mind convincing him that a hit squad was right outside the door about to rush in. He would ultimately work himself into a terrifying panic where physical intervention was the only remedy. Not anymore, now Slaw chides or snaps in a certain tone and demeanor that Shittin knows well. Reacting almost instantly, trained you might say, he comports himself to the reality of the moment externally while suffering his created ghosts internally. This development didn’t happen overnight and it didn’t always work but Slaw’s tactics helped keep Shittin grounded.
Sometimes Shittin balked, too far gone in his wild imagination he would take off like a sky rocket. In these instances Slaw would come in over the top with angry vituperations that would freeze Shittin. Not from fear of pain or punishment but from mere disapproval. For Shittin loathed above all else, Slaw’s censure, being somehow built to break from words rather than blows. So Shittin learned through ordeal that he must heed Slaw’s initial admonitions, for a silent struggle in his own mind far outweighed agonizing over a serious reproach by his friend.
Slaw flipped through the channels until he reached the sports channel. He was an avid football fan and even started his own fantasy league in the Nolia before Katrina. He wasn’t so much a Saints fan, but he admired them so far that season. Who didn’t? His team of choice, KC baby, hooked since the late 80’s. Growing up, he was a gifted athlete. Instead of slinging crack and be-bopping on the corner, he played sports—all of them. Stickball, whiffle ball, baseball, basketball, two-hand touch and full contact. Football was his thing though, his passion and he was once very good. He was always the quarterback, always the play maker. He dreamed of being noticed, of getting a scholarship and moving out of wild M. He could have, should have, but he caught that round and had asthma. He might have been able to make it with the asthma but the bullet through the ankle ended his hopes.
He wasn’t even in the area where the shots broke out but playing handball over by Louisiana Ave. The bullet they say, found him. He remembers vividly the sequence of events. He was slicing the ball in a sweet cut listening to a rap song blaring out of his friend’s boom box when he felt a sting then a burn then pain as his weight readjusted onto his right foot. Some of the kids said they heard the shots but he didn’t, all he heard was that damned melody: Da-na-na-na-nah-nuh-na-na-nah-nuh-na-na-na-nah! He was thirteen and got a plate and pins in his pivot foot. The bullet shattered his ankle bone and he would never be able to plant or roll his dominant foot ever again.
“Shittin! Shut the damn curtain you fool! Go throw some burritos in the microwave.”
Shittin nodded but stayed by the window so sure that he saw some stick-up kids across the street watching their window.
“Shittin!” Slaw demanded.
He almost jumped. Turning around he nodded and made his way to the small fridge. Burritos were a mainstay in their diet, that, potato chips and beer. Slaw sat up and pulled wads of money out of his pockets.
“A good day Shittin one of our best yet,” he said, knowing he needed to pull Shittin back from himself.
Shittin was quiet, not wanting to talk about the money he was so sure they were about to lose. But Slaw knew what he was doing, implanting an alternative thought to pull Shittin away from his current nightmare.
“Really Shittin, a great day and we gonna have to do something with all this cash. We should buy something.”
Shittin popped the burritos in the microwave and hit high for five minutes but his mind was even higher than that. Radiating in the stratosphere he was off again … they were in a Ferrari, custom yellow cause fuck that red shit. Then they were on a yacht, Sheila wore a small bikini made of tiny silver bells that jingled lightly as she moved. Then they were on a rooftop in the big NYC looking over the moving lights sipping “Dom” like it was water and then ... the microwave rang and Shittin came to.
They were driving down another abandoned street or what was a street. Some owners were now marking any erect structure on their land with warning signs: Beware of Owner; Protected by Death or close to it; Dog Will Get Bones. Some were crystal clear like: Have Guns Will Shoot and Intruders Shot on Sight. These measures didn’t stop the vultures just made them more cautious and patient for no one stays long next to a carcass unless their eating it and only the rare victim self consumes. They found a place about a mile down the road with some exposed candy. The debris indicated that it was once a large house easily 4000 square feet with two and a half or even three bathrooms, at least $700 worth of bright alone. They stopped about sixty yards from the mailbox that was curiously still standing with the flag up even. Slaw took out his binoculars and scanned the property. He located the kitchen and noted where the sink once stood. The back half of the building was still standing and could offer the owners shelter if they were there but he didn’t see any sign of occupancy. Water pooled the front yard and what was the driveway. Slaw judged it to be about eighteen inches deep, enough for snakes or worse. They could get the truck up on the right corner near the kitchen without much maneuvering. The last thing they wanted was to get stuck in front of the house with its pipe filling their bed.
