Ramikins-Slammikins at the Neutral Ground
by Marci Davis

I am late, snarled in a traffic jam. Don't these people know there's a gas shortage? But that's the least of my problems. Right now my main concern's picking Quatro up from day care. Pay them enough; they should be able to hold my kid an extra half an hour, every now and again, without a king's ransom. Big Easy, right? Day-to-day details peck the heart right out of a man.

Pull up to the school, and there's no parking. Circle twice before a woman in a white Bronco, one hand on the wheel and the other bracing her cell phone decides whether to talk it or rocket.

I run into the classroom, bright with craft art and primary-colored miniature tables and chairs.

Quatro grins when he sees me, baring every little white tooth, his huge brown eyes lighting up. "My man," I say, extending my hand, fingers curled. Quatro brings his own fist to meet mine. We bump knuckles and he giggles. Love that boy.
Ms. Fletch can't stay too mad in the face of Soulet charm… I hope. I explain about traffic.

"Mr. Soulet," she sighs. "This makes the third time this month that you've been late picking Shelby up after school. Now, I don't mind, and if it were up to me-- but it's not… The principle takes a dim view of tardiness…." she stops. What else is there to say?

I want to shout in frustration because we both know that she's right. I want to protest that I'm doing the best that I can. Promise to do better in the future. Complain that I can't be two places at once. I want to drop to the floor at her slender, high-arched feet and hug the blue sling-backs she's got on.

But you cut one parent some slack, then you've got to cut another, and soon, oh, hell, soon you've got fathers looking at pretty teachers and thinking, They didn't make them like that in my day.

Her shoulder-length hair curls up in tendrils; her pedicured toenails are painted pink. Rose petal toes.

But hot or not, I can't tolerate much more turbulence and I'm not in the mood for a lecture. I feel like a tropical storm's brewing down in my soul; I could go out of control, blow off course, do damage.

"Here as soon as I could. Rush hour Uptown. Parking's near impossible, ma'am."

"Mr. Soulet, I know that things have been difficult." Halfway between scolding and commiseration. Tone says: Take me seriously. She wants to sympathize -- but not too much. A young woman, she has plans. I shouldn't mistake her gentleness for laxity.

I admire her beauty. Sleek, smooth, and sinewy. Skin so tight I can see her pulse jump at the tender hollow of her throat, summer dress of flowers flows over the hills and valleys of a man's desire.

She opens her full lips, "I'm sorry for your loss," she says.

I look over her shoulder, out the window. Posse of boys on bikes, ten, twelve years old, rides under my gaze. Won't be long before they're into cars and girls. So much changes in a couple years. Or eleven months. It's been eleven months since we lost Michelle. I feel tired. Rub my hand over the back of my neck; feel smooth skin of shaved scalp as my hand traverses the back of my skull. A self-comforting gesture, a tell that I'm tired or stressed. Or both. "Won't be late again," I say.

"Perhaps you might want to consider carpooling with another parent?"

People are so quick to offer solutions. Can't stand discomfort. Their own, mainly. Advice comes fast and furiously. Lately a lot more has been coming my way. Knee deep in commiseration. Weren't so hot, I'd wear boots.

"Won't be late again," I say.

She slips her hand into the flowered pocket of her pretty summer dress. Pocket so close to her hip. Body a plentitude that could comfort a man. I know that hand's carrying a ring. Slender band. Some man's waiting on her. Well, good for him.

"There's more," she tells me.

"I'll look into that carpool," I say.

Her hand slips out of the pocket. I marvel at the delicate bones of her wrist. Her fingers uncurl. In the center of her hand, nestled between the lines of her palm the fortune tellers say foretell of life and love, lays a golden heart-shaped locket embedded with a diamond dangling from a delicate golden chain. In its unfamiliar context, takes me a moment to realize I'm seeing Michelle's third-year wedding anniversary present in Ms. Fletcher's hand.

Memories cut through my mind: Consulting with the jeweler; asking Michelle's sister's opinion, which -- trust me -- is never far from the surface; the look on Michelle's face; how it glistened that night when she wore it.

"Other kids bring an apple," Ms. Fletcher says, her voice snapping me back to a room with knee high tables. She places the necklace in my hand.

