to immobilize Shittin’s head. He curled him up on the passenger side laying him sideways across the seat and tucking his legs beneath on the floorboards. Slaw rushed to the other side jumped in and sped off as fast as he could maneuver through the debris. He laid Shittin’s head on his lap and used his own shirt to staunch the bleeding from his friend’s abdomen. He was crying unabashedly, wiping blood and tears from his face as the sticky liquid stung and blurred his vision already diminished from the lowering sun in front of him. His hands were clammy and the one held fast against Shittin’s belly was warm but cooling. This made him sick with dreadful foreboding. He made it onto highway 46 in less than ten minutes and flew west toward New Orleans as fast as he could. His mind raced.
‘Where could he take him?’
Shittin needed medical attention fast but he had to find a “friendly” hospital, one that would treat first and ask why after he conveniently slipped away.
He knew this was unlikely, slipping away; police were unavoidable at this point unless he was willing to pull up to an emergency room entrance and shove Shittin out. He wouldn’t do that. Not to his friend not for a bunch of copper and self preservation. Besides he didn’t hurt anyone just scared them. They were the ones that did the hurting and for what? Because he and Shittin threatened to strip their rubble piles of some scrap metal. As if, when the area is razed for rebuilding, the government will offer them choice cuts from their rotting property. It was all going to recycling yards anyway and if some industrious men made a buck a two for their efforts, aint that progression? He shouldn’t worry about that anyway. They never even reached the property. Shittin was attacked on a public street not a driveway. He was massacred. He had to ditch the gun he knew that. He would but he couldn’t just yet he had to hold tight against Shittin’s belly he had to keep the pressure. The pipe he would eat, not like it was a shocking illicit business, ripping pipe post Katrina. But the Cairdeed place, the letters in the truck, he would have to lose those quick but they were somewhere under his friend’s still body.
‘Dammit!’
His mind thrown back to Shittin exclusively, Shittin his pal, his friend, his brutalized broken friend. But only momentarily, just momentarily did he refocus on his charge on his dear friend lying next to him. For rambling thoughts on ‘why this and what to do?’ distracted greatly from ‘what if?’ regarding Shittin’s condition. And even the approach of the thought that Shittin would not smile again was too much for him to endure and his eyes burned.
‘What justification do wealthy homeowners claim to kill the vultures that pick their skeletons?’ Slaw thought. ‘Is it safety, security, possession? Or, is it pride, resentment, vindictiveness. What of justification anyway?’
Killing one or two or even an entire wake will not stop the feeding. Many vultures lurk in shadow ready to swoop in to scavenge, undeterred by a random noble stand that may cause an occasional scatter or even a broken wing. Until the area is cleansed and restored the vultures will circle; until the debris is hauled away they will pick; until the demand for copper is satisfied wrecked homes will be scoured and pillaged throughout Katrina’s destructive path.
He felt a stir and looked down. Shittin was coming around and moaned through his broken mouth. Fresh tears rolled down Slaw’s face and anger began to replace his questions. Anger at himself for losing awareness, for letting Shittin distract him.
“Slaw,” Shittin slurred in a weak raspy voice.
Monumental effort kept Slaw from crying out. The premonitions cloaking the cab of the truck pushed in on him, the sense that his friend would soon be no more choked him down, forcing him to rattle in a deep breath.
“Easy Shittin,” he stammered hoarsely. “Shush now I got you, I’m taking you to get help, try not to speak, think of your girl Sheila, think of good things.”
Shittin tried to nod but couldn’t. Slaw wanted to comfort him but he didn’t want to move his hand afraid that Shittin would bleed out.
“Slaw,” Shittin rasped, “you got my red rubber bands?’
Slaw began to see the reality facing him. It came like the brush of announcement, like the moment before opening a door when you know the other side is destiny. Unwanted and unforgiving knowledge driven into him with Titan brutality; truth, the damned truth, unsolicited but undeniably true dawned on him as he drove into the setting sun. His stomach knotted and he made a last plea but he knew the door was now shut behind them and he faced the sum of their day and it was closing.
“Yes Shittin, I got your rubber bands.” He said softly.
“My girl Sheila and me gonna have a yacht, a big one, me and my girl’s yacht.”
“I’m sure of it.” Slaw said crying softly.
Slaw eyed a rest stop coming up and with sad resignation signaled to turn off the road.
“We got a yellow Ferrari Slaw, a bright yellow Ferrari; we have it Slaw, me and my girl.”
“I know it my friend.”
He turned into the rest area and pulled into a slot farthest from the restrooms. No other cars were around. He released the pressure on the sticky wadded tee shirt reached up and cut the engine.
“We at the post office Slaw?” Shittin asked, growing weaker.
Slaw glanced down at the floorboards and saw the scattered envelopes splashed with his friend’s blood.
“Not here my friend, but we’ll find one. We’ll take care of it just like you said.”
He was stroking Shittin’s head gently hoping that the touch of love could remove pain. His friend since grade school, since Lafon, his companion of dreams and hopes and absolute optimism, his best bud forever.
“Why they hit me Slaw?” He asked. “Why they so angry to hit me so bad?”
Slaw could barely see his eyes so blurred. He was trying with all his might to control his breathing. He knew if Shittin sensed his turmoil it would make things worse. Shittin would key into Slaw’s pain and it would exacerbate his.
“I don’t know my friend, but it’ll be okay, you’ll be okay, just rest.” He barely got the words out.
“You mad at me Slaw?”
“No pal, I’ve never been mad at you and never will, now rest.”
“We gonna take care of Gamms and the Car deads Slaw. We got my rubber bands.” Shittin said fading.
“We sure will my friend.” Slaw sputtered shamelessly.
“We okay Slaw, we okay, my girl Sheila and me, we okay.”
Slaw listened to Shittin’s breath rasp in and out slower and slower. He was silent and still and the sun peeked through the trees as her curved rim dipped lower and lower. And the cicadas stirred and Shittin would not ever again and a pile of copper lay under cover stacked neatly and waiting.
Addendum
They met at a pizza shop on North Alexander Drive at seven in the evening. Clara and her Grandmother lived nearby on Knowlton Avenue. Her Grandmother did not want to meet with him and refused to speak to him since she got the news. He understood and didn’t resent her for blaming him, he blamed him. Clara was very pretty and petite not at all disproportioned like her brother. They didn’t hug in greeting, rather shaking hands and smiling briefly. They attempted small talk but it was strained and they gave up after a few random comments. He placed a large paper bag on the table and pushed it toward her.
“He was very proud that he was taking care of his family,” he said softly.
She looked out the window, pained at a sudden remembrance.
“I know,” she said.
“This will not mean anything to you, but I want you to know that I mailed the letters.”
She looked at him curiously but did not say anything. He suddenly felt uncomfortable. His purpose achieved he had no further reason to be there so he got up to leave.
“He would want you to know that the letters were mailed. It was … important to him.”
She nodded realizing that this statement was difficult for him. He turned to go but she stopped him.
“Did you know my mo
ther named me after a street?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Most people think it was after her name Clarisse but it wasn’t. My father whoever he was, lived on Clara in the Nolia, so she named me after his street.”
He stared at her trying to associate this spontaneous revelation with the reason they met. He couldn’t make a connection surmising that she simply offered this random fact to fill the awkward moment. But then he thought hard about his dear friend and then he understood. ‘Damn fuckin boxes.’
“I will remember Clara.”
Sincerely grave he departed the pizza shop and walked down Alexander Drive. Before her on the table the bag sat packed with neat stacks of cash wrapped in red and brown rubber bands.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends