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The Quarter
We weren’t spaced out, we were in this spaced out place, and we knew it . . .
—Brooklyn Bob Ravenscroft
Midsummer snakemoon blue on bluesiana
Down joint down old Decatur Street, place called The Boss Fix Jam. Passway backfume the Elysian Fields bus offbound winding low. Shrouded coffin overhung the bar shot spoof aura shadowfall a ceilingfan. Weddingparty aftermath somebody’s bridegroom spunout facedown in the weddingcake. Jukebox rhapsody “loving you has made me bananas.”
Vernon “Dickinthedirt” Rappaport pulpiteering: “Whodat bungholed by a loose canon called american dream?”
Thanks for the inspiration, brother Dickinthedirt
Big Jim Bullshit slingin that hootch—he’s about to pick up the phone: “Who ain’t here? Finney, you here?”
The Beadlady, in whitewig over mock polyester black, leans indoors with her new cajun a-rab impression: “Anybody owe me money?”
Big Jim Bullshit, hustlebustin face on, pointing street, ran her—“Fuck she think dis is? comin in here widdat jive coonass.”
“She’s talkin in tongues, BJimBu.” Voice of Matt Dockery drinking off discovery his untenured job was listed in the want ads (stone Joycefreak—claimed he could tell from the passage what the master had been drinking, sometimes even switches of pleasure thru rewrites). Couple live ones he had buttonholed, husband and wife out of Montreal. He’s waxing native son, talking his town—heels of The Beadlady, some man in peestained floodlength candystripe pants, bellying to the bar, puts a touch on:
“Would you believe it?”
“Probably not.”
“Sixty-nine cent more buys me a bottle of Mulekick.”
“Mulekick!”
“You betcha.”
“Sweet Jesus have mercy—blood spiked with that shit probably rids lice.”
“Done worse dry, brother.”
Big Jim Bullshit put the hook to the hustle. Dockery profiled slipping the man fivespot while the two live ones scrambled cameras ready.
Passing hoofbeats foregoing carriagewheels
(Her take) “The French Quarter is probably as old world as the old world itself anymore.”
(His take on her take) “Not to mention otherworldly as the next world at that.”
(Dockery’s pearl) “To a city true to its ghosts—”
Do me like you do, Big Jim
You want dat greasecutter, dawlin?
Gimme all ya got, honey
You got dat muthafucka! (slamdown hipside bottle to rockglass) I love it!
Compliments of the house for streetcrew. Minutes come midnight over coffee for the soul: Milo Kopke down on a jewsharp bought off some old man at the flea market; Beverly Griffin a paperback found in the street; George Forbert, to his wont, a pipe.
Bellylaugh out Bev, look cut Milo: “I see what you mean about the understated humor in this.”
Milo said, “Paperback trance in progress,” and turned twangs in a ditty.
Story over Milo’s head on this one:
. . . lift in a squad car, next exit ramp: skinhead haircut, ten days inside (busted for weirdness passed off a turnpike hitchhiking rap) . . . impounded backpack light a couple items (paperback trance to soften the rub of that nickelbag ditched highwayside) . . . proof of God no Selective Service trace . . .
Jukebox bangin Beethoven’s Fifth; backtable jewsharp accompaniment.
Chartbuster with a bullet!
Forbert grinning pipesmoke.
In sashays Shushubaby to the strains of “My Man” feeling-shape I heard that subscape Alvin Lee in her room with his shoes off Strutting city issue orangeflare over formfaithful jeans; workgloves one hand, cigarette and walkingcup the other: “These two dudes I just met turned me on to some amolnitrate.”
Milo said, “A friendship to be cultivated!”
“Really. They were coming outta The Lantern hanging all over each other, y’know. I said, Can I walk with you? I was afraid I might freak’em out, y’know, being too bold or whatever, but they were sweet as could be. ‘Sure, honey, you come with us. Anybody gives us any trouble, three screams’re better than two!’”
