Heaven and Earth: Chapter One Part II Date Saturday, April 20, 2024 - 08:41 AM PST Topic Entertainment I slip out and head back towards my place, which takes me right past her apartment. I climb the fire escape and dial 911. There's no need for the police to know where I live. On my way out, I snag a couple of the videotapes. It’s been a long time since I saw "The Lost Boys." It’s been said that the only people who sleep soundly are the truly innocent - or the truly damned. I slept soundly that night. None of the expected nightmares filled my thoughts as I lay unconscious in the darkness. I woke up early, just in time to see the first crimson fingers of the sun reach into the sky. In spite of this, I was completely refreshed. Perhaps that was why I started the day off in a foul mood - I’m not used to feeling this good ‘til sundown. When I wake up in a foul mood, a hot shower normally washes the dirt from my body and the filth of the city from my mind, but not today. Today, in spite of my rest, a muzzle flash replays itself in my mind's eye. I can’t help but ask “why”? Not why she had to die, but why do I have a gift that shows me what I cannot change? After easing aching muscles in the shower, I pull my hair back into a functional ponytail. After checking the weather channel, I decide that it’s going to be too cold for my leather pants, the wind cuts right through them. Instead, I opt for black jeans, black tank top with a black short-sleeved shirt open and hanging loose. Top that off with my leather biker’s jacket and my knee-high Doc Martens and I was ready to go. Everything I own is easily color coordinated - it’s black. As I walk down the rusty metal stairs into the courtyard of my apartment building, it occurs to me that I completely forgot to scream at my best friend for sending a psycho to my bar. With a destination in mind, I just let my feet do the walking. I’ve lived in New Orleans so long that I just sort of walk on autopilot. As long as I have a destination in mind, I end up where I want to be. Something about walking improves my mood with every step. Besides cabs and public transit are for tourists. In the long run, though, new soles for my boots are cheaper. The old style of building clustered structures really close together for defensive purposes. The close building style created narrow streets through which it would be hard to move an invading force. New Orleans is almost 300 years old, and the French Quarter streets are so narrow that the sun only hits one row of buildings of the French Quarter in the early morning. I happen to live on the eastern edge of the Quarter. As I move deeper into the quarter, twilight lies upon the streets and will remain well into the morning. Step by step the winding streets slip past. I’m not even aware of the passage of time as I walk until I get within two blocks of Rue de Bourbon - Bourbon Street. Bourbon Street was closing down for the night at the same time I was waking up. 5am they close and 9 am they open. Nowhere on earth can you find a higher concentration of strip clubs and cathouses per city block. Bourbon Street is truly a study in contrasts. As you walk down the street, you see an odd combination of businesses. There are the gentlemen’s clubs, as I mentioned, but they stand shoulder to shoulder with bars, used bookstores, curio shops, antique stores, and fine dining establishments. The Rue de Bourbon is only about seven blocks long, and dominating the fourth block is one or New Orleans’ finest and most respected hotels - the Bourbon Orleans. Due to the extensive hours of the drinking establishments, the smell of Bourbon Street in the morning is distinctive - stale beer, urine, sex, and vomit. It is this smell, pervasive and invasive, that brings me out of my reverie and focuses my attention in the now. Unconsciously wrinkling my nose, I turn onto Bourbon and walk down to St. Peters. From the corner I can easily see Saint Louis Cathedral. It’s bordered on its sides and back by streets, one of them being St Peters. Out front is Jackson Square, a fenced in garden paying homage to the famous general. Pedestrian thoroughfares surround the square, like the cathedral, on three sides. In the early morning, artists of all sorts set up for the day on the pedestrian thoroughfares. Recently, a new kind of artist has joined their ranks: Tarot readers. The artists tend to resent them. It’s not like I can really blame them for the resentment. I mean, Timber’s a tarot reader and I’m kind of resenting him, myself. If you can’t be pissed at your best friend, what’s the point in having them around, anyway? He sees me coming, and I can see on his face that he knows