“Let’s take a closer look,” Slaw said.
They got out of the truck and approached slowly. It was about eleven in the morning and the sun was burning down unusually hot for March, it felt like it was 95 degrees. Slaw whistled sharply to see if there were any dogs snoozing. Dogs were always a problem, fiercely territorial and after six months in this shit probably feral, regressed into their past by circumstance. No response, just light rustling of overgrown grass and such. Stopping in front of the former driveway he pointed to the right side of the crumpled structure.
“We’ll back in there Shittin.”
Shittin nodded slowly, he was melancholy. He always felt bad upon arrival, just before they invaded someone’s home. It was part of his nature to feel for others loss, that uncanny unusualness about him. He got over it quick enough, Slaw had explained home owners insurance to him ad nauseam and he got it, and if he tarried too long Slaw would remind him quickly enough. But the first few moments looking over the destruction of some families home always stirred him and his initial thoughts were his and he would hold them until Slaw barked. He kept looking over at the mailbox, he knew what a raised flag meant and it was sad to see. Could there actually be mail in it? Could they have left outgoing mail in the box expecting that it would be picked up and delivered? The implication being that they fully expected Katrina to blow by with minimum damage to life and property.
And now that mail abandoned in the box going on seven months with no place to go waiting for the door to open, for the trip they were intended for….
“Shittin get the fuck over here!”
While he was lost in thought, Slaw had backed the truck up within four feet of the former kitchen’s former window, now a gaping hole in the siding. He was pulling tools out the back scowling in Shittin’s direction.
“We got to get on Shittin, it’s almost noon and we got to move you damn fool!”
They got to work and in ten minutes they were absorbed in the extraction process. An hour later they were standing in the exposed basement cutting five foot lengths of tubing near the footings. Thirty minutes after that they were pulling wire and coils in the mop-up phase of their operation. Efficient and thorough they “grinched” the place clean. As they prepared to leave Shittin insisted that they look in the mailbox. Slaw told him he was crazy.
“Ripping pipe is property theft Shittin, a local crime, but ripping mail is federal and I aint gonna be caught with someone’s copper and mail,” he said vehemently.
Shittin wasn’t giving in though, suddenly jumping out of the truck as Slaw turned onto the roadway.
“Dammit Shittin!”
Slaw stopped the truck and watched his friend scamper toward the mailbox in the rearview mirror. He didn’t know Shittin’s purpose but he knew it wasn’t theft. He was either extremely curious to see if something was actually inside the box or he had one of those
crazy ass dreamed up romantic ideas driving him. He was hoping for the former and that nothing would be inside.
Shittin strutted back to the truck with four envelopes. Two were white, one green and one manila. The manila one was rather thick. He was shuffling them into each other like a dealer in Vegas but the yellow package was giving him a slight problem not quite flowing through his fingers. Slaw was sure had Shittin taken a few more steps he’d of dropped them all in the mud, but he reached the truck with clean mail and a huge goofy grin. Sticking his loggerhead into the driver’s window he smiled at Slaw. Lopsided, dirty, briny from sweat and salt water he held aloft his find, holding tight the manila packet. Slaw, thinking they could get two more jobs in, impatiently gestured ‘what the fuck!’ But Shittin owned the moment and he was profound in his noble irregularity.
“Car dead,” he proclaimed.
“What?” Slaw sputtered.
Shittin looked at the yellow envelope, scrutinized it to reassure himself, and uttered again.
“Car dead, Kathee Car dead!”
Slaw snatched the letter out of Shittin’s hand and read the sender’s name, Kathy Cairdeed.
“What the fuck you want to do with this Shittin?” He asked.
“Deliver it.”
“What?” Slaw asked incredulously.