Herecome Hidden Dave Crossway—Jungian streetsweep working to support a writing habit (his novel Lovers and Other Dirty Fighters soon to be published soon as he got a publisher). Blowed from far look: shades, scarf, whichway hair. Comes off with the shades to hang out with Shushubaby (she was his friend who got him on the street crew): “Years now I’ve been hearing about this El Topo flick. Gotta see El Topo, man. Raise your consciousness untold megaherz. Elbow slippin the armrest woke me up. I walked out . . .”
Tommy Blaha didn’t just make a scene, he stormed it. Shirtless. Jeans cut off to a tease. Androgyne tattoo active with keenings of his streamlined, boldly notched physique. (Somebody once said Blaha was born on an offramp . . . son of a wild man and a wilder woman.) Comes in full swagger ahead Liz Klutch and Albert Johnson—him fuming, them laughing.
“He got kicked out of The Toulouse for yelling at James Booker to cut the jive and play!” Matronly in bibs, backbun and grannies, Liz Klutch had somebody’s oldfashioned auntie covered—
They kicked’im out for that?
“Oh yes, dear. James Booker gets kidgloves treatment in there, you better believe it.”
“Hi Albert!” Shushubaby’s kinda man, Albert Johnson: black dude tall and slim, erect on his bones, loose at the joints. He set her fresh coffee, she like to blushed: “Oh, how sweet!”
Albert that Albert smile eyebright like a woman: “How sweet it is! I spilled the sugar.”
Already Blaha had seen enough, “Later for this,” he was walking, lay siege on the pinball machine over Got Grease Grill across the street.
“. . . Well, let me tell you, James Booker fa-reaked. He’s on like the apron of the stage, okay. ‘I’m rappin up the people, man.’ Tommy goes, ‘I don’t wanna hear it.’ Really. I’m like, I am not believing this. They’re having words over people’s heads. It was rude.”
Doc showed up with Brooklyn Bob; Doc a dark moon on, head hung, hands in pockets; Brooklyn Bob taking measure all around, attitude It seldom matters Doc aka Alan Updock, lapsed biker out of Detroit, at forty the elder statesman of the streetcrew; Brooklyn Bob no streetsweeper but more like streetcrew emeritus by reason he was a chessplayer.
“Doc just got a ground zero street rap laid on’im.”
Doc broke it down: “I’m walkin down Ursalines, comin down here, I see these two bros crossin the street up ahead. So one of’em I see bends down and picks somethin up off the street. He’s showin his partner, y’know, they’re into this thing. So I’m makin the corner, dude asks me do I have a light, and he’s, you know, sorta lettin me see this joint that he’s found. I figured I’d help’em out, I give the dude a light, then he offers me a hit. I’m like, Hey, y’know, this is all right. I’m thankin’em, y’know, I’m about to take a hit, I look and the other dude has a pistol on me. They got these cocky smirks now, right, dude tells me, ‘Go head, take a hit,’ he says, ‘You wanna be feelin good as you can for this.’”
Now was Brooklyn Bob got a smirk: “Mightcoulda passed it back when they hitch’up for yer money, Doc. Be feelin good as they could for zero large!”
Albert come lately: “I write a mean IOU!”
Big Jim Bullshit would know what was more: “You heard about Dirty Ernie got mugged up on Bienville. Didn’t have no money so they took his hat.”
United Cab Ronnie stopped in for a break. “Just got stiffed on a fare upto The Funk Shop. Some kid AWOL from the military, man. I mean talk about a storyteller. ‘DI was an asshole, man. I went over the wall.’ Weapon goes off at inspection, right. DI was on his case. Anyway, upto The Funk Shop I’m pickin up he’s slow from the pocket, right. I get this sinking feeling about the fare. Sure enough he cops a plea. I’m flashin on Future Winos of America decab here, right? I mean what could I say? Yeah, hey, no problem, kid. Thanks for the tax writeoff. Then he’s hittin on me do I have anything for the head! I’m like, Hey, I don’t mix business with pleasure, okay? Specially when business is slow. He goes, Hey, that’s the best time. I said, Out. Then he makes with this touch like he’s down on hard times, y’know, would I lay some paper on’im! I said, The most expensive fare I’ve had in I dunno how long and you have the gall to panhandle? He goes, You gonna be cool or what?
