 Jack's bladder was full, but whiskey made him lazy and unwilling to go to the trouble of relieving
himself just yet. While Carl was off pissing, Jack kept an eye out for the waitress and
contemplated killing big, fat squirrels. |
|
| "Scuse me, darlin'," Jack slurred, while trying to remember if he had cleaned his gun after the last
hunt. The waitress, hurrying a tray of margaritas to the next table, pretended not to hear him or
notice his raised index finger pointing at the ceiling of Fat Harry's Tavern. With a boozy stare
leveled at the empty glass in front of him, Jack massaged his cheek with a thick ham-hand and
tried hard to fashion a speech for his wife. He would be facing three charges: late, drunk, and
going hunting again. His arguments were clarifying, gaining the force of alcohol-aided logic so
that he had himself half-convinced when Carl interrupted. |
|
| "Did you order me a drink? I know I don't need a drink and don't deserve one, but did you order
me one?" asked Carl. He fell into his chair and knocked over an empty beer bottle with a clumsy
elbow. "I must have a drink." |
|
| "Be quiet," said Jack. "I'm trying to think." |
|
| "Well damn, I'll go alert the media. Order me a scotch while I phone Channel Six News." |
|
| "You've been overserved already. Besides, it's 1:30 and we should leave by 5:00. Let's try those
woods off the road to Lafitte where you killed that deer last year. I'm sure those woods are
crawling with squirrels. I'm leaving. Pick me up at 5:00 and be quiet when you come." |
|
| Typical of New Orleans, the mid-January night was mild yet brisk enough to help steady Jack as
he focused on the combination of his bike lock. Three miles of flat city streets lay between the bar
and home. Easy enough. In the four months since his driver's license was suspended for refusing
a breathalyzer test, he had survived the trek many times in more severe states of intoxication. |
|
| Ancient oaks lined both sides of St. Charles Avenue, forming a canopy which moonlight found
impenetrable. The deep shadows below were broken by glowing islands created by the shine of
streetlights. Jack counted pedal-turns between islands of light and worked on polishing his
speech. He kept clear of the cars parked along the street by what he reckoned to be the reach of
an opened door. |
|
| First he heard only an evenly paced clicking he guessed was dog-claws on concrete. Then
something large and dark streaked across the street on an angle to cut him off. On a light-island,
the dog tacked slightly to fall in close to the spinning rear wheel, and Jack saw lips set in a curl
over flashing teeth and heard its big-dog growl. He lifted his right leg off the pedal and watched
the beast by peering down past his armpit, waiting to make his kick. Jack had never learned to ride
looking down and back, with one leg cocked, on a dark street, while drunk. The dog wasn't
gaining, but drifting left, as did Jack -- into the rear of a shiny, new, four-thousand-pound chunk
of parked, imported steel. Over the handlebars and belly-down across the trunk lid he flew and
slid, friction finally overcoming inertia when he skidded, cheek on damp concrete, into the gutter
among rotting leaves and stagnant rainwater. In his right shoulder was a deep ache and the right
side of his face was ablaze. Without moving, he opened his upside eye and saw outsized teeth
distorted by nearness, making the rest of the animal appear too small. Ignoring the cries of a
million nerve endings, Jack rolled onto his back and spun so his feet were nearest the huge teeth.
He drew his right knee toward his chest, poised to kick. The stand off was brief; the dog quieted,
turned and trotted away with tail wagging -- having made its point. |
|
| Jack got up slowly, in stages, assessing damage all the way. He couldn't tell if his collarbone was
broken, but his right arm wouldn't go above his head without more pain than he could take. He
dabbed his right cheek with fingertips and felt a gooey stickiness which came off onto his fingers.
