Scribbles on Casanova(s)

His prescience is alarming yet the gilded entertainer knows how to press your buttons. His song and dance puts you under spell and more rightly under his thumb. He is made of sugar, spice and not everything nice. He is cunning, blunt, and sly about his intentions. Even though this paramour’s sheets have been changed hundreds of times, women still flock to him. Isn’t that love? It should be, shouldn’t it? But you still don’t know his true face.

        One successful lad is Rod Stewart. He has had a succession of wives that all seem to be about 25 years younger than him. Another god is Hugh Heffner; I mean who wouldn’t want a new set of Playboy Bunnies every couple of years?  One loser is Jude Law. Really caught with the nanny?  The other failure is Tiger Woods.  He thought he could get away with cheating on his wife. Hell they made a condom statue in his honor. “The same principle which forbids me to lie does not allow me to tell the truth.” True words spoken by Giacomo. He is the expert you know. Each of these Casanovas live by this rule. Aren’t they absolute role models?

1)      Names are important. Why? Because they define us. So here’s a list associated with our lady killer (that’s already one).

-          Debaucher, Adulterer, Gigolo, Swinger, Libertine, Womanizer (Britney Spears was right), Seducer, Lecher, Fornicator, Lady’s Man, Philanderer

2)      A man with multiple STDs. He could have the following gonorrhea, AIDS, herpes, syphilis, chlamydia, genital warts, scabies and more. Isn’t it great being a social butterfly? He’s a love bug. It’s infectious.

3)      A dapper man. Macho-Macho men would disagree and say metrosexual. But these men do like their garb. How do you attract a lady? Good hair. Good clothes. Good build. Must be clean. I hear squeals already. 

4)      He is, dare I say, cocky. It isn’t time to be bashful. That’s no fun. His cold jokes and foul humor make women blush. It’s downright dirty. Some women find it repulsive that they want to be in the dirt. Raunchy, huh? Oh, yes.

Some one-liners:

-          Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery? (George Carlin)

-          A man is only as faithful as his options. (Chris Rock)

-          Welcome to a night of partying and heavy drinking. Or as Charlie Sheen calls it: breakfast.” (Courtesy of Ricky Gervais)

-          “Now remember my three beginner’s tips for picking up chicks: Address her by name, isolate her from her friends, and subtly put her down.” –(Neil Patrick Harris as Barney Stinson)

5)      The classic bad boy. A criminal. Think James Dean. His vulgarity always gets him in to trouble. His spiral of misfortune is an adventure. He is a symbol of resistance. He’s liberating, in the sense that women liberate themselves with him.

6)      The Con Artist. He is organized. Remember, this is an act.

-Step 1: Find Attractive Damsel in Distress

-Step 2: Be her Hero

-Step 3: Her Gratitude = Seduction

-Step 4: Convince her you are unworthy, so you can leave without knowing what hit her.

      As Giacomo would say, “There is no honest woman with an uncorrupted heart whom a man is not sure of conquering by dint of gratitude. It is one of the surest and shortest means.” So he knows how to manipulate people. But how long can a man keep up this act?  Charlie Sheen can’t.

7)      Underneath all the covers is lonely playboy. After all the liaisons, what is reality? After the birds and bees fly away what’s left? Relationships aren’t permanent in this man’s life. So what does he really have the morning after? An empty bed.

8)      Honestly, dishonesty is a virtue in his head. So the symptoms of this complex include trust issues. This dazzling man is always plotting. His own desires are more important. He isn’t a lost puppy. You can’t change him. You can’t train him. He does bite. He does have rabies. I mean scabies.

9)       He’s one of the girls. Well, why not? He’s prepared to jump off the diving board into a pool of estrogen. Yes, he will talk to you about your feelings and gossip with you, but in the end he’s got more women than his bros. In this case, it’s hoes before bros.

10)  Man on the run. After all these one night stands. What’s he really running from… himself. Confrontation is avoidable. Just like love. Unnecessary. I wonder how all the previous Playboy Bunnies feel.

11)  Human. Yes, I said it. As warped as it sounds. Insecurities are just another way of saying it. It’s unavoidable. But under his thick skin is just someone vying for attention and affection.

            As beacons for weak willed girls, these men put on a spectacle. It’s amusing, for the Casanova and the volunteer, for a while. But you can’t put on a show without an audience. Someone is bound to pull the curtain back and reveal the naked truth. Don’t you think it’s exhausting to keep up this act anyways? Eventually they’ll lose their touch. Under hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of stained sheets there is some beating instrument called a heart. When the spectators and show girls catch onto this false advertising, it’s going to turn into a one-man show. His bed will be left alone, just like him.

THE ZOO.

Fairytales line the walls of a child's memory. The classic stories of princesses, dragons, the princes who defeat them, and the infamous boogyman were all that could be remembered before bed. The children knew that creatures lurked within their closets, hid under their beds, and crept through open windows at night. However, a parent always had to misinform the child that there were no such things as monsters.

I was supposed to be out of this town by sunrise. Instead, this good-for-nothing-piece-of-shit van broke down just as I made it to the outskirts. Uno, my traveling companion up until now, was the only one out of us who knew how to fix it, but he was gone. Vanished. Whisked away into the crowd of humans. He did not belong there; he belonged beside me, venturing between state lines, searching for more of those things. Before my eyes, I could only see blackness, but a light shone a bit of distance away. I had two options: follow the light or stay here and remain frustrated.

The night's moon provided no comfort, nor did the stars twinkle enough to give me a feeling of companionship. Footsteps were the only sounds that could be heard, other than the one or two cars speeding by, far over the speed limit. The light drew nearer and nearer, and I finally made out the source of it. Beyond a large yard of over-grown grass and weeds, some wooden stairs stepped twice and met the porch supporting a two-story home. If not for the lights emitting from about four of the windows, I would have imagined the house to be abandoned. I approached the door and practically slammed my knuckles against it about three to five times. I heard a faint, "Coming," then the door opened by a woman with light brown hair and a cheerful demeanor.

"Yes?," she smiled.

"Right, hey," I tried to muster up words. "My car broke down a little ways down, and I was wondering if I could borrow your phone?"

"Hold on a second," the woman pointed a finger upward to display she had an intention of returning. From what I could see through the doorway, she walked a bit down the hallway and called out to someone, referring to her as "Miss." Her voice was somewhat harsh, and it somehow felt like a snap. When she returned, she opened the door wider before saying anything, made the gesture to welcome me inside, and led me down the dusty and dimly lit hall to the kitchen on the right. Something in me clawed at at my stomach, tightening its grip the more I noticed it.

"Hello there," the woman set a cup of coffee on the small table as she greeted me. I nodded once and said a casual "hello" in response, but the claw at my stomach compressed all my words. "I understand you're here to borrow our telephone, yes? I'm sorry you came here for nothing; we can't seem to get it working."

"Oh," was all I could conjure from my mouth. I was curious as to why they invited me inside if they knew they would not be able to help me. As I remained in the awkward atmosphere (well, perhaps it was only awkward to me), I took a quick glance around the room. It was an average, old-style kitchen with a gas stove and simple appliances. A painting on the wall depicted a little blonde girl with perfect curls watering flowers, and the wallpaper was peeling off a bit around the edges, especially near the screen door that must have led to a side yard.

"But don't worry," my head jerked back to her direction, "I heard about your car troubles, and I could just have my son repair it in the morning." She chuckled a bit, "It's about the only thing he's good for."