I’m pissed. It’s not like I’m hiding my feelings or anything. Fortunately, he’s in the middle of a reading, so he can’t run - he’s a professional that way. “Honestly, you have a lot of dreams and goals. You need to pursue those goals. And I know for a fact that you know what you need to do to reach those goals. So, get off your ass and make these dreams a reality.” I have to admit, He’s really good at this Tarot stuff. “I hope I was able to shed some light on that for you.” “Thanks a lot. I think I’ve got it now.” He turns to face me, looking like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "Okay, man. Before you light into me, I think I deserve to know what I did to piss you off." He just sits there. I have to admit, the boy's got balls. "Why do you say that? I'm not pissed." Much "Oh, I wonder. It's written all over you - the way you stand, the look on your face, the way you walk. Anyone who looks at you can see that you’re pissed. And I can assume, by the fact that you standing here, that you are pissed at me." "Well, you're right, Sherlock! I am pissed at you. Furious in fact." "Alright. Now tell me why?" His tendency to speak in a direct manner has gotten him labeled as an asshole, but that is why he's my friend. I can't take a hint, so I need a best friend who tells it straight. "Lyric." A simple enough statement, but the connotations are complex. "Oh, her. Okay, man. There's no need to be pissed off. I mean, I didn't mean for her to come to you with all that shit." "You told her that I was the most likely candidate to know of vampires." "Yeah." Some times I wonder if he actually listens. "And you don't see why this would piss me off?" "Man. It's not that simple. I mentioned you by name, and someone else told her about the bar. She came back here and asked for directions." My voice is like steel, hard and cold, as I interrupt him. "So you gave her directions to my place? Jesus Christ, man! I don't need enemies, you do the job just fine!" "Hey, wait just a minute! I gave her directions, but I gave her directions to an address in the warehouse district." "What?" I remember why I don't get up before noon - I'm not too bright before then. "I sent her to that old warehouse the tavern used to be in." "So you're telling me that this freaky chick was so determined that she went all the way out to the warehouse district, found an empty warehouse and hunted me down?" He just shrugs. “Answer me, you daffy bastard!” “All I’m saying is that I gave her the wrong directions.” A smile slowly spreads across my face. "Fucking brilliant! I should have never doubted you, bud." "So, you're not going to beat my ass?" Looking stern I say, "No, I'm going to pound your ass. I mean, you deserve a good ass fucking, but it's not worth my time today. I think I'll wait till you do something to deserve that kind of abuse." He laughs. "Well, you better go ahead and do it now, because I'm probably going to do something to deserve it within the next 20 minutes anyway." "You have a point, but I just don't have the energy this morning." He arches his brow, making it obvious that he doesn't believe me. It's always amazed me how a tiny movement can convey so much. "I haven't had my coffee, yet!" He knocks his chair over in his frantic scramble to get out of arms reach. "Well, shit! Let's go to Poppy's and get you some java." He turns to the Tarot reader on his left, "Hey, Mike. Watch my stuff, will you?" He just nods, almost imperceptibly, and we head to Poppy's. Walking back up St. Peter, we pass the cathedral once again and Timber crosses himself. He's not Catholic, but even nonbelievers tend to be religious when near this place. Santeria, a frightening blend of Catholicism and Haitian Voodoo was born here. I'm not really sure how that works, but these two philosophies seem to be compatible. Santeria is some potent juju and most New Orleans natives tend to be wary of it. We walk in silence for about a block, "Hey, Evil." "What?" "What's bugging you?" "What the fuck do you mean, what's bugging me? You sent a psycho to my bar! That is what's bugging me!" My voice echoes off the buildings. "No. There’s more to it. More than you're telling me." His eyes bore into me. It feels like he can see into my soul. "Nope! That's all it was. You. Psycho. My bar!" "Man, I've known you for 17 years. You can't lie to me. What is bothering you?" "Okay," taking a deep breath, "I looked at her and I knew." "Oh shit! You followed her, didn't you?" "Yeah. I did." "You dumb bastard! Why do you do this shit to yourself?" I'm not sure why, but I sigh, "Because... well... I keep hoping that I'll be able to change something." "You've never managed to do