"I…." I don't finish. Hell, I don't know what I mean. Just that one word. One letter. Pronoun. Claim. Boast. Beg. What? I won't be late, fuck up, watch (impressed and often overwhelmed) as the forces of my life spin on -- and sometimes out of control. I'm ready to promise. What? That I won't be late? Hook up with a Rick's Cabaret dancer? Meltdown a nuclear family? Keep Michelle's stuff in the closet instead of taking it to the church thrift shop like everyone's been suggesting. Like an exorcism. A cauterization. Get rid of her dresses and books, lotions and perfume and it'll be easier. Closure. As if it was that easy. I thought it'd work, I'd set the house to charred timber.

"Quatro's so cute. I think it's a teacher crush," she casts her eyes downward. "Students are so tender-hearted at that age."

Don't you know, I wonder, Don't you know that it never stops? We're always in love and wanting to give away our treasures.

"I'll talk to Quatro," I say.

She smiles at me. Shows a gold tooth at the side of her mouth. "Be easy on him, his intentions are good."

"Don't you worry; I know how to deal with him."

She reaches out, fingers squeezing just above my tricept. Lord, how long has it been since I've felt a soft hand on my arm?

This is pathetic. It's my kid's married pre-school teacher who's young enough to be my…little sister. I want to hand her the locket back, she's so pretty and nice. She smells good, too. Like lavender soap and clean sweat. All the Soulet men want to give Ms. Fletcher a golden heart.

Down, Dawg, I chastise myself. Quatro is five years old. His excuse is that he has no idea how men and women come together. I'm thirty-eight. My excuse is that I know exactly how men and women come together.

Paradoxically, I mourn for one woman, yet yearn for all women.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says. Formula. Incantation. Call.

"Thank you," I say. Response.

Cry and echo.

What will take the edge off a day that has stress at one end, rushing in the middle, and the anticipation of a long, lonesome night is a dose of creature comfort. Food. I'm thinking steak dinner. T-bone. Baked potato, side salad of baby greens with chipotle dressing, slices of sweet jalapeño cornbread take butter onto themselves like a penitent to the pond.

New Orleans, legend and destination, does some things exquisitely. Play the horn make Gabriel dance. Construct King Cakes to perfection (levees 'nother story). Subterranean crypts and politics. We're passionate brawlers and relentless lovers. And we invented jazz.
My black Beamer rolls down the boulevard. I push a button and the power windows slide down. Quatro leans into the breeze, his face bright. I ask him, as I do every day after school, "So, how'd it go today, Buddy? You teach your teachers anything?" He laughs. My best audience.

"I like Ms. Fletcher," he says.

Yeah, I think. Neat and petite. Polite as pie and twice as sweet.

"She likes you too?" I ask.

"I'm going to marry her when I grow up." He can barely see out the window, but at that age the future looks so clear. I suck in my breath. He went through a period when his mother was really ill when he sealed himself off. Teddy bear that'd had pride of place was relegated to the closet. When I asked why he moved Tula the Bear, he said he'd be safer. Against what I asked? Safer was all he'd say, afraid of loving even a bit of fluff… Oh hell, I felt so bad.

But we're making it. Striving and surviving.

Two Soulet men: me and the fourth Shelby Soulet. Quatro. Didn't want to do the junior thing. Way I see it (this is first-hand knowledge), inherited names are excellent for lineage and identity; they're not so hot for individuality. To get the best of both worlds, in formal settings he's Shelby Soulet IV, informal, he answers to Quatro. An amalgamation Michelle and I came up with that combines the Spanish "Cuartro," four, and le garcon du quartier. His older cousin's tease it's argot for Quarter Rat.

"Hungry?" I ask. He shrugs. I want to shrug, too. But the small daily chores are what define us during this period of free fall. There's the carapace of family and friends -- community. Church. Social club. My work at the bank, which I've been at for so long that I can do it left-handed and in my sleep. But weren't for Quatro, don't know I'd put one foot in front of the other.

I'm thinking this, then my thoughts drift. I'm pondering ordering a demi carafe of red. I'm debating with myself whether a digestive counts as a drink, or is part of a well-balanced meal. Considering if I get the bread pudding a la whisky sauce, and chicory coffee, black to wash it down with, then I'll have just a piece of fruit for breakfast because my grief's added a layer of padding to my frame, a good twenty pounds cushioning me from the world. The idea of fruit for breakfast isn't because of vanity. All right it is vanity, but I don't want to look like the Michelin Man.

Bang! Sound like a bullet, and the car fishtails. My right hand goes instinctively braces Quatro, although he's buckled in tight. Like my hand's going to save him if we go from 45 to 0 in no seconds flat. Even though I should have both hands at ten and two.