Too dim to see; was it blood? Was it gutter-mud? Was it both? He started toward his bicycle
which was partly under the rear of the shiny import, and noticed he was limping and his left ankle
hurt. He checked the street for his attacker, but saw only shadows and a string of light-islands
stretching for blocks back toward the bar like luminescent pearls on a lava beach. He pissed where
he had fallen, between car and curb, wrestled the bicycle from under the car with his left hand,
and after straightening the handlebars as best he could, started slowly for home. Under the next
streetlight, he confirmed that the viscose on his face was both gutter-slime, which he imagined to
be rich in wildlife, and blood. The front wheel was bent causing a rhythmic bump in the ride.
Jack thought of Cujo and The Hound of the Baskervilles, bumping along, all the way home. |
|
| As he neared his home, the desire to kill the dog subsided and he began to wonder if his shoulder
could take the shotgun's kick. He moved his right arm in a wide, slow circle and measured the
pain; he knew it would worsen when he sobered. He thought of Laney, whom he loved. He was
sure she had fallen asleep stewing about his going out, and although the sight of his wounds would
allay her anger, he must be careful not to overplay his condition or she would insist he not go
hunting. |
|
| As he walked the bicycle up the driveway to his garage, Jack realized that he was tired -- dog-tired,
he thought -- and allowed an audible chuckle to leak from his lips. A nap would help, and he
could sleep while Carl drove to Lafitte. After stowing his battered bike, Jack paused between
garage and back door, and cupped an ear toward faraway sounds of racing engines and squealing
tires. Images of gangsters with Tommy-guns chasing about in black round-fendered cars with
running boards played in his head. He remembered scenes, perhaps from The Untouchables, of
the big top-heavy sedans leaning around a corner, screeching, racing past a barber shop with gun
muzzles spitting lead out of the windows, shattering mirrors and bottles of hair tonic, while half-shaven mobsters crouched on the tile floor. He thought of machine-gunning gangster squirrels in
treetops. |
|
| The chase was closer, louder, on the next street or maybe two streets over. Suddenly, he heard the
cars turn into his street, sliding, screeching, revving through gears. He followed the racket up his
street and glimpsed two cars -- a red one close behind a dark one -- tear by his driveway. He
turned his head with the noise as it moved six houses up to the corner then right on Fern Street.
No braking sounds preceded the crash; he heard the noise in pieces as if it happened in slow
motion -- shattering glass, then crumpling sheet metal, then the steady, diminishing rumble of one
engine straining gears, putting distance between it and the crash. He limped down his drive and, to
hasten his progress, broke into a queer skip, favoring his swollen ankle. |
|
| From the corner he saw the red sedan mashed against a pecan tree, swirling smoke caught in the
beam of a single headlamp. Three men of different ages were leaning into the left front window as
he approached from the opposite side. He put his face against the right window. The car was
empty. He looked through the car and caught all three men staring at him. |
|
| "Are you okay, man?" said the youngest of the three. |
|
| "We called the police, they're on the way," said the eldest.
|
|
| "You look pretty banged up, you better lie down," said the third. |
|
| Jack limped around the back of the wreck toward the gathering. "I wasn't in this car," he said. "I
don't even have a license." |
|
| "Oooooh, man, no license. That's not good," said the youngest, dressed only in cut-off jeans. |
|
| "No, I live right around the corner on Panola, I heard the wreck as I arrived at home." |
|
| "Your head is bleeding. You better take it easy and lie down until the cops get here." |
|
| Jack stopped near the wreck's rear fender, using it for support. He stared at the men and searched
for an explanation they would accept. "You don't understand, I live around the corner on Panola
Street. I just rode my bicycle home from Fat Harry's, and heard the crash as I was going in." |
|
| "So you've been drinking," said the eldest. "Well, I expect to be reimbursed for the damage to my
tree." |
|
| Jack flushed with anger. The men appeared pitiful to him, even comical. The old man wore a
tattered terry-cloth robe with striped pajamas underneath. The third man was dressed in a gold
jumpsuit and brightly colored, unlaced running shoes. The one in cut-offs had dirty, wet noodles
for hair and a patchy beard. Jack thought of ways to measure their collective I.Q. -- a goat plus a
toad plus a fencepost. He laughed to himself at the image, turned, and hobbled toward Panola
Street. At first he believed it was his imagination; seconds later, concentrating, he was sure the
siren was real. He commenced his little limp-skip. |
|
| "Hey, you can't leave the scene of an accident," shouted the eldest. Jack turned his head over his
shoulder and saw the old man pushing noodle-head toward him, encouraging him to take up the
chase. The siren was closer, wailing, announcing its approach to the entire neighborhood. The
youngest man started after Jack in a slow trot. Jack continued past Panola Street into the alley
behind the houses on Panola, opposite his house. In familiar territory he ducked under the rear
porch of Frank Maggio's house and waited. Up the alley he saw the shadow of noodle-head
trotting, then slowing to a cautious walk in the darkness. As the silhouette neared, Jack could see
the man's dark cut-offs against his light skin -- two shades of gray. The man stopped near the
porch and slowly turned in a circle, huffing. At length, he went away. |
|
| Toward Fern Street, Jack saw the reflection of spinning lights on every surface beyond the alley.
