Dirty South

58

A knock on the warehouse door before 10 A.M. better mean something important. People have their summer rituals and for me it was about 9, a big bowl of Cap’n Crunch, and then maybe a Josie and the Pussycats marathon or some reruns of the Banana Splits. I knew someone had to be kidding by breaking the sacred tradition. I yawned, punched the intercom at the street, and politely asked, “It’s cartoon time. What?”

“Old School, let me up.”

I held the button there for a moment, trying to think of something to say and not coming up with shit. I buzzed him up anyway and flicked on the bank of industrial switches lighting up the warehouse.

The power brought to life my stereo, caught on WWOZ, and some late-morning zydeco. Good ole Boozoo Chavis.

Annie padded her way into the kitchen and bit at my hand.

She yawned, thrusting out her long boxer legs and her butt in the air. I scratched her ears and tugged my way into some 501s and a white T.

Alias bounded into the warehouse, holding a box of Krispy Kreme donuts and a gallon of milk. “Come on,” he said. “Eat up. We got work to do.”

I started to make coffee, doubling the dose of chicory into the old blue speckled pot and laying it onto the burner.

“Oh, yeah,” I said. “What’s that?”

“Had a visitor last night.”

I yawned.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That man you chased down from JoJo’s bar.”

Big fat ceramic Christmas lights burned red, green, and blue over a little tin overhang that ran from my far wall over my stove and old GE refrigerator. The warehouse felt safe and solid.

“You never saw him.”

“Ain’t that many people with yellow eyes. Had that raggedy-ass brown coat too. Just like you said.”

The coffee began to hiss a little, still not perking. I reached under the sink and pulled out a bag of trash, tying it tight. I hooked Annie on her leash with one hand and grabbed the trash in the other, making my way down to the street.

I left the trash on my stoop and kept on walking barefoot down Julia Street.

ALIAS followed. Annie sniffed the ground.

I heard him still talking behind me.

The morning light was clean and bright. A light blue sky, small wispy clouds. I thought about heading down to the restaurant supply place with JoJo. And we needed a new neon sign. We needed that bad before we opened. Blue cursive letters.

“Ain’t you listenin’, jackass?”

I turned. Annie squatted on moss growing on some old bricks.

I stared at him.

He smiled a gold smile. I kept staring.

“He wasn’t alone, neither,” he said.

“Fred Flintstone was riding shotgun.”

“Hey, man. Fuck you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have time for this.”

I walked Annie across the road, fishing into my jeans for a pack of cigarettes and lit one, walking slow back to the warehouse. Some asshole had smashed a blue bottle of vodka on the street and I wished I’d worn shoes.

He stood by my small blue door. His hands crossed over his chest while he leaned back into the old red brick. A red baseball hat with a Japanese character for an insignia. The streetcar clanged way down on St. Charles. I looked at my watch.

ALIAS’s eyes narrowed, his face falling into the shadow of the street. He would not look me in the eye.

“Come get your donuts,” I said. “I’ll take you back. How’d you get here anyway?”

Annie tugged at my leash and I let her run on through the door and up the steps.

“Took a cab,” he said. “You eat ’em, Travers.”

“Hey, you don’t have to be like that.”

“Do what you like.”

He turned away.

I smiled at the ground. “Who was it?”

He got maybe ten yards down the street and turned back, staring into the sun. His feet pigeon-toed. “What?”

“Who was with freak?”

His mouth grew crooked. “Does it matter?”

“Who?”

“Dio.”

“He’s dead, you know.”

He nodded, still squinting at me. “Yeah.”

“Go home, ALIAS,” I said.