What's there to say about a blow out? It seems to change the physics of time. The crash takes forever to happen. Yet the impact's immediate. Burnt rubber peels against the road as the right tire runs to the bare rim, skidmarks on the road define our trajectory. Car's spinning, I'm fighting the wheel, pounding the brakes. The car kisses a light pole on the blow-out side and sparks shoot out. We bounces once and come to rest at the curb, left tire nuzzling the neutral ground, that extra wide strip of green grass rimmed by a concrete apron that bisects major avenues -- what some folks call a traffic island and others a roadway medium. New Orleans, we have our own way of doing things. That patch of soil dead-center of the boulevard where we plant ourselves during parades, pow-wows, and second lines is the neutral ground.

Miraculously, there's no other car when the Beamer stops it's wayward trajectory.

First thing I do is check out Quatro. "Son, you okay?" I ask. He's shocked into silence. His eyes are huge, pupils dilated. He puts his thumb in his mouth. Gently, I massage his shoulder. "Good," I say -- hope and pray.

There are no atheists in blowouts. Least not in this car. I bow my head, close my eyes and silently give praise.

A voice cuts through the humid heat, piercing my thoughts. "Hey there!" Even with my head bowed, I can tell things: Young. White. Unnerved.

This guy's standing by the crumpled hood of my ride. I wait for him to ask if we're okay. Everyone in the city has a cell phone. I expect him to flip his on, dial the 911. I'll reassure him, call AAA, and soon, I hope, we'll be on our way.

The guy's a tall, lanky, redheaded Goth. Damn, but this town's lousy with vampire manqués. Kids who read Anne Rice and Poppy Z. Brite and that Revenge of the Fat White Vampire dude. Kids with enough imagination to be bored by everyday existence, their lives in Meterie or Slidell, but not enough to create their own ideology.

Band together and every day's a costume party. Come into the bank all my work day long. Make a deposit with dollars still damp from the wood of ancient bar counters it's usually to cover a rubber checks, overdrawn penalties, and late fees. Superpowers? Most these Goth babies can't balance a checkbook!

This particular specimen's straight from the factory, no frills, right outta the box: Black Doc Martins, bondage pants, second-hand, none-too clean white tux shirt three size too large, black coat dripping cheap studding, purple-tinted glasses, ropes of silver -- including the requisite crucifix.

How these people picture themselves imaginative is beyond me. Only thing original is his hair: deep auburn, pomaded back from a wide forehead like a '50s matinee idol.

"What the hell is your problem?" The guy says.

"What is your problem?" I say.

"You damn near killed me!" he replies.

I try to open my door, but it's jammed shut. I lean over Quatro and try the door on his side. Mercifully, it opens, and I slide out. Then, I'm up in the guy's face.

My heart's pounding. I can smell the sweat under my armpits. I disassociate. It's like I'm outside myself -- the better angel of my nature looking over my shoulder saying, "Shelby, old man, don't do it. Breathe, breathe. Calm down. Wait for your heartbeat to slow. Nothing you're going to say that a moment's thought won't improve." I know this is true, the right thing to do. I feel like a shade of myself. A shade. Wonder, if only for a few seconds, if I died. Push that thought aside.

I yell, "Yeah! I had a blow out on purpose, just to mess with your shitty day!" Maybe it's the adrenaline, or testosterone, or an odd effect to mourning no one warned me about (or if they did, I hadn't listened) but I feel an irrational, stone-cold, rage. Could be the crash cracked the boundaries of my self-control, sort of an emotional whiplash.

"You see I got a kid in the front seat? It occur to you to see we're okay? Phone for help? The trouble with you is that you think everything's a joke. Too cool to care, aren't you?" I shake my head in disgust. "You're some piece of work, you really are, man…" I spit on the ground at his feet.

Now that startled me. Haven't spat in public since I was eight years old and my Auntie Wilma told me it wasn't a nice thing to do; I was a nice little boy, so I shouldn't expectorate. That's what she called it. Didn't know what expectorate meant, but I promised. Time I discovered I'd sworn not to spit in the street, I was stuck. Maybe I'm so angry that leaving evidence my displeasure in one string of saliva expressive the animal emotions arising from my primate brain. I go from thirty-eight to an animal state. Hell, next I'd split like an ameba. But damn, it felt good! So I did it again. The departing spittle left a bitter but satisfying taste in my mouth.

"You and your passenger all right?" the guy asks. His voice is surprisingly soft.

"What does it look like, Einstein?" I wonder if the kid's on drugs. Bad medicine and too much alcohol -- liquescence and vapors in this City, like the river, and fog and lakes that rim this land of Evangeline. Make folks talk in tongues, converse with their own anuses or invisible air spirits.