"Hey," a deeper voice was heard through the screen door as the body who bore it entered. He was not especially tall, yet his build was strong. I assumed this young man to be the son to which the "Miss" was referring. "Without me, you wouldn't have been able to live here. So no complaining, Mom."

"Yes, yes, you're right," her eyes met with her lap, as if to see her legs remaining still. "Anyway, this is… oh, I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"It's H'up," I responded, expecting the strange response I often receive. Instead, her lip tightened as if she knew very well what my name must have meant. Not what it meant as in words, but why it was unnatural. She knew I was "lying."

"Then," she looked to her son, "would you show H'up to the guest room so she can get comfortable?" He shrugged and motioned me to follow him into the hall. We headed toward the door, but as we walked, I noted across the kitchen was a living room with a fireplace. Because I had to follow him and not seem too nosey, I could not properly observe my surrounding. It was second-nature to me, as it was for Uno. We had to notice the signs.

To the left of the entrance, an old staircase led to the second floor, and as we made our way up the creaking planks, he asked, "So what kind of name is that, anyway?"

"It's a nickname," I responded flatly. At the top of the stairs, I was looked on by a door parallel to me. The floor was made up of a hallway that created an "L" shape. It was wide enough to have enough space for small furniture such as a small loveseat against one wall with an old end table holding a vase beside it. He led me to the left, where only one door stood. He opened it and allowed me entrance, to which I agreed. The room itself was nothing spectacular, as it was a bit messy with dirtied clothes, covered in mud. I knew immediately that this was the wrong room. He closed the door behind him and made his way to me, touching my shoulder. I shrugged it out from beneath his hold.

"Don't be like that," he joked to himself and stepped closer while I instinctively moved backward, which was not an intelligent decision on my part seeing as the bed was close behind me. "When was the last time you had any fun?" He eyed me up and down, looking disappointed at what he saw. "You're a bit boyish for my taste, but you'll do. Besides, you gotta pay me somehow for fixing your car." I prepared myself if he decided to try anything, but as he made an advance, there was a light knocking on the door followed by a small voice.

"I'm opening the door," she said, and he distanced himself from me with a grin that implied he was not finished with me yet. I chose to ignore it. The little girl looked to be about ten, and she was carrying a blanket under her arm. "You can come over here; I'll bring you to the right room," she sighed as if this hadn't been the first time her brother deceived someone. I decided to follow her to the hall, not looking back at him. She closed the door behind us and apologized.

"Sorry about him. We always close our doors behind us, and he probably did that without thinking." In retrospect, I knew for a fact I was not in any real danger, but I certainly appreciated the simple escape. The door that she led me to was the very first one I saw, and as she opened it, I felt I was staring into a room full of shadows. Due to usual circumstances, I felt the side of the wall for a switch to turn on some sort of light, but there was nothing. The little girl walked into the darkness and turned on a lamp stationed atop the end table beside the bed. It had simple furniture: a wardrobe, vanity, and my personal favorite accessory was the marble ashtray. The bed rested against the wall with a window to attract the morning's light for the next day, to which I was not particularly looking forward. "My room is down the other side of the hall, and my little sister's is at the end of the side-hall, so if you need anything, you can wake one of us up. Though she can be a bit cranky," the little girl laughed. She gave me the blanket from beneath her arm and bid me to have a good night, yet she neglected to close the door until it clicked shut. I folded the cloth blanket and placed it at the foot of the bed, and I cuddled myself beneath the warmth of the comforter. Night trailed forward, stealing the consciousness away from me. Tomorrow was going to occur as I closed my eyes, and I could think of no place I'd rather be than anywhere but here.

My slumber immediately ended the moment I heard what sounded like heavy heels step across the room's floor. A loud exhale that seemed to be released from nostrils was the confirmation I needed to know I was not alone. I reached for the lamp's string and tugged it harshly, revealing the body of a monstrous creature at the foot of my bed with a Ram's skull staring blankly in my direction. He did not move immediately, but his body resembled that of horrifying combination of both beast and man. While he had human stature, his feet were hooves. I yanked the covers from my body and leapt to the opposite side of the room. He then charged after me, hoping to take me down; however, in his blind fury, he only wrecked the vanity. From it fell the marble ashtray: my weapon.

I was foolish to accept the offer of sleeping in their den. I should have noticed that they were suspicious from the start. Monsters could wear clever disguises when they crawled into a human's skin.

Regaining himself, he once again attempted to bulldoze me. This time, I was caught in the crossfire, and I held onto the ashtray firmly as I bumped into the end table. He had me cornered with the bed, just as before when we were alone in his room. The hollow eyes in his skull looked right through me as his body mounted over mine. His hooves lacked the ability to pin my arms down, and I used the springs from the mattress to aid in my thrust to push him back. He was far stronger than me, but it was enough to free myself and make the attack. His face was that of a skull leading up to horns above his ears. However, the back of his head seemed human. I slammed the ashtray into it, repeatedly. I did not give him a moment to fight back; this had to be done quickly or I was going to die an extremely pathetic death. He bleated and kicked, but eventually his movements subsided as the blood ran down his back, and his body collapsed. All the noise must have woken up the house. After all, I killed the son.

A few moments of standing still, allowing my ears to listen for any sound coming from outside the room passed and ended when a light thumping was heard down the hall, opposite of the Ram's room. I regretted being unable to sever his head, as I could use it as a weapon; however, I had to move onward. I quietly opened the door wider, hoping that it would produce no sound, yet it did create the smallest of squeaks. The thumping came to a halt, and we both remained perfectly still. I had the ability to creep quietly, but whatever was waiting for me at the end of the hall moved in a jumping motion. As soon as I heard its small leap forward, I pitched the ashtray as fast as I could in its direction. I did not care who or what it was; all I knew was that if it was anything like the Ram, I could show no mercy. With my ashtray gone, I grabbed the vase by the neck and sprint into the darkness ahead, hoping to finish this encounter quickly. 

Once my eyes adjusted, I saw a human-like creature, covered in mangled white fur. She had a small stature, and her pointed pale face possessed a curious nose, constantly sniffing, though it seemed to be in pain as its tattered ears hung back. She did not fight immediately, and I slammed the vase against the left side of her face, shattering the glass. The Rabbit collapsed, still breathing, kicking furiously in my direction. At this point, I knew she could do me no harm, so I stabbed the broken glass through her neck and immediately heard a roar come from the perpendicular end of the "L" shaped hall. 

The roar indicated a more hostile creature, and I was unarmed. There was no way I could enter blindly into that room, so I thought back on the fireplace and decided to grab a fire poker, though I knew it would inevitably be ineffective against a larger and more dangerous monster. I made my way down the stairs, and while I was rushing down the hall to the left opening, I heard a snarling cackle come from the right. Whatever the sound's master was, it was in the lit kitchen, and I had to either take my chances and run in there, and hope for the best, or I could allow those horrible creatures to live as I ran out the front door. I dismissed the second option as cowardly, and it was my duty to fight back the monsters who threatened to steal our flesh and bones. I wiped the sweat from my forehead with the hand stained red in blood, and I presented myself in the doorway, seeing the beast stare back at me. She was on all four legs with spotted, patchy light brown fur. Her mouth was stretched back as if she were grinning maliciously. She continued to produce a strange cackle of a sound, snapping in pitches from high to low, and it finally clicked within me to move. 