that yet, have you?" "No, I haven't. But why would I have been given this gift if I'm not meant to make a difference?" "Maybe, just maybe, you are supposed to just be there. Maybe, you are supposed to tell their story.” "I gotta tell you, man. I never thought of that. I always believed that I was supposed to try to change things." *********************** After leaving Timber at his table to work out the day, I decide to head over to the tavern. I have some things to do there anyway, and I will never get a chance once the doors open for the night. Walking back up Bourbon Street, I fall back into my trance and make my way home. I make it two blocks before being jolted back to the present. Standing in front of me is a man. Brilliant green eyes are staring at me as he just stands there. Something about him sets every nerve afire as my brain desperately signals danger. Every muscle is taut, ready to spring away as I take a step to the right. He moves with me, obstructing my way. Danger does not accurately describe the situation. Instincts long buried in the human psyche fight for dominance as I stare this man in the eyes. Fight or flight? There is no real choice; if I turn my back on the man I know he will attack me. Then I notice the patch on the shoulder of his jean jacket - it reads "S.C.A.V." - Southern Christians against Vampires. The S.C.A.V.s are radical Christians that stand out against everything they cannot wrap their small minds around. They prowl around the French Quarter giving every goth they find hell, almost literally. I've been told, "You're going to hell" and, "God hates an abomination like you!" Their definition of vampire eludes me, especially since they harass me all the time, and I know I am not a vampire. They're just a nuisance, but that’s all. "Move it buddy. I'm not in the mood for your kind today." "And the Almighty Lord is not in the mood for your kind, defiler!" "Oh, jeeze," I push him out of my path and continue walking. Let it never be said that grandma's gift doesn't have its uses. As I push past him the sense of danger flares off the scale, screaming in my head. I step to the side and his hand passes through where I had been just a moment before. "You crazy asshole!" "Thou shall not suffer a witch to live!" "I'm not a witch!" "Your protestations of innocence only serve to exhibit your guilt, demon!" Then I notice what he's carrying - a stake. New Orleans, 2003, and this guy is attacking me with a stake. He advances slowly, trying to close the distance between the two of us. As he does, I step backward, matching his advance step for step. His first attack had been a clumsy, over-handed attack. Now, he shifts his grip on the stake, switching to an under-handed grip - like that of an experienced knife fighter. My heart sinks as I realize, I may not make it out of this alive. "You've got the wrong guy, preacher man. I mean, if I was a vampire, could I be out in the sun?" "Any true believer knows that all of the weaknesses of vampires are just lies spread so people don't know what to believe!" He lashes out at me, and the stake connects. Fortunately for my bowels, the stake is not edged the same way a knife is. He realizes his mistake at the same time I do. He lunges at me again, point first this time. I step to the side as quickly as I can. The tug on my shoulders tells me he’s caught my jacket. Glancing down I see the tip protruding through the leather about where my heart would have been. I bring my arm down on the stake and his wrist and spin to the left, hard. The grinding, sickening snap of bone greets my ears and he screams. Bringing my elbow down on his head forces his face towards my knee, which snaps up to meet his nose. Another sickening crunch and he goes down. Laying on his back, bleeding, his hand moves towards the inside pocket of his coat. I’m not one to take chances, so I kick that wrist, breaking it like the other. I turn, and walk away, heading home. Two steps and there’s the stake. I pick it up, and tuck it into my belt. I stop, turn around, and speak, my voice hoarse with restrained fury. He starts babbling about hell, fire, and brimstone. I kick him in the nose, for good measure. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to play with sharp objects? You’re lucky, preacher man. I have a conscience, and I couldn’t have the burden of killing a complete idiot on my head. Next time you, or any other S.C.A.V. touches me, however, all bet’s are off. I’ll kill them.” This cannot be a good sign. Part I is here This article comes from Shmeng http://www.shmeng.com/ The URL for this story is: http://www.shmeng.com/modules.php?op=modload&name=News&file=article&sid=495