Kid turns his head in my direction and makes a sound that could be a bark or a laugh. "You see my cane?" His slender hand holds the splintered top part of a white cane. He throws it to the ground.

I look back to my car. A red-tipped white stick juts from under my front right wheel. The rage I'd just felt is followed by a blowback of self-disgust. There might be things make a man feel lower than running over a white cane, but right now I'm at a loss to think of them. It'd help if the guy got angry.

The adrenaline in my stomach turns to bile. Breathe deep. I've been breathing of late; that conscious, from the diaphragm breathing. Now I go gangbusters. Hyper-ventilate. Gotta force my breathing to slow. I got damage control to take care of, and the ride's the least of it. I ask the Goth to give me a minute to call AAA, and then we can talk.

I slip into the front seat, crawling over Quatro and give the triple AAA a shout out on my cell. Outline and location, and they're on it.

I kiss Quatro on the top of his head. "Son, you good?" He nods. He's frightened, but he's fine. "Quatro, I'm gonna go talk to that man. I'll be right here, just a few steps. Holler and I'll be right to you, okay?" He nods. He's the best.

The guy's standing by the front of the car, one hand stroking the rumpled hood. A polite Goth's disorientating. A blind one that I've come close to creaming's something else entirely. What that is, I'm about to discover.

I almost ask if he has someone who can go around with him, but some modicum of self-control kicks in. The guy, not much more that a kid really, what, early twenties, hides his face. Head down, he claps a hand over his mouth. A strangled sound escapes; red pompadour shaking like a cock's comb. Takes me a minute to place the sound. He's laughing.

"What…?" I say, "What's so funny?"

He waves his other hand. Points in the direction of the torn white cane resting in the street beside his black Doc Martins. "How…" he snorts. "How…." I wait for his laughter to subside to hiccups. "How did the blind guy cross the road?"
"How?"

"Quickly!"

This kid drugs? Or is this a shakedown? Does he wait on this road ready to jump in front of cars? This is not as impossible as it seems. There's a small, self-selecting tribe of people so down-on-their-luck that they'll step in front of any car looking shiny and carrying the possibility of an insurance payout.

Peremptorily, I pull out my wallet. Will money change this scenario? How much for a cane? A few pints? Price of a glassine packet? Few months' back rent? Date with a waitress who smells slightly of fried fish and second-shelf alcohol? And a little something-something above and beyond. Land of lagniappe, little extra. How much to buy my way out of this?

"Look," I say.

Catch myself. Wince.

Guy must be able to hear my wallet open, bills rustle. (Or does money have a stench?) His attitude toughens. Almost imperceptibly, but it's there. "You were a right son of a bitch, 'till you made that I'm blind," I cringe, having become so schooled in euphemisms that the world "blind," called out by someone is blind is disconcerting.

"You're right; I was wrong. Totally. Wrong." Expose my soft underbelly; hope he shows mercy.

The car door opens. Bang! Quatro slides to the ground, padding over to the neutral ground on his small black and white track shoes.

"Son, go back to the car!"

The Goth tilts his head in Quatro's direction, his high-bridged nose upturned, like he can smell the milk-and-cookies and Johnson's shampoo scent of him. "Who's there?"

"Why you got diamonds on your coat?" asks Quatro.

Goth guy tilts his head to think about this; pompadour rakishly swooping to the side. I can see blue veins along his neck. Skin milky white, smooth. Wonder how he shaves. Then I wonder why I'm wondering this.

"I'm a prince from a galaxy far, far away. My royal coat has diamonds on it."

"For real?" Quatro asks. He puts his thumb in his mouth. He hasn't thumb-sucked in two years. Five years old and already he has a history to test against. Considers the assertion. "Are not," he says. His piping little kid's voice is plangent. He doesn't want to be right. He wants to be talking to a pale prince in purple sunglasses who wears diamonds on his coat and silver at his throat. But he watches kids in the neighborhood, has cousins 'round the Crescent City. Knows big boys lie. Sometimes when they need to, often 'cause they can.
"Am so," the guy says in a voice small and sweet.

"No, not real diamonds."

"How can you be really sure?" the Goth asks.

"Son, go back to the car," I say.

"I know what real diamonds look like." And as any parent of a five year old can attest, he moves, and he moves fast. One moment he's here by my side, the next there by the pale punk princeling. His small, café au lait colored hand, each nail perfectly pared, holds out Michelle's heart-shaped -- diamond-dead-center -- necklace that I'd left it in the tray by the stick-shift. "Here," says the joy of my life. "Take it."