Illumination from the kitchen light helped dodge and avoid the Hyena's attempt at digging her fangs into me, but her movements were too fast, and she bit into my calf (thankfully, the clothes around my legs helped relent the full bite). There was no other option; I used a chair to defend myself. I lifted it and slammed the back of it on her head as to free myself. Pain throbbed throughout my leg, but I had to survive. It was not deep enough to halt movement in my leg, but I was certainly handicapped by it. Hyena regained herself and prepared to attack, but much slower. She crept closer as I stepped backward, and we circled around the table as such about three times until she chose to pounce. I blocked myself with the chair, releasing it with a push to keep her away for a second as I grabbed that painting contained in a glass frame from the wall and slammed it against her recovered stature. She released a yelp, but kept her fighting spirit. As she struggled to stand once more, I quickly rummaged through the drawers until I found a butcher knife, and I drove it into her chest, piercing it through the heart.

I retrieved the knife after her twitching receded, and I searched through more drawers that I had not been able to look through previously. I found nothing important other than some scissors, matches, and tape. I brought myself to the living room, still listening for any more creatures. Even though I knew of five residents within the house, I could not be completely certain that more did not remain hidden throughout the property. The woman of the household and the Rabbit's younger sister were the last two I could identify. The living room did not have much save for the fire poker and a disposable amount of furniture (including a telephone, which I did not have time to check), but I had to take my chances and return to the roaring room.

Opening the door quietly, I saw the battleground, and it, too, was lit with duel lamps on both sides of the queen bed. The room was more elaborate than the others, and it was covered in dolls, pillows, and drapes framing the large window on the left wall. I knew in that instant this monster would be the worst, for she had the ability to cushion herself if she were to fall back anywhere. As for the hideous creature, she was representative of a white tiger. The fur around her face was long and disheveled. As opposed to having thick fur, her skin was white with black patches in stripes stretched across her disfigured body, and though she was not fully grown, she was enough to be dealt with seriously.

Surrounded by her mote of pink pillows, she waited patiently for me to fully bring myself into her lair. As she watched, her lips separated more and more until her sharp teeth displayed themselves as superior to me in all ways, and to elaborate this point, she released a large and booming roar from her mouth. To be honest, I wished Uno was with me. I could handle it alone, and I could defend myself, but it would have been so much easier to have someone else fighting along side me. I dropped the butcher knife to the ground so that if I needed it, I could return to it. I gripped the fire iron with all the force I could, and I charged toward the beast, trying to ignore the pain in my leg. I positioned the tip to meet with her eye, and I struck it through before being swatted away by her arm. The blood dripped down her eye as she cried out in pain, and with the blood also fell the instrument. If I were to attempt to retrieve it, she would certainly kill me in her fury. I had no choice but to try my hand at the knife throw, so I ran back to my blade and flung it in her direction without really thinking of being precise. I had to try as long as she was distracted.

It missed a vital point, but it did slash the skin on her side. The Tiger's anger escalated, and she no longer allowed herself to mourn over her own pain, and instead, she wished for nothing more than to end my entire being. She leapt from her bed and raised her paw at me as to scratch fiercely across my chest, but I ducked with enough time to dodge her blow, but I did acquire my own wound from her claw along the side of my head. I knew I could not defeat her by my previous attempts, and I had to think of something. That was when I noticed the window again. I lured her over to it by taunting her with my own ferocious snarls, and she reciprocated with more roars and displays of her teeth before lunging forward. She hit the ground in front of the window, cleverly avoiding my plan. But what she did not realize was that she was still just a little girl, younger than ten years old. I grabbed her by the legs and swung her body through the window using all my strength and adrenaline to stay alive. I looked out the window to see if it had worked, and the Tiger's body remained motionless, but I heard a howl from outside, and the body of a hellhound dragged itself forward by the front legs to its daughter's corpse. The mother was waiting for me.

I was lucky to have seen her in that state, for I knew she would be no trouble. Her legs were already immobile, and she was only a dog. A hellish, grotesque monster of a dog. 

At this point I was tired of stabbing everything. I wanted to just beat her senseless with a blunt object of sorts, but I could not think of anything that would do the trick. I debated taking the butcher knife and using it to steal the Ram's skull like I wanted prior to finding any other weapons, but I decided against it. Wind caused the curtains to dance, and in its motion, I realized that I could take down the curtain rod and use it as a long-range weapon. Pulling on the thin, dancing fabric, I brought the structure down to the ground, collected the rod, and prepared myself for the Hound.

She waited for me outside the entrance of the home. She was dark, like the color of coffee, and her eyes and growl exhibited intense hatred toward me. I slaughtered her whole family before they could team up to kill me. It was self defense, and she had no right to hold any grudge against me. I gripped the rod and showed her that not a single ounce of blood in my body was going to be lost over her. The Hound knew she would be defeated, and before she allowed me to strike, she barked as loudly and strong as she could, repeatedly. She barked so much that it was beginning to give me a headache, so I shut her up once and for all. I grabbed her stiff body by the neck and drug her up the porch, through the door, and into the den where I dropped her near the entry. I picked up the phone and heard a dial tone. "Fucking bitch," I muttered to myself. I pushed the familiar numbers and listened for the rings to end and a voice to be heard on the other side. I knew it was extremely late at night, but he would answer.

"Hello?" he said. I uttered four words to him and slammed the phone back on the receiver. The old, wooden house disgusted me in every way. I found myself rummaging through the drawer in the kitchen, striking matches to ignite the stove, ripping up paper towels to toss into the fire pit, watching the logs bare heat, and setting aflame everything on my way out the door. If the world were made up of fairytales, and each human and beast alike was assigned a specific role in the old story books, then I was the Dragon.

Uno, I'm coming back.

Five and a Half Poems of Different Styles and Themes by Eli

                                                                         Pisces Caput

Out of great despair,
There’s  nothing there,
A gaping hole, in which
A digger could fall. Not till
Death, but to infinity,
Through hole and host and everything;
Stomach settled but starving,
Alive by the Heart that beats inside o'him,
Though that too be of Darkness.


Out of great despair,
A beast sleeps there,
Where there is no light.
The beast’s name is longing,
It has no eyes and it knows no sight.
It blunders East by eve and West whilst dawning.
It Knows not of its confinement,
Nor whom it is nor where it’s from.
It cannot breath, though bequest lungs,
The beast is a fish  in great despair
and where there’s nothing there is no air.

                                                              To the Cello

The cello sings
Sweetly and softly
Of its high strings,
A baritone of masculinity
On the low.

The cello weeps
When played by Du Pre
And with grace it speaks,
When Feuermann plays
Melody in prose.

The cello rejoices
In Tyranny’s fall
It echoes the voices
Of Pablo Casals; other
Orators of sound.

The cello knows not
Whom it is nor of what it speaks.
To the cellist, it is thought;
To be heard an instrument he needs,
And the cello is loud.





                                                                    The Death of Comedy

Doth beauty escape me?
the death of Comedy
the Oedipal tragedy
God has forsaken the funny-men
And a stage-hand has relinquished the spot-light.
Bricks look black by darkness, like nothing at all.
Where are the funny-men now?
They sit in dimly lit basements beneath the world,
where people would once come to laugh.
Sophisms danced like shadows
Of fat men and frilly girls, necks strained
And round bellies undulating with laughter
Against red walls.
Midnight has come and the crowds have gone home,
Leaving the comedian alone, with only shadows.
Not but a comedian once, but also a squire
left with silhouettes
In this hell-ish basement
Where once he could court her,
For he was do dull, and she so bright,
But the two so in sync
That all were honored in their company.
 And they would laugh.

