Chapter 4 Hate to Love
Isaiah
The sounds on Rue Magazine are different from French Quarter sounds, definitely different from the nature sounds of the country home we left behind in the middle of the night. It's calmer here, more local.
Everything smells of Cajun seasoning and grease in this stuffy apartment. Downstairs is a small restaurant that boasts a solid clientele base of regular college students from Tulane and local rock-and-rollers. The place's menu is eclectic and spectacular, every single item absolutely delicious.
The bar is a chill place to drink, a coolly lit environment that always seems to draw out the poison of a bad day. Too bad it's quiet now. Its owners are asleep just down the hall from me, each in their respective beds, each catching just a few hours of sleep before their establishment opens. They're brothers, old friends of ours, and veterans of the New Orleans restaurant network. They're well-known, legitimate proprietors, but they're also an established hook-up for the college/musician drug scene.
I'm flipping over playing cards, three at a time, in an introspective game of solitaire like I can tell the future with them. The ace of spades depicts a skeleton on a unicycle. It's the only ace I have.
Double doors across the room stand open to the still air of mid-summer humidity and a balcony for two. A ceiling fan pushes the air around with all its lazy gumption, giving the vague impression of a breeze. Even in the middle of the city, the intoxication of flower blossoms takes a heady toll on my senses.
The room is shaded in the cool blue of a large aquarium, which gives the light a rippling effect as several large angel fish flip their way around. Occasionally they get pissy and attack each other, a sentiment I can appreciate just now.
Freddy, the twenty-four-year-old weapons encyclopedia, sleeps fitfully in an over-sized recliner against the wall to my left. I can't sleep until I can forget the feel of someone else's blood on my skin.
I take a shot of Patrón. It was Charlie's drink. A shot of tequila, no lime, no salt, just unbridled agave madness. It burns as it farther invades my empty stomach, and it tastes bitter in the fading night. The liquor blazes in my cheeks. Soon it'll sneak up on me and lay me to waste. I hope for that moment sooner than later.
Quite suddenly, tears take me instead, a side effect of the alcohol, I'm sure. These are sloppy tears, drunk tears that rise up from the darkest depths. They're hottest when they come from that deep.
I launch the cards at the coffee table with a sharp curse, sending red and black numbers flying. No ace can save me. This is it, the breakdown. The hand fate has imposed upon me hurts.
With a disconcerted sniff, I stand on shaky legs to escape the room for the more open feeling of the tiny balcony, tequila bottle in tow. The sun'll rise soon. I notch a cigarette.
Maria is across town with Josh, that idiot, there to offer his shoulder.
With a deep drag of smoke, I run a rough hand over my face: scratchy with a day's stubble, lips dry from chain smoking, cheeks wet like a damn kid. I'm only thirty, why do I feel I've done a grueling sentence in this illegal trade? I lean on the railing, watching the scattered early-morning drivers, letting the tears run messily.
These kids are bad for my heart. Charlie was someone who understood the world from the same viewpoint as me, that little subtle wisdom that comes after you pass twenty-five. Twenty-four is like another universe. It seems so far away, and Freddy and Josh, Maria, they don't understand.
No, those two guys have barely had time to have their balls broken enough times, especially Josh. And Maria doesn't understand the manly tendencies she brings to the surface with her bright smile and surging vitality. Maybe she does understand, but that only makes it worse.
Of course, that's the fate of beautiful women. I've always known this mixture of business and emotions could end in disaster. Friends are the best and worst partners. It all feels so close to out of control.
Dawn breaks with liquid pain spilling slowly over everything. Good morning, you have to face it sometime. Sunlight creeps up to burn away the comforting cool temperature, and the mournful wet on my face.
My stomach threatens to give, to forfeit the contents of my night all over the balcony. My world does the cactus spin, tequila vision blurring and coming to me in waves. I'm a mess, a wasted messy fool. The cigarettes aren't helping.
I heft the unwieldy bottle to my lips for a twisting, unforgiving chug, the end of the rations. Outside of the city, Charlie's body lies cold in a morgue that will never show his name on its files. He'll never have an epitaph, no flowers, no jazz. He will fade to ash and smoke and memory. He leaves his underground family drowning in his wake, sinking into this life we've made, this life we love. Hate to love.
Chapter 5 The Ghosts of Rhythm
Joshua
Waking up is hell after you've been asleep for too long, especially the sleep that comes after you've been awake too long. That resounding truth comes blurred with the realization that I'm too