The man puts his arm out, fingers stretched in my boy's direction. Quatro reaches up and places the heart in the palm of his hand.

The Goth smiles.

Even as I'm watching him, even as I will my tongue to fix things, I find myself thinking, Damn, Quatro, what is with you giving your mama's diamond necklace away today. Twice! Am I missing something? A little help here, divining the mystery of the five year old soul. I haven't figured out the mayhem of my own, where I've resided lo all these many years. But Quatro interests me in a way that I don't necessarily always interest myself. I find him fascinating. Views that I don't consistently hold concerning myself. Quatro's the greatest achievement of my life, and yet he's a mystery. A miracle in Adidas track shoes and a blue T-shirt.

The blind Goth. What is he to Quatro? Skin white as skimmed milk, purple sunglasses mirroring two Quatros. Tres Quatros. Or Quatro to him? Small voice coming from black bondage pants level, a scent of peanut butter and soap and clean sweat.

He runs a fingertip over the locket. "For me?"

Quatro turns bashful, says nothing.

"What?" I say. "No way."

A car horn bleats at my back. Triple A to save the day, and just in time.

"Son, get back in the car," I say. The horn bleats again, louder. I look over, and it's not the cavalry, but the DD cups that runneth over. Tricia, my neighbor three houses over, behind the wheel of her platinum-colored Lexus. Two kids in the back, golden retriever riding shotgun. Window powers down and her smile curls at the blast of humid air. "Darlin' " she yells, "Y'all need a ride? Hop in and I'll run y'all home!"

Quatro's ignoring me and my order. He tugs on the straps of the kid's black bondage pants. I wince. Who knows where those pants have been?

I don't want to squash his spirit, make him fearful the world's a scary place populated with suspect strangers… But it is! And it's my job to keep him safe.

This is one of my tests as a parent. Not through with one, when another one pops up. Last week he wanted to know why birds fly so fine, but flit and hop when they land. Told him birds were the direct descendents of dinosaurs. Thought that'd dazzle him (did me) and he'd be distracted by a point that was near his question, while not precisely the answer. He didn't miss the disconnect…now I got to research ornithology, too.

"Hot out here today! Yeah. Want that ride?" In the backseat, one of Tricia's progeny punches the other.

"Mama, he hit me!"

"You older, hit him back!" she says.

The boy thought this through. His fingers curled in to a small fist and made contact with his sibling. Punch. "Ouch! Ma, he hit me!"

"Already know what I'm gonna say."

Silently, the brothers view one another. A few more thuds, arms are theatrically rubbed, and a fragile detente takes hold in the backseat.

"Waiting on AAA," I say, scanning the street. I'd like to get in. Yeah. There's something about my zaftig neighbor makes me think that all kinds of rides might be on offer. I sigh. Tempted, but I need the car in the morning. Wish there was someone besides me to get things done.

There isn't. It's me and Shelby Soulet the Fourth. I cast a look at the comfy ride. Then at the air-conditioned car. A carousel of images, examples of female beauty, circles my mind's eye. I see Ms. Fletcher, her flowered dress backlit by light flooding through the window, legs beautifully silhouetted, and her not knowing it. It's the not knowing -- the innocence -- that floors me.

Mental PowerPoint presentation of female pulchritude gains a laser-like focus: my memory of the necklace. Shopping for the locket, the salesman helping me choose it as I describe what Michelle liked to wear, her soft brown eyes, that sweet gesture she had of holding one hand in the other, like a schoolgirl.

Third anniversary dinner, I came around the table. She's wearing a silky black dress with a boat neckline. That dress. The mahogany tint of her hair; curve of her neck. I stood behind her in Antoine's, proud of her beauty and elegance. I'd be lying if I didn't admit that we made an elegant couple.

I held the delicate gold chain in both hands, intent on making the emblematic and everlasting circle around her neck. I'm joining the two sides together, encircling her neck with gold… and I drop the damn thing. It falls (oh lucky trinket) down her lovely décolleté. Michelle feels cold gold by her warm heart. My Queen, my Nefertiti, my Love…tosses her head back and laughs. I feel like an oaf. But I've never been able to resist Michelle's laugh, and I fell to laughing, until Michelle excuses herself, coming back to the table with locket, diamond shining and blinking like a star. She put her arms around me and whispered how much she loved the necklace, the sentiment behind it. And me. She loved me. Even at my clumsiest. Me, in all my flawed humanity. And that love turned me from a youth into a man. A man with a son.