Comedy hath forsook he with all the grace of womanhood,
And there would be no more hunting trips to Africa.
Where once her fair figure fit perfectly in his arms,
He now has not but empty pockets to show.
The man stands spot-lit on stage,
Neurotically flailing a list of accusations.
“The people need a laugh” He’ll say
“He's lost his funny-bone” say they,
But pity be the straighter man who makes claim to understand
the plight of the comedian;
Where the whole world’s a stage,
Fighting females in the ring,
The boo’s  bring him back to his youth.

I can offer you no console, comedian
But know that this happens to all truly funny men;
 The man in the basement bellows at the shadows,
(“You forsook me this and that”)
Fate hath plucked her from he.
Had he been a hero
he’d make this stage his pyre,
Shove a sword through his heart.
But comedians don’t die with dignity;
They go down fighting in the Philippines,
Lingering on fading linoleum,
Gripping the microphone
With good ol’ American tenacity,
While god gives More Shit and More Shit and More.
The comedian knows his place,
Head spinning, Ouroboros in a basement.
Oh Fortuna! To spin his wheel so low,
The light has gone out of my life.

                                                            Prays of Percivals
                                                               Part 2: Martin

God,
Grant me legal immunity.
Grant me emancipation.
Grant me Danish citizenship.
Give me drugs,
To demolish my mind
And dumbbells
To strengthen my body.
Give me women,
So I may live care free.
Give me sunny days,
Give me warm nights,
Give me collect phone calls
To all my favorite friends.
God,
I realize I haven’t done much for you,
But I’ve tried,
And I’ve lived a hard life.
Let me end it in euphoria
So I don’t end it in the night.

                                                                      Part 3: Timmy

Bastard baby that I am
With a disappointing son.
Perhaps all fathers are meant to disappoint their sons,
So that they may learn from our mistakes.
But what, I ask, is the point of sons disappointing fathers?
What merit does this take?
What should I learn from this?
God,
I realize I’m not in your highest of graces,
But I miss my disappointing son.
Give him brains,
Common sense.

                                                                     The Vagabond
                                                           A poem for camping by fireside

Sometimes time is caught by a noose
And all that matters is the dirt on your shoes,
How you wear your sunglasses.
Body and cloths cloaked in smoky perfume,
A smirk by fireside, basking in brassiness.

Libertines thrust lapping tongues at every facade.
Lizard-like, licking lower legs; lustily ablaze,
Ebbed by artifice of gullible irises.
Fear not revels of belly-dancing flame,
Be stoic by fireside and regaled in guilelessness.

So long as flames do lap the underside of your shoe,
So long as wrinkles create concaves in countenance’s scarlet hue,
Fear not spies nor sneaky surprises.
Intrinsic, at last, to know all that’s behind you.
Monk-like in vigil, and pray only to Prometheus.

Sometimes fire is better if you don’t stick your hand in,
And all that matters is soot on your face, a yellow-toothed grin.
Fresh air makes man abort all disguises;
To smile like a reptile, laughing like vermin.
The nature of the man, a beast behind sunglasses.






















 

The Hobo Shuffle

            Old Man Watson had taken a special liking towards the venerable tramp Johnny Belmont, a likewise staple in the Monterey community.  Watson, like the rest of the Monterey citizens, thought Johnny to be a wise soul, though they lacked the knowledge he had never learned to read or write so well.  Despite that he still may have been very wise beyond his years.  There was a cleverness in him that shines in clever people.

            Watson had made his fortune in bean export and owned a sizable house that sat alone on the bluff overlooking the county.  He would buy and drink a cup of coffee with Johnny Belmont every Sunday morning while Johnny would regale him with a grandeur story from his travels as a younger man or some wild-eyed theory of his that always had credibility despite their absurdity; Johnny whole-heartedly believed the two dollar bill would replace the one dollar bill.  Watson relished their time together, and knowing he was an old man getting older, he saw his lawyer about his last will and testament.

            In those days Johnny lived underneath the St. Thomas Bridge where he had a sleeping bag, a pillow, and one change of clothes.  More precisely he slept underneath the St. Thomas Bridge, and lived in the streets, the population his family.  He had taken up a partnership with William Terrace once, but that only lasted until one day Willie was at the library, reading about a fellow who once declared himself Emperor of the United States, and decided he would do the same thing.  So he moved to San Francisco where he declared himself Emperor Norton the second, Imperial Majesty over these United States and Protector of Mexico. He made proclamations often, and would claim that the U.S. Congress was operating illegally. Police officers saluted him and he would review their uniform and tell them if their shoes needed shining; once an officer was fined for not saluting the Emperor. He issued his own currency and it was guarded as legal tender at most establishments.  Emperor Norton II died solemnly in his sleep and has yet to have a successor. 

            Johnny did not lament the end of their relationship.  He was happy for Willie, and happy for himself.  Johnny spent his days sitting on his dock with his feet in the cold water, looking out at the ocean, smiling, while always getting tan.  He had a crate tied to a rope that was tethered to the dock, and he kept the crate filled with beer, safely secured drifting in the water.  He drank beer all day and pulled the crate up anytime he needed another one. It kept them cold and a little salty, and he liked that.  People would go to see him there, sometimes to hear a story, or sometimes to get advice. He would always offer beer, but nobody ever accepted, knowing that his beer was very precious to him.  Sometimes, and though he never asked, they would give him a dollar here and there. He made a big thing of it, until finally he would take it.  They would always tell him “It’s some walkin around money”.

            On the weekends, Dixie, opened up her bedroom, and for five bucks she’d let you spend ten minutes with her and Johnny would sit downstairs and get rid of any of the guys who got rowdy or gave her any trouble.  She gave him two dollars every night for that.  He lived meekly off of this income, because during the week Dixie was a waitress at Shannon’s Place.

            When Johnny had to attend Old Man Watson’s funeral, it was the first time in his life that he was called upon society to wear a suit.  Obviously he couldn’t afford one, so a charity was quickly taken up to get him one.  Then men of Monterey all donated their old ties, trousers, collars, and jackets.  Johnny then had accumulated quite a wardrobe of handsome unfitting tattered suits that he wore and tattered even more to the end of his life.  The funeral was somber. Johnny looked his best, with his hair greased over, and his face cleanly shaved, despite the noticeable and multiple cut marks.  Johnny struggled to keep his tears in, as he said goodbye to his old friend.

            The first time Johnny had been in an office was at the reading of Old Man Watson’s last will and testament.  Johnny had always known lawyers, but always public defenders in courts, never like this.  He was there along with Watson’s distant family. Watson had left to his nieces and nephews his handsome fortune for which they were gravely appreciative of.  And to Johnny he left his property, all of it, the big house on the hill and its furnishings.

            Johnny moved in immediately. He had a home then.  Social Security checks came for the first few months, and Johnny lived off of that, while still pimping for Dixie. When they found out Watson was dead, Johnny started selling some books and records and some old trinkets. Then it was the picture frames and the silverware. After that he started selling the furniture. And when he could no longer pay the gas, electric, and water bills, he sold the stove, appliances, and the bathtub.  Then it was an empty house, and soon to be a verifiable flophouse.

            Soon after that Johnny adjourned down to his dock as he always did, but upon arrival found a strange sight.  It was a young looking Latino fellow lying belly down with his neck hanging over the water, holding a string that fell into the bay. Johnny approached curiously.

            “Hi there, what’s that you got?”

            “A hook at the end of it” he said, “cracked a mussel and used the meat as bait. Haven’t got any nips yet”.  Johnny sat beside him, took off his shoes, and rolled his trousers up.          
            “Mind if I put my feet in?”