“Deliver it for Kathee Car dead, for them,” Shittin answered triumphantly.
Slaw was where he sometimes went when Shittin was in his fool demanding way. Perplexed and irritated, he shook his head befuddled and at a loss for words. Shittin smacked the envelopes on the car door, threw his head back in rapture and hollered.
“Yes Sah Slaw, Yes Sah! We gonna be the mailman for the Car dead folk, for the Kathee, for them!”
Slaw saw that this was going to be an issue he couldn’t properly navigate at the moment. He wanted to move on hoping to get more pipe so he cut the situation short.
“Fine Shittin, we can find a mailbox later and you can play post office all you want. But right now we got to get. I want to hit two more houses at least.”
Shittin stood exalted. Smiling his goofy tragic smile, holding high his molten igneous head, he turned to the carcass that was once the Cairdeed home and pronounced that he was going to take care of them, waving the envelopes majestically.
“Get in the damn truck you fool!” Slaw snapped.
Shittin jogged around the front of the car and hopped in infinitely satisfied. Three hours later they were wrapping up their second job. They got some gutters this time, along with a decent amount of bright. Other scavengers already picked this property but it was sloppy work and they left enough to make it worth the time to finish it off. Seeing the amount they added to the truck Slaw was glad they did, the gutters alone would bring about $400. It was a little past four in the afternoon, they were tired because this job took a lot of effort but they had enough light to squeeze in one more hit if they could find it in the next hour so Slaw announced they would go for it. Shittin just nodded, he knew that the landscape was getting thick with competition and Slaw wanted to capitalize as much as possible while they could. The bed was full, packed tight lengthwise and the stack though very neat based on their cutting methods already rose about a foot over the cab, but they have gone two plus feet higher than the cab many times so one more rip shouldn’t be a problem. They strapped and tarped their gains carefully to keep prying eyes from deducing their activities but there were so many crews running around that everyone knew a covered heap in the back of a pickup wasn’t hiding junk.
They drove through shattered neighborhoods looking for another prospect carefully avoiding peopled areas. Slaw was almost incredulous that so many neighborhoods were still so fucked up so many months after the storm but the many opportunities to score outweighed any consideration for pity. Besides none of these folk ever pitied him or Shittin or their neighborhood.
“Slaw,” Shittin called, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“What.”
“We doin good to the Kathee folk, the Car dead, them folk, we doin good,” Shittin announced.
“Sure we are.” Slaw said.
Shittin nodded vigorously tapping the manila envelope in his scrawny lap.
“Slaw.”
“Yeah?”
“How many homes is gone?”
‘What the fuck!’
Startled, Slaw looked over at his friend tapping away and staring out the window. As if Shittin had been inside his head a moment ago and was reproving him for not having any feelings for the people who used to live in the wreckage they were driving through.
‘How does that mind work?’ He wondered.
“Many Shittin,” he said, “too many.”
“We got a lot of rubber bands Slaw, a lot of red and a lot of brown, a lot of rubber bands.”
“That’s right Shittin.”
“We gonna send my gamms some soon for her and Clara right? Send some red rubber bands to my gamms.”
“Of course Shittin every week like we’ve done, youse taking good care of them,” Slaw said.
Nodding like a bobble-head and tapping like a woodpecker, Shittin was approaching the need for another cut off when Slaw spied a likely target.
“Steady Shittin, focus now, we got one here that looks good.”
He stopped the truck just prior to entering the turn into a recessed cul-de-sac of more debris. Three former homes distinct only by the different shades of siding piled in separated groups ringed the circled roadway. The second one, the largest pile, had copper tubes protruding through the rubble. The place was completely demolished without a single wall still standing. The other two properties looked like they were picked, perhaps by the homeowners themselves. The one on the right, bright white was newer construction and he noted a lot of pex-tubing.
‘Might be worth a quick look below,’ he thought.
Sometimes newer homes used flexible plastic piping above the foundation but still used copper in the basement, generally worth a look over. But the sure thing was obvious, the large pile of broken yellow siding with bright cutting through. He saw no warning signs, heard no dogs and felt confident that they found their third mark perhaps with a bonus even. Ever cautious he took out the binoculars and scanned all three sites slowly.