A son who has twice today given away his mama's heart, her golden locket with the diamond shines like a beacon.

"I can keep the necklace?" Goth kid asks. Snaps me right out of my reverie.

The Goth's wearing Michelle's locket. How does a blind kid get that itty-bitty delicate clasp open and closed in under a minute? Part of me admires him. Why not, he is admirable: his dexterity, that flawless smile, the savior faire of not tearing me a new asshole after I've near rearranged him into a stripe on the roadway. Another part of me could drop him where he stands.

The engine of the truck announces its arrival. And if one missed the motor, the brakes would draw the attention for sure.

The AAA tow-truck operator booms, "Dr. Livingston, I presume?" even as he opens the truck door, laughing at his own joke. Must use that line every workday. Amused each time. His black hair, straight as the path to venal sin, contrasts with his gray and brown full-on beard. His eyes are green running to gold close to the pupil, a complexion like the inner peel of a banana. Like the creator wanted to test out his crayon box on the dude. When I was a kid a neighbor girl I was coloring with told me that white people were more "different" looking 'cause they came in different colors. My mama overheard us out on the front porch, and while she didn't normally say much to us kids when we were playing, she held her arm up to my darker one and said that black people came in different hues, if you were sensitive to "subtle nuances of color and shade." My four year old companion sharpened a crayon in the built in sharpener in the back of a crayon box that opened like a stadium, scent of sun-warmed wax shavings drifting under my nose.

"Yes, ma'am," my crayon companion replied.

The mechanic's voice brings me back. "Hell of a blowout! But that's what we are at Triple-A are here for. I see your ID an' registration an' --" Before he finishes, I hand him my AAA card, license, title -- all things auto. Behind my back, Quatro giggles.

I turn and Goth guy is running his hands, pale fingers like an albino aphid, along the Quatro's face. First impulse: no one touches my kid. No way. No how. Not on my watch. But I'm standing here. Neighbor, neighbor's kids, burly AAA mechanic stand witness. There's nothing verboten going on. But it feels wrong. Touch is powerful.

I've got a hard-wired doctrine of compassion for those less fortunate. And I owe the guy -- I almost creamed. White cane lying broken on neutral ground surrounded by shattered glass, red tip crushed under my tires, white handle lying in the grass like an accusation.

On the other hand, brother's blind; not like he can take a picture.

The mechanic, as if following my thoughts, bends and picks up the top half of the cane. In his big paw the cane's diminutive. "What's this? This a blind person stick?"

"I'd guess that you've got hold of my cane -- or what's left of it."

Tricia, who'd brought over bowls of healing soups, cake with boysenberry sauce, bags of produce from the farmers' market, looks at me like she's reevaluating what kind of man she thinks I am; my property value's going down. What's up with that? A man puts in a full day at work, picks up his kid, wants a simple dinner and half a carafe of red wine to wash it down, and all heck breaks lose! All right, I admit that I almost ran down a blind kid as I was steering out of a blow out, but who hasn't come to the brink -- the precipice -- of disaster? The important thing is that I steered out.

There's also luck.

A yard further out, seconds sooner -- things be a lot different. I pause to silently give thanks for breaks I've received…such as they are.

"That a real diamond, like the ones on my coat," Goth boy says.

Shoot! I gotta get that necklace back.

I thank Tricia for the offer of help. Want to ask for a rain check on the ride -- like when her husband's on a business trip, but like a gentleman make my own mama proud, lean into her window, "Appreciate the offer, but…"

"Suit yourself, sugar."

I sigh. Fat chance.

"You good here? Yeah, you good." Tricia rolls her window up a few inches. "Hot enough melt underwire, don't even want guess what it's doing to my hair. Gotta get the kids, the groceries, Kermit, and myself into the A/C. You okay? Yeah, you okay. Bien!" And the Aphrodite of our block, offspring shoving each other in the backseat, revs up her motor.

My gut tightens. Been a while since I've held soft, spicy-sweet female flesh in my arms. Gonna be a while longer, I think, watching the Lexus move off in a shimmering heat halo. I sigh. The kid hears me; a smile lifts the corner of his mouth into a devil-may-care grin. He's a good-looking kid. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. We're all in this together -- competing with one another, but together. "My son's just given you his mother's -- his late mother's -- necklace." The kid's hand goes to the heart-shaped locket. He turns in my direction. Good, I think, This is moving somewhere. I try a comradely tone. "You can see why I need this locket back." Damn. "I mean, you can understand…" He doesn't wince when I say "see," but I do. Soon as the word leaves my mouth. Give me credit for that, if nothing else.
"It's mine," the kid says flatly.