            “Shouldn’t do no harm”

            “Names Johnny, Johnny Belmont”

            “They call me LT”

            “What’s it stand for”?

            “I dunno, they never told me”

            “New in town”?

            “Up from Santa Cruz. ‘Fore that clear up by San Diego way”

            “Well I’ll be damned” and Johnny mused for a while as he pulled up his crate of beer, “Would you like one?” he asked.

            And for the first time ever, somebody said ‘yes’ to Johnny’s offer. He was pleased, shocked, and proud all at the same time. He had finally found a drinking partner.

            “You got a place to stay”? Johnny asked.

            “I figured under the bridge”

            “Well I got a house, no beds or nothin, but plenty of room and I bet we could rustle you up a blanket”.

            “That’d be real nice Mr. Bel-“ and then LT jumped up to excitement, lifting his body with one hand and yanking on the string with the other. Finally he proudly looked upon a dying and squirming Cod he brought up that was no bigger than his hand.

            “We’ll have it for dinner!” LT exclaimed.

            “I haven’t got anything to cook it”

            “I’ll figure something” LT said so sure. And then he found a bicycle rack, and took off a grated aluminum basket. With this he made a grill.

            Because there was no running water anymore Johnny did his business in the backyard. And so LT fashioned his makeshift grill in the front yard, by starting a fire underneath the upturned basket. They grilled up the fish and had a fine time of eating it. Johnny and LT got along like that for quite some time. Day by day LT would lie on his belly with that string of his and Johnny sat alongside him with his feet in the water. They didn’t get a fish ever day, and the citizens of Monterey could always tell when they did get dinner, whenever they saw smoke coming up from in front of their flophouse.

            On the weekends, LT accompanied Johnny at Dixie’s place, but Dixie never did take a liking to LT.  If there ever were such a thing as love at first sight, so too is there such thing as hate at first sight, because Dixie despised LT immediately, and seemingly without reason aside from the cut of his jib.

            And then by chance another fellow joined them turning the duo into a trio.  He was sitting at the end of the dock cross-legged eating a corndog.

            “Mind if we join ya?” Johnny asked.

            “Not at all” the young fellow replied. LT lied down next to the kid, and put his string in the water, while Johnny sat on the other side and put his feet in the water. Exchanges were made and they found that his name was Virgil, and that he wanted to come out West and now that he was there he didn’t know what to do, and he told them how he had road the rails all the way there from Missouri after his mother died.

            “Were very sorry to hear that, son”. Johnny said.

            “She was a great lady. Taught me how to play piano”

            “She sounds lovely” LT interjected.

            “Piano, you say?” Johnny inquired.

            “Yeah why?” Virgil asked.

            “I was just thinkin. That place Old Crows has got a piano, and I don’t think it’s been played in nearly twenty odd years”.

            “You think they’d hire me to play”?

            “I think we should go on and find out” Johnny assured. They did hire him to play piano, and coincidentally their busboy had just run off and they picked LT to replace him. From then on their nights were spent at the Old Crow; Johnny would sit by Virgil and listen to his piano, while LT brought them beers that they never paid for. One night Johnny met a girl, and she brought him home, when she went into the bathroom to freshen up, Johnny jumped in the bed and fell to sleep right off.

            In the morning he snuck into the kitchen and looked through her cabinets and found a large can of beans. He put them in his jacket pocket and quietly slipped out. When he returned to the flophouse he was greeted by Virgil and LT, and he proudly displayed the can of beans.

            “That’s the hobo shuffle, baby!” And they all danced like prospectors who just struck gold.

            “Ain’t nothin to it, baby!” LT and Virgil declared.

            “Whoo-eee!” Johnny emitted.

 LT started the fire and cooked the beans. Then the three stood around eating voraciously. Afterwards they all lied down in the sun, and Virgil passed out three cigarettes made from the tobacco in the butts from the bar ash tray and re rolled it with fresh papers. Then they discussed what they’d do with their millions. Virgil would go down to see Hollywood. LT thought he’d buy a ranch, have his family brought up. But Johnny, he would just keep living.

            Those three never did make their millions. They just kept shuffling along, drinking beer at the end of a dock. One lying face down, one cross legged, and one with his feet in the water. Living like goddamn Emperors. 

The Cage

Throughout Charlton County, the locals always took him as the right sort. Above all a successful agriculturalist, a bit too foreign for most people’s tastes, yet, harmless all the same. A dogged worker and clever farmer, clean-shaven and without a disturbing accent, he never made any enemies, nor any friends. Mom showed up at her parents’ doorstep in the fall of 1950 with him at her side and George in her belly. She’d met him during her post-Emory years spent split between Northern California and Mexico City. He semi-acculturated, married, and with brains and sweat he built a small empire outside his wife’s hometown. But he was never the same after the accident. In the years after the accident, while I was still in high school, my brother officially took over the farm. I would rush home everyday to check on them. Dad would usually be outside, pretending to work on something, most often his truck. He’d be lying down under the chassis, blue jeans with bent knees sticking out, everything from the waist up concealed, intermittently sifting through his tool box. A flawless Craftsmen wrench might appear in his left hand, and then disappear, joining his hidden half underneath the truck. He would never exchange one size wrench for a different size. He struggled to control the twitch in his leg. I knew the times when he was trying hardest to listen because that was when he would lay completely still. In those days, around the time I’d finish up with the major household chores and start on our dinner, my brother would come in from the main bee yard, officially named - for our late mother - Queen Delia’s, which by then had been rebuilt much farther away from the house. Sporting the unshaven, ruddy cheeked, red-eyed warpaint of a 24-year-old alcoholic, he’d take a last drag off his butt and flick it behind him, towards the dead Oak tree, as he crossed the lawn on his way to the back-porch steps. Chancing he walks into the kitchen, I’d keep my eyes glued either to the floor or whatever recipe I was preparing. Constant using made his moods seesaw wildly, and I had long since abandoned the idea of predicting them. We won’t talk until he comes down a couple hours later for dinner. Once upon a time, our farm made the most revered High Grade AA Honey out of all the producers in Georgia, but that was before those hilljacks (what my father had called them) from Brushy Mountain Bee Supply sold us sick starter bees the summer I started high school. It was during that summer that mom died. She had grown up in the backwaters of southeast Georgia and northern Florida, inherited that uniquely rural understanding of the wilderness-lite, and had never been afraid of the bees. They could sense fear, she told me once, because I was young, afraid, and wouldn’t go near them. After a life of struggling to be the freest spirit, in the months leading up to her death she became much more withdrawn. She’d meander daily and for hours throughout the pine forest that bordered the west end of our property. She would take flowers from the house into the forest and leave them there. Returning instead with picayune things - winterberries, abandoned toys, rocks. Often, she took them to the side of the lawn where the old White Oak squatted. I’d follow her through my bedroom window as she left the forest and walked towards it, but then I’d lose sight of her, and I’d never ask why. One day, when she was passing through the overgrown grasses of the bee-yard that separate the forest from our house, a snake nipped her ankle. I assumed it was a Coral because they lay coiled, don’t rattle, and can kill. I learned that from some kid in Little League; “red on black, you’re OK jack. Red on yellow, you’re a dead fellow.” My mother worked summers at the Athens YWCA camp when she was in High School.Centuries after, on her more amiable days, she had tried to teach George and me what she’d learned about the woods. One of these lessons involved rattlesnakes. They were liveliest at sundown, especially on hot days. They lurked in tall grass and autumn leaves. They mainly hid-out in the rocks, but also enjoyed stacks of firewood, outhouses, and the shadowy spaces under the bee-hives. If the rattling stops, run. While she explained this to her two boys, her husband sat in a lawn chair, surveying his empire, choking back laughter. “Well boys, they’re everywhere.” Eastern Diamondbacks, Canebrakes, Copperheads, but she never mentioned Coral snakes. To this day I’ve yet to come across one. They have short fangs that wouldn’t have been able to penetrate even the deer-skin moccasins a loosely-related cousin had sent from Oklahoma as a birthday gift the spring before she died. But it was August in 1974 and she was an eighth Cherokee and liked the idea of the morning dew on her bare feet as much as she liked the feel of it. The fangs wouldn’t have gone farther than a wasp’s stinger before retreating silently to its den. Standing in a maze of pulsating bee hives; she must have interpreted it as just another angry sting, and continued on with the monotonous chores of a farmer’s wife, only now with a layer of calamine lotion soothing the initial effects of the venom as it mixed into her bloodstream. I had just started classes that week, and was spending as much time as possible at the high school before leisurely driving the forty-five minutes back to the farm – it was the only time I could ever drive. George and dad had gone to meet with another beekeeper way up in Chatam County that morning. It was an important trip. They went to see if he could offer any ideas as to why our bees weren’t producing any honey so deep into the season. The farmer couldn’t. They returned home. At the time, mom had taken to weaving her dark-brown hair into two long braids. With her body slumped forward on the sofa, they dangled lifeless, between her knees, the gray roots on the crown of her head greeted her husband and first-born as they walked into the curtained parlor that afternoon. She was wearing her finest white cotton dress and she was dead. My mom was a distant descendant of the 19th century Cherokee leader Major Ridge. In the 1830s, Ridge signed treaties with the US government behind the backs of the rest of his people, and his sprawling family built Palladian mansions in the Arkansas River Valley while the rest of the Cherokees cried their way to east Oklahoma. Hence, my dad considered the man “whiter than Brando” and once, during Thanksgiving dinner, thought it timely to refer to as an “Uncle Tomahawk.” After that, he spoke little with his in-laws. His thoroughly white father-in-law had long been using his wife’s legally tenuous claim of “Ridge-blood” (her mother, who lived somewhere in northern Texas, was a blue-eyed half-blooded adopted Cherokee that married and had her only kids by a German widower) to purchase tax-exempt properties throughout the southeast, and thus ardently defended this relation. Our town was small and the service he organized, without my father’s input, was huge. A childhood friend of hers, who had heard of our farm’s recent trouble, pulled me aside during the funeral and told me the problem was that we had mites, “a helluvalotter mites”, and that our bees were displaying “parasitic bee syndrome” and wouldn’t last through the week. I had never been in on the inner-workings of the farm before. When the man gave me his advice, I realized that, by default, I had now taken over my mother’s duties as intermediary between the bee-farm and the normal world. Dad, though respected for his clever and unorthodox methods of bee-farming, had always put on a display that the locals couldn’t, quite, grasp. Aside from the intricacies of beekeeping, in his later years his preferred topics for conversation were the disgraces of Mexican President Luis Echeverria and the ever-worsening illness of Pablo Neruda. In ’72 he sympathized with the George Wallace presidential effort and lamented the ultimate failure of the McGovern campaign - which he supported only after running-mate Thomas Eagleton’s history of electroshock therapy broke national headlines, and subsequently led to his admitting of being on the powerful anti-psychotic ‘Thorazine’ for the bulk of his public appearances. In the end, dad designated Governor Carter (whom he hated) as the one responsible for blowing the election for the Democrats – farming and politicking should be mutually exclusive. He spent the winter of ‘73 arguing with mom’s friends that Atlanta Brave right-fielder Hank Aaron’s impending pass of Ruth on the home run list “didn’t matter”. The previous spring he had claimed that Nierko’s knuckleball wasn’t a legal pitch, but, nevertheless, put George in the batter’s box and he’d get a hit at least three out of every ten at-bats. My brother, two seasons a forgettable relief pitcher for the Charlton County High School varsity team, returned home from the war with an honorable discharge and an astonishing Dexedrine addiction. On a weekly basis, he would stroll out of the town’s only Food King pushing a shopping cart, at capacity, yet stocked only with bagged rice, discount liquor, Bugler rolling papers and fresh “piña.” Once that started, the locals considered him suspicious. Standing there, sweating in the cemetery, the notion of my new interminable responsibility as cultural translator between the remnants of my family and the townspeople whose business we depended on made my stomach turn. I studied the ground while listening to mom’s old friend remind me twice to tell my father (who he was spying out of the corner of his eyes while talking at me) what he had just told me. Being that at the time I was bereaved and new to the family honey operation – up to his death dad would refer to me as a “bee-haver” rather than a beekeeper - I did not argue with the old friend, and waited for the casket to be fully lowered before passing on the ill news to my father. He and George stood together, apart from the rest of the attendees. My brother sipped at his flask, never permitting it to rest lower than his pearl-snap shirt pocket, and dad puffed a hand-rolled cigarette. They griped in unenthusiastic Spanish to each other out of the corners of their mouths while staring at Mom’s white headstone. A procession into town for an extravagant reception was up next. Mom’s dad was giving a speech. Her distant cousin couldn’t afford the Greyhound ride from Oklahoma. Neither of them looked up as I approached. I passed on the theory to dad. Without hesitation he called mom’s old friend a shit-for-brains, and, with a glance, inaudibly alerted my brother that we would not be taking in the reception. We made for the parking lot, dad marching ahead on a route that left a twenty foot buffer zone between us and the others. George took two pulls off his flask, reached into the open window of the truck, and popped open the door from the inside. I climbed in the middle and pulled up the passenger door lock. George sat down at my left and dad squeezed in on my right and cranked down his window. He took up most of my legroom while my brother took one more slug of Kentucky Dale, set the flask accessibly on the sun-bleached dashboard, and grappled with the sticky floor shifter as the truck roared to life. Its bald tires sprayed crushed gravel as George reversed out of our spot, then turned, and shifted into first before tearing out of the dusty lot, his flask flying from left to right across the dashboard and out the window while all the pale-skinned attendees stared on, mortified, from behind the chain link cemetery fence. “No, no, look! Esto es pura mierda! They’re shitting everywhere! Look!” Dad pointed out when we got back to the main bee yard. And they were, yellow-brown fuzz-balls slithering atop one another in throbbing heaps, leaving trails of amber ooze in their wake. The three of us, in sweaty white wife-beaters and black dress pants, stood there silent, peering down into our original hive, La Prima Guerrera, as my dad once called it. In hindsight they were both right. The malignant bees from North Carolina had somehow contracted dysentery and remained a desirable host for a certain new breed of parasite. Most of the bees shit themselves to death within days of showing symptoms, those that were to live had already flown off; the mites took their place in the stained pine-wood insect coffins. I think the technical word now used for what we witnessed going on inside of Senora Guerrera that day is “colony collapse disorder”. In that afternoon’s fading sunlight we took stock of our losses. We were nearly ruined. All of our bees were lost. Their 23 hives, filthy in their own right, now harbored some strange unseen North Carolinian disease, and needed to be replaced. Mom was dead and so were the bees and even my father – who, unbeknownst to me at the time, was already beginning to show signs of the upcoming lunacy which would precede the loss of his memory – realized that this day was going to change us forever. Speaking in his native tongue, he told his two green-eyed sons, “una reina fuerte es neccesaria para sobrevivir,” a strong queen is necessary for survival. That night I woke up to the smell of wood-smoke. Looking out the open bedroom window, a plume rose from the direction of the main yard. I ran to my brother’s room. It sounded like a .50 cal when I charged through the doorway and he shot up with a howl but it took several explanations for him to comprehend that I was concerned that the farm was going to burn down and that we needed to check on the hives! He hacked, used the palms of his hands to itch his eyes, and muttered that he’d meet me outside. I ran down to wake dad but his bed was made and he wasn’t there. Once down the back porch steps, an orange glow became increasingly apparent in the distance. Sprinting up, I could see a shadow prancing amid the hives, which jutted three feet out of the ground like burning stakes. He etched flaming riverbeds through the dry grass with a canister of gasoline. I yelled out to him and he turned to face me. Roaring hives spit and hissed around him and dense smoke fed into the humid night. In the glare of the fire his sweaty face was drawn deep crimson, the creases and wrinkles camouflaged by the churning inferno. In that moment, he reminded me of a photograph mom had shown me after walking in on her going through old photo-albums just before she died. Black and white, he stood alone, wearing a shabby suit, inside a small train station, a sign above locating him in ‘Miqihuana, Tamaulipas.’ Now, trapped in a circle of chest-high flames, he hollered out something in feverish Spanish, but all I could translate was ‘serpiente.’ I stared at him while he continued his ghost-dance; thirsty flames began to lick at his pant legs. Drenched with cold fear, all I managed was another yell. Panic was suddenly branded onto his face. An animal shriek, but I remained frozen, and a heart pounded through a feeble chest. Dad was burning alive. Then came a war-beat; thundering hell-bent through the cruel grasses behind me and whooping bare-chested into the fire. I rushed to the other side of the circle and saw fumes rising off their bodies. Dad’s pant legs were, in some places, undecipherable from his blackened skin and still sizzling. George picked him up and didn’t look at me. He bounded into the night, towards the house, with dad, wailing obscenities, cradled in his tattooed arms. It was dawn when George and I returned home from the hospital. The hives still smoldered, the oak tree still stood in its corner of the lawn, the tree-house still perched in its branches. My dad had built it for us when I was still young and George was a teenager. In the years before George left for the war, mom would lock us out of the house while trying in vain to finish her dissertation. Sometimes dad ended up bringing out sleeping bags. I picked up the metal canister of gasoline, climbed the ladder to the tree house, and stuck my head in for the first time in years. Now I saw my mother’s fate; hundreds of rocks, piled up to four feet high against the far wall, sloping down to a square foot of naked floor directly in front of me. Antediluvian cobwebs filled the dark recesses of the plywood cage. I poured the rest of the gasoline on the bare patch of floor. George stood below me. “Light.” I demanded. Taken aback, he paused, squinted at me, took a last drag off his cigarette, and passed it up, then backed away. I threw it in and jumped off the ladder. We watched our tree-house burn as the sun rose over the farm. During his stay at the hospital (his burns turned out to be surprisingly minor) his doctor - we had last seen him when they came to take mom’s body - discovered the brain tumors. I was shocked. George wasn’t. He told me I’d just never noticed, but dad had been getting crazier for months, if not years. Mom had known it too. That’s why she had started “sorting through all her old shit” and “trying to plan that trip to Oklahoma that the old man refused to go on.” We brought him home after two days. His brain condition must have worsened because of the accident. He hardly spoke during the drive, and what would I say? We got to the house and he limped painfully towards the charred boneyard. I tried to help him, he refused. Our feet whispered along in the tracks he made in the Georgia grass, through the burnt down bee yard and into the sparse pine forest beyond. Two hundred yards into the forest we must have walked. I tried to speak but was promptly shushed. Then he stopped, and while standing completely still, his ears pricked up. “Vamonos.” We continued on for a few minutes before dad motioned for us to stop again. He pointed to a tree branch thirty yards ahead. He hobbled toward it and we followed. A long brown appendage dangled off the branch. Closer to it, I began to hear a low droning noise. From ten feet away, our lost bees materialized. Directly under the swarm sat a damp, knee-high mound of dying flowers, a white-paper note pinned down at its base. George and I went back to the farm to get supplies needed to trap the swarm. Swarming had occurred before, but, on the rare occasions when one of our hives absconded from the farm, they might gather together dozens of miles away, and we would get a call from an angry father and/or husband, but they would always have fled again by the time we got there. They had never gathered on the edge of our property, and never in such a large group. Just over four years later, while at Food King with George, I saw mom’s childhood friend from the funeral. He was leery of George and wanted to avoid us, but, he had proven to know his bee-farming, and I wanted to tell him the story about that swarm’s odd behavior. I caught his attention and didn’t look away while walking up to him. “Well, damn. I’m not sure, you know. In the springtime they might go n’ congregate around a blossoming. But, I don’t recall the weather bein’ right for a second flowering that summer. That is strange.” His eyes darted anxiously avoiding George’s stare, then he perked up. “Hey! The only thing that’ll settle a swarm might be if they come across wood-smoke, that’s what I use to calm ‘em down. But… Sebastian should know that.” He suggested condescendingly before adding, “Ask your old man, he’ll agree - if he’s still got the feel for it that is - yellow pine works best!” I thanked him. He eyeballed our cart, then offered me a noticeably less enthusiastic “you take care of yourself now” before bumbling away down the produce aisle. “That crippled old bastard done lost the feelin’ a while ago” George deadpanned as he reached into a fruit crate. The man pretended not to hear and quickly turned the corner. My brother dug up a ripe pineapple. He had been up all night and I wasn’t sure if he had been addressing mom’s friend, me, or the fruit. Our eyes met and he smirked and I keeled over with laughter. I drove the old pickup home, it was hot out, an Indian summer, and as the battered frame rattled down the highway the engine purred like brand new. George smoked rollies and told me about a nurse he met in Saigon. She was from Nebraska, or Newark. “Fuckin a, man,” he grinned and exhaled, out of the open window, and into the passing dusk. PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 1