I mean d’you believe ‘at shit? I said, Work up a juggling act, kid. He bends back on my finger and goes out slammin the door.”
Marlies Hennegar, waitress upto Mespero’s, brooding off Immigration hassles:
“Never have I felt such freedom as I feel here . . . I so do not want to leave, but I may have no choice.”
Guy bellies barside; glazed look, random air, eyecontact call this was not his first stop. Said please for a draught, reaching for his wallet. Big Jim Bullshit took the style hit. One draught up in a frosted stein.
Longwayfromhome look about Marlies would not escape notice.
“I was once a man who moved patrols thru jungles.”
Burnout to one comes in a place and gets weird with somebody mightcould apply. Lifestories she could tolerate, provided you kept it positive; patrols thru jungles could be told someone else. When he stayed with the subject, she shined him on. He rambled on anyway. Something about three slugs caught in a firestorm . . . carried out the jungle on a buddy’s shoulders. Talking at her face in a barback mirror got him stonewalled same in remove. His voice shook; shook and broke. Crosslooks offmirror cut fluterank forefronted. Guy was in tears but not finished yet. Something about the few who got out alive. She turned facing him—the mug slipped his grip, dumping on photogear up bartop. Big Jim Bullshit slipped Dockery topsops. The stranger made apologies, but these people had no time for imbalanced behavior: apologies met same as patrols thru jungles. Big Jim Bullshit told the man come see him tomorrow; he stood him a fresh draw—this time in a plastic walkingcup. The stranger slumped, face in hand. Marlies just looked at the guy. Dockery and the live ones too. Was Milo Kopke brought the coverage. United Cab Ronnie was with him; Brooklyn Bob and Forbert too.
Milo long and spindly at his flamingo pose on one leg: “Care to join with us in headship?”
The stranger wiped his mug a backhand: “Good stuff, dude?”
Hidden Dave Crossway got up to go, got waylayed by this cameracarrying couple coming tableside. The woman was ample who once had been fine, winter blonde, smile more timely than felt: “Excuse me, you people sweep the streets, I understand?”
Dockery was all over the coverage: “They wanna get some pictures, I told’em I’d get’em some local play.”
Crossway led with his eyes: “Pictures don’t turn out, you still been anywhere?”
Mugs hung wha?
Crossway had it behind him, he was walking. Doorway out he crossed passing nods with Poopdeck Perry of Baltimore.
Big Jim Bullshit spotted Poopdeck Perry: “Ah-right P Doop!”
Poopdeck Perry faced off High Noon style: “You cajun muva!”
“Whodat bungholed—”
Wear it out, Dickinthedirt
Dockery got next Liz Klutch: “So whatta we got for a moonswoon vigil? Go go or no go?”
Liz shrugged: “Beats me, dear. The square is open but the lights are still on. Hard to tell who, what or even if at this point.”
“Max wax is when?”
“Threethirtythree, dear.”
“Max wax at threethirtythree. Kind of a numerological ring to that.”
“Really.”
GreatGoneBefore
Liz Klutch and Albert Johnson kicked back at Place d’Armes:
“Whatever happened to the proverbial bath of moonlight?”
“Sounds like one for the grafitti wall, dear.”
“Personally I find the cathedral overenhanced. In my view all of this artificial light is a desecration. I could feature undeflected moonlight anytime.”
“Weird thing about it probably most tourists could too.”
“The powers that be should be persuaded of the sheer vanity of all this kilowattage.”
“Albert, you’re such a romantic.”
“Diehard innocence groping in futility.”
“I love it!”
Dockery said, “You know, I heard someone say, This is snakemoon, you know. I’m thinkin, No, I don’t know. What is snakemoon? I dunno, d’you?”
Liz said, “Search me, dear. Sounds swamp culture to me, but then again it could be an indian thing or something, I really don’t know.”
“I detect pop astrology.”