The AAA mechanic turns away from the car's chassis, and looks at us, from one to the other. "There a problem here, gentlemen?"

"Mister, this guy almost ran me over with his car! Now he's tryin' to steal my mother's necklace. It's the only thing left of hers I've got!" He keens. His hands, long and white, rise in supplication.

Hell, I'm tempted to believe him. Only I know the son-of-a-bitch is lying.

"Quatro, say something," Quatro closes his lips tight. "Son," I say, taking pains to keep my voice gentle, "I'm not mad at you, but I need you to back me up. Nothing to be scared of," I force an imitation of a chuckle from my parched mouth that sounds like skateboard wheels crashing on bumpy asphalt.

Quatro looks at me.

"Shelby Soulet the fourth," I say, a moniker I keep in a reserve for emphasis, like when I'm feeling quite affectionate -- or getting impatient. "Just tell the truth!"

"It's my Mama's!" the Goth wails. I wonder if he's low-IQ, racist, drugged out, or real smart.

The mechanic looks like King Solomon working towards a migraine. Wouldn't be surprised if he suggests cutting it in two. What the answer? A broken heart.

Goth boy turns his back to the mechanic. He says so quietly that I'm forced to read his lips, "You want it back?"

I'm so mad that I don't say anything, which is usually pretty effective. I'm a big guy, and lots of folks find that big, bald, black thing intimidating. But scowling at a blind kid's not only morally questionable, it's also damned ineffectual.

"Not funny," I say. After a moment I add, "Give it!"

"Yeah, but neither was almost hitting me with your car." He has a point.

"I didn't see you." Why do I keep saying the word "see"? Said it more in this afternoon than I have in ages.

"That makes it all right?" He sounds incredulous.

"I'm sorry," I tell him. And I am.

His face softens. And then I screw it by saying "I'll give you money. Name your price."

"Don't care for your money," he says.

"What do you want?"

"This the second cane I got run over in five years I been using them!"

"People make mistakes," I answer. I sound defensive to my own ears as the words slip between my lips; wonder how I sound to him. But inside it hits me. I'm reeling. Two canes in five years. We both know loss. I've lost my life partner, he's lost his sight. "I said I was sorry," I get louder trying to convey sincerity. Quatro takes a step backward. The mechanic pulls his head from the hood of my ride, picks up a crowbar in his huge hand, tapping it against the opposite palm and narrowing his eyes as he appraises us. "You boys still doing all right?" he drawls.

"Fine," I yell. Fine, hell. I'm bone-weary and dust parched. Unlaid, unloved, and hungry, to boot.

In that brief moment of self-pity pale princeling reaches fumbles with the delicate chain that holds the necklace around his throat.

"Let me help --" I say. He puts out a hand to stay me.

"I'm blind, not dead." He frowns and fumbles, then catches the leaver that opens the tiny gold clasp. The chain separates; he catches the necklace in his left hand.

"Thanks, I owe you." I smile. He can't see that, but I hope that he can hear the gratitude it in my voice.

"Whoa, not so fast!"

"You want money? I'll give you money." I pull out my wallet, and I'm sorting through portraits of dead presidents. When I look up, the kid opens his mouth. A quicksilver movement and the locket's in his mouth. The fucker has Michelle's locket in his mouth. He also has my undivided attention.

He pries his lips open and sticks out his tongue. On that wet pink tongue gold and diamond glint. Sliding his tongue back in, closes his mouth. Damn! Don't want to even think about what I'll have to do to get the locket back if he swallows it. He moves the necklace between his cheek and jaw like a wad of chew. "Get me a handful of dirt," he orders he enunciates, words sliding past the heart locket.

"What the hell?" I say.

He thrusts his pointy chin in the direction of the neutral ground.

He doesn't have to repeat himself. I dig around the border of the grass, getting grass and dirt, until I have two fistfuls of sod and peoples and soil. Like a prospector I sift till I have what I want: pay dirt. It smells fecund, loamy. I bring it over. He holds his pale, long-fingered hands out to receive the pale brown soil. "Water," he says, the words spilling out around the necklace.

"You want money? I'll give you enough -- get all your dirt and water needs met! Damn, don't you know that dirt and water are free? Not much else in this town's on the house, but dirt and water, knock yourself out! I give you money, you can use it on drinks or drugs, books or booze, music or nookie, your choice, your party." It's New Orleans -- not a bad guess.