The Krewe de Thone: Chapter One

As I opened the front door, a crisp, cold air swept by me. It was February in New Orleans which meant while most parts of the country were still white with winter snow, the southeast region was in full bloom of green, purple and gold. 

I stood in the doorway and focused my attention on my front yard. My mom, walking her usual one hundred miles per hour while Linda, the event planner, practically behind her trying to keep up. Linda, or Aunt Linda, as I called her, was my mothers sidekick. During the prime times of Mardi Gras I saw her more than my own father. My mother served as the brains of the operations while Aunt Linda the arms. She made all of my mothers Mardi Gras fantasies come alive every year. 

I watched the packed St. Charles streetcar pass in the distance and wondered what it would be like to be a tourist. 

My mom caught my eye again, still ring leading the circus which had appeared overnight in our front yard. Black and white dance floors constructed under several white event tents had taken over the grass. I observed the landscapers, florists, and decorators perfecting every detail. The event taking place tonight was not a circus but the annual Krewe de Thone Mardi Gras Ball. 

The Krewe de Thone, founded by great grandpa, has stayed within the family ever since. The tradition kept alive by continuing to host the notorious Krewe de Thone Mardi Gras Ball, always hosted on the Saturday before the Krewe parades through the city. Krewe de Thone does not fall short of the characterization of New Orleans, a city that swears by tradition.

I kept my distance as my mother and her troupe scrambled through the yard. The transformation always bewildered me. Each year seemed to hold more spectacles than the previous year. 

