The Long-Legged Fly

twenty years and never, as far as I know, missed a single day, rain or shine-or hurricane, for that matter. The last couple of years there’s been a kid with him most days, maybe twelve or thirteen, who plays hymns on trumpet what little time Sam’s not preaching. In a city famous for its eccentrics, and proud of them, I guess Sam and the Duck Lady are king and queen. Every so often she still shows up in the Quarter pulling a little wagon behind her, with a string of ducks of all sizes quacking along behind that.

I walked down toward the river and along the levee, smelling hops and yeast from the brewery, smelling stagnant water and things that grow in it.

It was, after all, a kind of rebirth. No home, no work or career, just a lot of loose connections: a whole life to build from scratch. The terms tabula rasa and palimpsest drifted into my mind from courses taken long ago at college. And what was it, that Irish guy who wrote in French, something like: I can’t go on … I’ll go on.

It was getting colder, and a steady, low wind blew off the water. Barges crept upriver toward Memphis or St. Louis. A riverboat, dance band playing on the foredeck, was filling with afternoon tourists.

I thought about a test they’d given us back in school, when I was in the ninth grade maybe, around fifteen or so. Dozens of questions like this: “You have been at sea a very long time. The captain is a cruel, unjust man. One night some of the sailors come to you and ask if you will lead a mutiny. What would you do?” Results came back and our parents were called in for a conference. “Lewis made excellent decisions, fine choices,” Mr. Pace, the adviser, told them, “but there’s something missing from the profile. He doesn’t push, doesn’t strive.” “We already knew that,” my old man said, and got up and left.

Riverside, a guy and his kid were playing awful trumpet duets of “Bill Bailey” and “When the Saints.” I wandered back toward the Square. In one corner a young white clarinetist and an old black tenor banjo player worked their way through popular forties music; in another, an old trumpeter and young guitarist, both white and looking vaguely European, were doing Dixieland with complicated harmonies.

I went across to the Cafe du Monde and had a couple of coffees and an order of beignets. Then I bought a piece of sugar cane at the Market and was walking back up Chartres toward Canal to catch the trolley, sucking at the sugar cane, when a Pinto pulled up beside me.

“Griffin? Spread ’em,” the man said. I did, leaning forward onto the car. It gets to be habit after a while.

One of the guys flashed a badge, not local. The other one turned me around to face him.

“Okay, Griffin, you’re clean. Where you living?”

I shrugged.

“No known address,” he said to the other one. “Got a job?”

I shook my head, thinking how ancient this encounter was.

“No income,” he said.

“Been offered a place to stay, though,” the one with the badge said.

“That right?”

Their conversation went on without me.

“The halfway house.”

“Well. Maybe you better take that offer, Griffin.”

“Yeah. Be a real good idea.”

“Then maybe you could kind of keep an eye on Sansom and his people for us. We know something’s gotta be going on down there.”

“We just don’t know what.”

They both got back into the Pinto.

“You need money, Lew?”

I shook my head.

“Sure you do. Everybody needs money. You be thinking how much you need and let us know. We’ll work something out. See you, Lew.”

I watched the Pinto drive away down Chartres, hoping someone would rearend it.

Chapter Two

“I am pleased that you reconsidered,” Sansom said. He wore a dark suit with suspenders and looked like a lawyer. “More coffee?”

I shook my head.

“We’ve put you in room C-6. Only a couple of other guys in there right now. Any problems, let me know. Usually we ask for some work in return, but you’ve already done yours. Come and go as you wish. Make any money, throw in the pot whatever you think’s right. There’s food laid out in the common room every day between four and six-cold cuts, fruit, cheese, soup, bread.”

“I met some people on the way here,” I said.

“Let me guess. Guys in gray suits with short hair and rep ties? Yeah, they think we ought to still be painting slogans on ghetto walls instead of actually doing something. I don’t know, maybe they think we’re stockpiling bombs in the basement. We don’t have a basement, man-this is New Orleens.” For a moment intelligence fell away from his face and he became a caricature. “We don’t be good niggahs, Massuh Griff’n.” Then he laughed, a deep, rolling laugh. “Come on. I’ll take you up.”

The room was surprisingly light and airy. Beds occupied each corner, a small round table and chairs took up the room’s center. There wasn’t much else: a squat bookcase, some shelves nailed to the wall, a couple of throw rugs.

“Where is everyone?”

“Jimmi-” He pointed to one of the beds, meticulously made. “-does volunteer work with a child care group and is out most days. Carlos-” This bed was unmade. “-passes out flyers, telephone books, whatever work he can get. You never know, with him. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall to your right, towels and all that on shelves behind the door. Again, you let me know if there’s anything else you need; otherwise, we’ll all leave you alone.” He stuck out a hand. “Glad you came, Lew.”

I was kind of glad too. I lay on the bed watching the ceiling and wondering what the next move should be. When I woke up, it was dark outside.

I wandered downstairs to the common room. A couple of guys were hunched over a chess set, a half-dozen others were circled around a TV showing the last scenes of The Big Sleep. Dinner was long gone and I was starving.

I remembered passing a Royal Castle on the way there, and headed for it. Not many people on the streets- too damned cold-and not many people in the R.C. either. One guy with a beard and scraggly thin hair drooling onto his french fries; a young couple making out in the back booth; two Wealthy Independent Businessmen talking over the charts and invoices spread between their baskets of burgers. The clock said it was 9:14.

I had a mushroom burger, baked potato with sour cream, coffee. My first real food for a while, if you could call it that. It all smelled of bacon grease and tasted as though it had been cooked by the same person who invented polyester.

I paid the cashier, which put a hefty dent in my ready cash. She didn’t punch out prices but merely hit keys carrying stylized pictures of a hamburger, a mushroom, a potato, a steaming coffee cup.

“Come see us again real soon,” she said.

“Had a great time,” I told her.

I meandered along Basin, gradually aware that a car was pacing me. Turned into a side street and the car followed, against the one-way sign. Finally just turned and waited for them.

“Spread ’em, Griffin,” one of the guys said. I already had.

“You thought over what we were talking about earlier?”

I shrugged.

“Man needs friends in today’s world, especially a black man, right? You a friend of ours?”

I shrugged again.