He made his way to the front of Frank's house; seeing no one, he limped-skipped as fast as he
could go, across the street and into his back door. He turned the kitchen light on, then quickly off,
not wanting to signal his presence to neighbors, police, or the three "witnesses." In the darkness he
bumped and groped his way to the living room, and tugging the curtain slightly to one side, peeked
out at an empty street. The flashing lights were reflecting from each house and each car on the
block. He limped-tiptoed into the bedroom, quietly undressed and slid next to Laney. She didn't
move. |
|
|
|
|
|
| He dreamed of guns and dogs and squirrels and gangsters. He was before the judge; he stood
convicted and sentencing was to be pronounced for the heinous felony of running down
defenseless squirrels in his big red sedan. The judge, robed in tattered terry-cloth, leaned a long
way over his bench until his face was inches from Jack's and sneered. "You, sir, will be taken away
to the pokey where you will remain until the end of hunting season, at which time you will be
strapped into a chair and a current of electricity will be sent through your body until you are dead,
dead, dead, and then your remains will be made into dog food." |
|
| Noodle-head was the bailiff, and he took great delight in his job. The executioner wore a gold
jumpsuit and began fastening leather straps around Jack's wrists and legs. The bailiff gleefully
helped. Then a metal skull-cap was fitted onto Jack's head, and all was ready. The switch was
pulled, the electricity buzzed fiercely, and Jack awakened with a start. |
|
| The doorbell was buzzing. My God, it was a dream, he thought. But he was blind. Blinded by
his fall. He couldn't see. He tried to scream, but the sound was muffled. He tried again and it
began muffled and ended loud and clear, and he could see, as Laney peeled away the pillow that
was glued to his face by clotted blood and congealed gutter-slime. |
|
| "Answer the door. Jesus, what happened to you," said Laney. |
|
| "It's a long story, but you better answer the door. If it's the police, tell them I'm sick and have been
home all evening with you." His face throbbed where the pillow had been pulled from his abraded
cheek and temple. |
|
| "I can't wait to hear your story," she said. "Go wash your face, and I'll get the door." |
|
| In the bathroom mirror was the image of catastrophe, of cataclysmic physical trauma. Fully half
his face appeared to be a grimy scab. He thought he looked as if he had been in a automobile
accident, and smiled, causing clotted blood to separate painfully from raw flesh. Once washed, the
damage appeared less serious: two plum-sized abrasions and a smallish cut above the eye. |
|
| "It's Carl; he seems to think you're going squirrel hunting," said Laney. "I told him you were
injured, and he maintains he doesn't know anything about it. What did happen to you?" |
|
| "Honey, this is the last chance I'll have at squirrels this year, I'll tell you all about it when I get
home. I love you. I'll cook squirrel stew tonight. Bye now. I love you." Jack grabbed a shotgun
and a sixpack of beer, and limped through the front door. |
|