“We gonna find a mailbox on our way back, right Slaw?” Shittin asked abruptly.
“Shush now Shittin, I’m looking around.”
“We gonna find a mailbox for the Car deads yes sah, we gonna mail Kathee’s letters, the Car dead letters and we gonna send some red rubber bands to my gamms.” Shittin announced.
“Shush dammit, we got to focus now.”
Nodding, tapping, tapping, nodding, Shittin was oblivious to the moment. Slaw was thoroughly distracted and stopped his search. Lowering the binoculars he looked at Shittin and shook his head.
‘Damn fool,’ he thought, but smiled to himself.
“Go look for recent tire tracks Shittin, especially in front of that one right ahead,” Slaw gestured.
Shittin carefully placed the envelopes on the seat between them and got out of the truck.
‘Damn fool,’ Slaw mused.
Slaw watched Shittin lope around the circle stooped over so far that his head was not more than a foot off the ground like a sniffing lycanthrope.
‘Jack ass!’ Slaw chuckled.
He failed to notice movement to his left at property number three, the red pile. He failed to pan that way just moments before when Shittin was talking gibberish. He failed even, to intervene in a timely manner. Rushing out from the wreckage four men raced toward Shittin who didn’t see them so absorbed in his search and his imagination. They reached him very fast not more than five seconds and with vicious intent. They were upon Shittin before Slaw was even able to open the car door. He knew it would be bad. Their demeanor, the objects they wielded and their haste to reach Shittin meant that they intended excessive harm.
Slaw was yelling as he rushed out of the truck p
ulling his gun from the back of his waistband. He heard the first whack, wood on bone, loud and resolute. Two turned his way but the other two didn’t hesitate in their attack. Slaw did not think of himself, his own sense of safety wasn’t even in his way. All thoughts were for his friend his dear sweet friend who would never hurt a soul. He saw the kicks and the swings of the bat. He saw the iron hook at the end of the staff the other one held. He screamed hoping to distract. The two in his way were older and they weren’t raging like the animals over Shittin. He pointed the gun toward the attackers beating Shittin, he was oblivious to the two in front of him but they were not. Seeing the gun they bolted left and right like parting curtains both yelling “Gun! Gun!” as they scrambled out of his way.
Slaw pulled the trigger. Not aiming to kill but to distract, to scare away. He wasn’t full of anger and vengeance yet, he hadn’t the time to consider his own violence and react in kind. Rather, he was full of anguish and fear for his friend. He pulled the trigger four, five times shooting over their heads. But it was too late. The one with the hooked staff had already gaffed Shittin as he lay crumpled beneath them. He struck Shittin in the midsection as if he was skewering a barracuda. Slaw saw the rusty metal barb disappear in Shittin’s shirt, saw the resistance when the man tried to pull it back out. Hearing the shots and seeing him rush their way with gun blazing they dropped their weapons and took off like their elders vanishing so fast into the surrounding debris that one could believe they were ghosts. But ghosts only haunt, these men hurt.
Slaw dropped next to Shittin in despair. His friend was a broken unmoving mess. The side of his face was swelling over a large ghastly dent. Blood trickled from his ear, nose and mouth. A large red stain was forming in the middle of his shirt spreading like a paper towel soaking up a spill. His legs twitched and his pants were wet; his bowels released from the sudden shock of overwhelming pain.
“Oh no, oh no, no, please no … oh my God, please no, not him, not him … someone help, please help! Help! Please oh God, please no.…”
Slaw was so out of his element, no longer calm, cool and collected but numb with panic and horror at what just happened to his friend. Shittin was unconscious, maybe even dead. Slaw couldn’t tell as he kneeled over him in shock and disbelief. He heard the engine of the truck humming and realized it was still on. This helped him recover his senses and propelled him into action. He tucked his gun in the back of his pants and grasped Shittin under the arms. Trying his best to keep Shittin’s head from moving he pulled him dragging as fast as he could back to the truck.
“Please Lord Help him, help Shittin, he never hurt nobody, please Lord.…” Slaw prayed.
He manhandled his friend into the truck trying his best