got home about 11:00 pm.. Felt good , did my 30 sit ups and had a great sleep.The night had one snag, it's my own doing but I have to be me....
I've threatened many times to place my heavy duty, fresh, empty refrigerator box behind the Post office on Camp street, under the building canopy, fill one side with Boone's Farm Tickle Pink , a case of Winston's, and some chewy dried fruits, drop out of society and watch the world go by , for I have given it all I have, I no longer can contribute , I just want to be self imprisoned with a view of Jefferson Park, Gallier Hall and Camp St. The 6 X 6 inch flap door is all the view I need. Self imposed asylum, anonymous, deleted from the worlds syntax. Whenever I ride camp street and approach the area I dazzle a quick daydream , its unimaginable yet proven how much thinking can go on in the time it takes to ride one block, mothers, little helper drags time out further,,..
I'm waking up in my box one beautiful morning, I peek out my flap, a majestic whitetail deer, a stag, grazes near the edge of my corrugated home, he nibbles toward my flap, I swore I saw him smile, deer don't smile, they can't even laugh, I see his lips move , I heard "good morning bub" in a Irish accent, "morning" I retort hesitantly, in a anxious accent. His beauty was astonishing, 10 tines on his antlers, muscular shoulders, powerful hindquarters, his pelt reddish in the sunlight and gold elsewhere, his big brown eyes pleading for safety and food, he's Irish ?, I'm talking to him ?, he's in the middle of the city?, why not....Opening my flap wider to converse with the talking deer a "thud" echos on my box, deer flips to its side, begins to run laying on its side to no avail, "help me" he cries "help me ", "what happened" I ask ?" I've been shot , just behind the heart, feels like a 50 caliber 600 yard shot.. pretty damn accurate, I got to get away but can't on my side.." His legs still running with no travel. I decide to take all risk , leave the security of my box , go outside and talk to the only thing I've talked to in 3 weeks except my pharmacist, then again I'm hesitant, I've accustomed myself to the security, comfort and secrecy of my box, I don't want to go out the box, but this Irish Deer needs my help, what to do ,what to do , what to do ,,, Ah ha, 3 slugs of Boones Farm, light up a Winston and a Valium under the tongue, ok I'm ready, "help,help,help" he continues to cry ," I;m coming,I;m coming". I carefully crack the end flap of my box, light floods in , I reach a hand outside to grasp the side and pry open the end, but wait, a darkness falls over the entire area, I coward-ed back in the box, ran to my flip window , like a massive cloud fallen to earth, darkness fell, when it became clear I could only utter , "oh shit", it was a deer eating dragon, fifty feet wide , one hundred feet long, face like a Python, talons big as my legs, wings of skin, scarred , torn, scales curled, burned, damaged, a tail flapping back and forth knocking trees and statues around like toys, he didn't land , he clutched the deer in his talons and gracefully flew off.
For hours I heard the echo of that deer pleading for my help. Looking down out my flap , the pool of blood darkens as it starts to dry, another swallow of wine, another Winston and another Valium, I sat , rested my heart, regained my composure, and enough consciousness to wonder , what about the 50 cal rifle,, hours passed, nothing happened, must be over , going back to being a recluse, in peace. Darkness is pushing out evening, I chew on some dried fruit, sip a little wine, not uncommon to hear footsteps pass by, noisy tourist. All sensations went blank except smell , an odor permeated my little flap, it was indescribable, they think Big Foot stinks , someone needs to smell this, like rotten fish left out in the sun on a bed of old cooked cabbage, sprinkled with wet catshit, soaking in a bath of sour cream cheese...
Ugh!, nasty, had to look out the flap to see this, before my box stood a man,creature, something, seven feet tall, arms like Popeye, legs like Schwarzenegger, hands like Aly Oop , a neanderthal forehead, lost eyes, stained crooked teeth, ears were torn, cut , it wore a bluejean coverall, some brown suede ankle boots , plenty black body hair, he turns toward my box and with his club hand, the one not holding the 50 cal rifle, he knocked on my box, once again , swallow wine, light Winston, Valium under tongue, I open my flap,, nervously I answer, "yes", he ? , brings his eye right up to my flap and with a classic British accent says , "Pardon me bloke, have you seen my deer", "no,no,no, I anxiously blurt out..
"I see the blood", maybe he was taken away by a damn deer eating dragon, is that possible?", not wanting to get involved I come up with a neutral answer, "anything's possible", again in a gentlemanly British accent he casually replies, "sorry to disturb you, have a good evening", I fell back as he walked off. Another gulp of wine, light up a Winston and a Valium under the tongue. Took a vow then never to eat out the dumpster behind the Post office again..What now, horn blowing, blink my eyes, I'm on my bicycle , corner of Poydras and Camp, lights green, damn how much can happen in a block and a red light. Apparently a lot in my mind...
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