My mother amazed me. She had married into this lifestyle, the Mardi Gras lifestyle. Most people go through the year with some set dates on the calendar: birthdays, anniversaries, religious holidays. But in this house, Mardi Gras was not just an event which my mother could write on the calendar next to a star. The depths to which she was responsible for the Krewe caused her the early abandonment of her career as an accountant. It was obvious that she loved my father enough to make his priorities her own. I had always believed that love was her motive in marrying my father. 

My father, William Pennington IV, had been born into wealth. It was his great-grandfather, William Pennington, who had controlled the oil industry on the south side of the Mississippi. The wealth that he acquired from this industry gave him enough money to live comfortably and play even more comfortably. So he did what any good and loyal New Orleanian would do, he started a Mardi Gras Krewe. Named Thone after his wife’s maiden name. Therefore, my father was something of a local celebrity which my mother had no problem marrying into. My mother was no rags to riches story, however. She came from money too but her circumstances were different. Her lineage did not lie in the oil industry but in the cargo industry. The two were introduced by their families on a blind date. The rest is history. 

I walked into the kitchen where three chefs were cooking up a storm of authentic Cajun food. The appetizers, soups, entrees, and desserts were all being prepared under the orders of Chef Scott. 

Chef Scott was even older than my parents. He no longer cooked but he led the team of chefs. I was hungry for lunch, and had set out to find the Chef in the hopes of something more than a sandwich.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and quickly turned around but no one was there. An old, wrinkly, and familiar face popped out in front of me. 

“Chef Scott!” 

“How are you, precious? You look hungry! Oh, I know just the thing for a growing girl like you,” he said. 

He was like my grandpa although his age remained a mystery to all. If I had to guess, I would say eighty, maybe seventy?

“Cajun Shrimp Creole, ma’am. It is the very best thing we have on the menu tonight.”

“Oh my! Mr. Scott this looks delicious! Thank you.” 

“Of course sweetheart,” he said. “Take as much as your little heart desires.”

After savoring every bite, I met eyes with the clock and realized it was already time to start getting ready for the ball night. I said I quick prayer that I would still fit in my dress though I had just ate my weight in shrimp.  

As I walked over to the sink to dispose of my plate, I looked outside the window and onto the lawn. Half of the crew was still out there working but the yard looked amazing. I looked quickly for my mom and Aunt Linda but they were nowhere to be seen. 

I noticed a few tourists standing near the front gate that faced St. Charles. They were snapping pictures on their iPhones of the elaborate scene. Good idea, I thought. I ran to the third floor balcony to get an aerial shot of the yard. “Getting ready for the Krewe de Thone Ball!” I put as the caption and then pressed enter. My phone buzzed in my hand and I looked down at the notifications: “1 like”, “1 comment.” I pressed the comment notification, and then read, “Ryan Guidry commented: See you soon!”

Ryan Guidry had just moved to New Orleans from Seattle and was a complete alien. He was fair-skinned with ungodly blue eyes. For a while, our only interaction was the fact that he sat behind me in Calculus but then when he joined Debate Team, I made it my priority to understand his kind. He was surprisingly down to earth despite his good looks. When I heard this was his first Mardi Gras Ball, I invited him on a whim, almost more as a kind gesture, for sure thinking that he would refuse the invitation, but he surprisingly did not. 

Shit! I yelled out loud as I looked down at the time. The time had already approached to start getting ready for the ball. I ran downstairs and saw that my room was already occupied by a small group of women, my ball primping squad. 

Two hours later, I stood in the mirror and surveyed the work. I seemed to be missing my final touch, my crown. After turning my room upside down trying to find it, I remembered that my mom had been letting the glue dry. 

Down the hallway, I peered outside the window to see the yard already occupied. Dusk creeped in as the lawn was already began to crowd. I looked around to see if I recognized any of the bodies since all the guests had masks on. My spying was interrupted by loud screaming. It didn’t take me long to realize that the screaming was coming from behind my parents closed door at the end of the hall. This did not come as a surprise to me. 

As much as I loved my father, he had the temper of a raging bull. Anything could set him off, and the time it took for him to regain his cool was quite dramatic. Once before a ball, he had been so angered by that he threw a chair out the window. Luckily, through our back window, and it landed in our neighbor’s pool who were attending our ball in the lawn. My father had the security go pick it up while our neighbors were occupied in our front yard. 

My thoughts suddenly interrupted as my mother emerged from the room. 

“Where’s your crown? Kendell! Stop spying on the guests and finish getting ready, for Christ’s sake! You have a problem with watching people. Go get yourself ready! We are being presented in ten minutes.” 

“Mom, you took my mask and I can’t find it!” I snarked back. 

“It’s on the dining room tables downstairs. Hurry, go get it and make sure all the glue is dry now.” 

As I walked into the living room, I heard noises coming from the basement. Were my parents really having the workers stay this long on a Saturday night? Their desire for perfection sometimes astounded me.  

The remodeling of the basement had been my parents latest project. Since the whole town is below sea level, it is rare to find a basement in New Orleans. Therefore, my parents took much pride in their restoration project. 

Though you could never tell now, our house was one of the original houses on St. Charles. The house first belonged to my great great grandfather Pennigton who had it then willed it for future generations to inherit. Over the years, much reconstruction has taken place as each family adds their own touch.

Just as I found my crown, I heard my parents coming down the stairs. 

“Hi, sweetie. You look beautiful,” my dad said and hugged me. 

I could hear the party outside, the jazz band and the voices of people. Someone came on the microphone and the noise began the simmer down. 

“Ladies and and gentleman, your Krewe of Thones royalty.” We walked out from our large front doors, the perfect royal family.

I became immediately intoxicated by the sights, sounds, and smells. I stood there with my parents as people came and greeted us. Masked member after masked member shook hands the hand of my father and then kissed the hand of my mother and I. 

Three huge tents each housed either the bar, the food or the dance floor. At this point, the bar tent was the most crowded.  However, the progression between the three was more than predictable. Everyone always started at the bar. In a city known for its alcohol consumption, these partiers did not disappoint. As the drinking led to dancing, I observed the progression as the members were now taking over the dance floor. 

Two kinds of members make up a Mardi Gras Krewe; the members and the riding members. Riding members must pay double the dues which allows them to ride on the float during the parade. The journey of becoming a regular member to a riding member does not simply stop at the payment of dues. The Krewe has a ritual in which each member must participate in to complete their transition. As the biggest secret in the Krewe, the ritual is performed in private, in the presence of the King and Queen only. The time was approaching for the ritual to begin. 

The announcement was made for all new riding members to gather before the crowd. They were led by the King and Queen into the house. Each year at the ball, regular members that have progressed to become a riding member for the first time wear matching masks for their announcement. Previous to the ball, no one knows who has made the switch. The ball is a coming out of sorts. There were four members in the masks all lined up. I struggled to recognize them at first. Aunt Linda the event planner, Ron the landscaper, and Chef Scott? Who was the last one though? Ryan? But they filed into the house too quickly to ask. 

Most of the guests were highly intoxicated at this point.  One hour later, I watched as one by one each new rider entered into a party with excitement though, only three had returned. Where was the fourth? I decided to go investigate. The front doors were locked. I snuck around the side of the house to enter in through the back door. I heard the same noises coming from the basement that I had earlier. I walked over to the basement window. 

I recognized the profiles of my parents, still dressed in their royalty attire. What were they leaning over? It appeared to be a body bag. With closer inspection I realized there was a body inside. Was it dead? Who was it? I tried to see as my father zipped up the bag but the only thing I saw before it zipped was a mask, the mask of a new rider. 

As my brain began to comprehend the situation, my parents eyes met mine at the window.