"Don't drink," he says around the locket.

"It's not a values statement, for Pete's sake. Hell, I drink!" How good a pilsner would taste right now, I think.

"Water," he says.

"Don't have any" I answer.

His purple glasses glint in the sun. He doesn't bother to answer back.

I look over at the mechanic. "You got water?"

"You'd think I would, wouldn't you? This my last job 'fore I'm off. Grab me a soda where I gas up. Mom-n-Pop up the road…"

"Thanks," I say. I give Goth boy my most trustworthy, stand-up guy vibe. "Quatro and I can go to the store, or give you money for whatever you want --"

"Spit," says the kid. I'm so surprised by the request I'm tempted to drop a lunger by his Doc Martins, but he nods at the dirt in his hands. He's dropped a lot of it but he's fashioned a snowball-sized clod of soil. After a moment's hesitation, I do. I lean over, part my lips, and spit into the dirtball. "Good," the kid says. "More." I'm embarrassed. Ashamed. And yet there's an undercurrent of emotion in my core. I look at that long string of saliva in the dirt. I work up what moisture my dry mouth will give me. He nods and I spit again. And again. Then he leans over and spits. When he straightens I hope to see the necklace in his palms, but there's just a large spot of spit. His pink lower lip glistens wetly. S.O.B still has locket between tongue and cheek. And that's the best-case scenario.

He molds and elongates the ball into an oval. "Twig," he mutters. I hear him, but that can't be right.

"Tweak?" I guess.

"Twig."

"Tweaker," I grumble, but search closely along what at what seems an empty stretch of the neutral ground. I discover a straw, a discarded Bic pen cap, a fallen branch from which I separate a god-sized stick. I bring them over to the kid.

I tell him what I've found, placing each item on the ground by his Doc Martin clad feet.

He picks up the twig, breaks off half.

Then he folds and molds the dirt, pinching here, adding there, carving and scraping. Emerging from the soil is a likeness of Quatro's face. From the molded earth arises Quatro's high brow, full cheeks, childish nose, and plump lips. It's a beautiful likeness that he's fashioned. When he's done the Goth takes the locket and embeds it into the moistened dirt where the third eye's depicted to be.

I'm more than a little admiring of the guy's skill. And more than a little spooked. This is the land of voudou. As if divining my thoughts, he holds out his hand, offering me the finished image. "Didn't know that I'm an artist did you." It comes out a statement, rather than a question.
"Oils, acrylic, stone?" I say.

"A pick up artiste," the boy laughs. "Scourge of the low-rent bars on Frenchman Street, an' such."

"You've got a touch," I say. I'm holding the sculpted head of my son; goosebumps pebble my skin despite the warm air.

"That's what the ladies say," he laughs again. "When the car's fixed, maybe you can give me a ride to the Bywater? I mean if it's not too far out of your way," the boy asks.

"Soon as the car's ready, yeah. Sure. Look…" I wince. Start over. "Can I pay you for this? I like it. Like it a lot." He can't see me nod towards the genius-wrought dirt-and-spit, gold heart-and-diamond image of my child. My heart's desire. "I feel I owe you."

"You like meatloaf sandwiches?" he asks.

"Yeah, I like 'em fine. Want me to buy you a po-boy?"

"What's with you and money?" he explodes, finally losing patience. I'm grateful he can't see my embarrassment. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out something wrapped in old-fashioned wax paper. Carefully, he opens the paper: teasing open the thin leaf of translucent paper. Inside is a sandwich. Thick, fresh white bread, and generous slices of homemade meatloaf. He takes half. Holds out the rest of the sandwich towards me. To my shame, I hesitate.

He must sense my hesitation -- does it have a scent to him? A sour odor of fear and doubt?

"You don't have to, don't want to," he mumbles, with that mouth that's known the gold and diamond brilliance of Michelle's heart locket. He takes a bit of sandwich. Mouth now filled with meat and bread.

"You kidding? I'm famished," I say. And I am. I reach out and accept the gift that he's offering.

I bite in. Taste it, and it's everything that you'd want a homemade meatloaf sandwich offered by a stranger to be: tenderly textured, lovingly spiced, the right balance of sauce and meat and bread, with notes of onion, garlic, rosemary, basil, sage, cayenne, oregano, course ground black pepper, and a hint of Tabasco. I tear off a corner of the sandwich and hand it to Quatro.

Together we stand, just three guys having a moment, ramikins-slammikins at the neutral ground.