The Sound of Building Coffins

The two of them knew each other only as friends before the storm, but in their rediscovery of each other after so much misery apart, well, it was as if the tragedy of their lives had created a passion for living that they’d otherwise never have known.

Starting over is a funny thing. You only get one true start, on the day you are born. But as we get older and know better about the lives we’ve lived, every once in awhile we try to make ourselves a new beginning. Problem is that you can’t erase where you come from, the accumulation of your experience being undeniably who you are. Ain’t no one can be rebirthed out of a past that has come to define them, no matter if these things come by chance or design. You can only pretend to start again; never to forget, try as you might.

I guess that’s what Buddy learned. Some fare better than others in this life-with its various turns and stops and starts. This may not be right, but it is true.

Last I heard Gary done built that old Morningstar house back up better than it was. Last I heard Malaria was heavy with child. Last I heard they was doing quite well together, those two. Last I heard they was happy. Simple things. Small victories. One heartbeat at a time.

Starting over, or something like it, the best they can.

Very last thing I heard was an old song in my head, singing somethin’ bout troubled souls and a savior called Jesus pulling folks up from the clutches of hell. An old song is all it is and ever will be, but if played true-it is enough. Starting over and over again from the pit of my heart. A circle in time. Just as the spring trickles into the lake that flows into the river that empties into the sea so that it may rise up to the sky to make rain that must fall-sometimes to fall very hard-and back down again to fill that first little spring once more.

Acknowledgments

Deepest appreciation to the following, without whom you’d be holding some other book in your hands right now: Barbara Braun, John F. Baker, Matthew Miller, Deborah Meghnagi, Katherine Maistros, Poppy Z. Brite, and The City of New Orleans.

Additional alphabetical gratitude to: Tani Bayer, Raymond Buckland, Jenny Keith Ciattei, Bryan Civello, Douglas Clegg, Crispin the Coffee Guy at the old Rue De La Course in the Quarter, Mark Doten, Shari Fisch, Vicky Gashe, GiO the Burlesque Queen of New Orleans & Dr. Bob, Mambo Sallie Ann Glassman, Habitat for Humanity, Jeff “Almost Slim” Hannusch, Skip Henderson, The Ghost of Edna Hicks, Homeless Bill, Khaled Hosseini, Mr. Ike and His Harmonica That Cost More Than a Car, Robert Jaugstetter, Kaldi’s Coffeehousemuseum (RIP), Jack Kelleher, Little Freddie King, The Kowalkowski Family, Levees.Org, Diane Maistros, the memory of George Maistros, Michael Maistros, Roger Mehl, Keely Merritt, Peter “Sneaky Pete” Orr, Diana Price, Zak Rahman & Schiro’s Cafe, Coco Robicheaux, Gary “The Gent” Rouzan, Brett Savory, The Very Reverend Jim Smith & His Damn Frontier, T-Bone “Whiskey Boy” Stone, Paul G. Tremblay, Mike West’s 9 Ward Hillbilly Band and everyone who came back to New Orleans after the storm to swing a hammer in trembling fists.

Extra special thanks and love to my little tribe: Elly, Amberle & Booker.

About the Author

Louis Maistros is a longtime resident of the New Orleans 8 Ward neighborhood. A former forklift operator and self-taught writer with no formal training, his work has appeared in publications such as the New Orleans Times-Picayune and the Baltimore City Paper. Along with his wife Elly, he currently owns and operates Louie’s Juke Joint, a combination jazz record shop and Vodou botanica. He is mildly self-conscious about the fact that he shares a birthday with Lee Harvey Oswald, and is currently working out a conspiracy theory about that.

For More information about the works of Louis Maistros please visit www.louismaistros.com

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