“Truth to tell, dear, for all I know, somebody just made it up.”
Meantime, at a wayside salvaged Baptist pew, United Cab Ronnie was schooling Dockery’s live ones: “Yeah, style counts for a lot in this town.”
The weddingparty holdover, somebody’s bridegroom, stirring from stupor, bid a rally; weddingcake wipeoff wanting wiped more, he was heard muttering slurred: “Wants she should get on my case I’m a loser? Well I got news for her: If ever there was a asshole there was hope for, it’s gotta be me, and I’ll swear by that to my dying day, and I don’t mean what’s left of it.”
Crosslooks and highsigns so much for any good to come of a Boss Fix nuptial bash
Couple-three flicks at a lightswitch. Big Jim Bullshit hailed the house: “Daddy’s feelin happy but he’s runnin outta tricks!”
Everybody heard that.
Place was bedlam.
Keep it lit, pass it around
—Graffitti wall, Ursalines Convent
Fountain plaza benchtop (“Torrid florid” surround): Milo sparked a bone and passed it.
Brooklyn Bob said to Art Nieman, “Y’know I once asked a California dude howcome California people are so weird. He said, ‘It’s the fault, man. All that earth energy comin up from the fault.’”
Art Nieman said, “There’s an old California saying: At the end of the trail, you’re bound to see some horseshit.”
Brooklyn Bob had to laugh: “I like that!”
. . . Chopped hog winds out on Decatur
Nieman said, “So whattayou guys do here anyway?”
Brooklyn Bob said, “I don’t, they do.”
Milo said, “Actually we’re in trash.”
Nieman said, “A straight job?”
Milo nodded: “Streetsweep.”
Nieman: “Awyeah? That’s cool. Y’know I’ve heard tell streetsweeps in San Francisco bring down fifteen large a year.”
Milo said, “Not this side of truth.”
Nieman said, “Hey, what you bring down brings you down, hey, I don’t need to bring it up, know what I’m sayin?”
Milo said, “Put it to ya this way. Anybody workin for the man for less is doin time inside or on a chain ‘n’ anklebrace outside.”
Nieman said, “Hey, that’s cool. You’re into an alternative lifestyle.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “I foresee a Tomb of the Zen Wageslave all the rage at The Oddfellows Cemetery.”
. . . The Beadlady slinks crossplaza
United Cab Ronnie asked Nieman, “So howya like this mother of midways?”
Nieman said, “Mother of midways is right. So far I’ve dropped fivespot to some black kid bet he could tell where I got my shoes. Then I got about threefourths tight on somebody’s bootleg absinthe. Then just now I caught the bum’s rush outta this place over here.”
Forbert said, “I fell for that shoe gimmick once. It was a long time ago. I didn’t pay up though.”
Nieman said, “The walkingcup was what bummed me out.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Big Jim Bullshit sayin it with plastic. Now there’s one for the ages ever I heard one.”
Nieman said, “I had all my shit packed. Nobody wanted to hear it.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Hey. Hot timin town, man. Yer gonna get eightysixed. It happens, y’know. You take it in stride.”
Nieman said, “Big Jim Bullshit, uh?”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Operates black ‘n’ white, recollects in technicolor.”
Nieman said, “No harm in that—I hope.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Claims he got shook down by Elvis at an airport.”
Nieman said, “An airport?”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Claims Elvis flashed that G-Man tin, y’know, that Nixon laid on’im?”
Nieman said, “Shook down by honorary heat all shook up.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Vintage BJimBu.”
. . . offriver whiff of mud airs trace heartland
Nieman said, “So where you guys from?”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Better from than there.”
Nieman nodded: “Hearya there. Been to the mountaintop, seen the compromised land.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “There it is.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Not the land of a thousand dances.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “More like night of the living dead turns to day.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Your basic mainstream american slobocratic lifestyle in other words.”
Nieman said, “So this is asylum.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Ass end of the river, man.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Bottom landing right here.”
Milo said, “You follow a voice till you come to the music.”
Nieman said, “Hearya there, man. I can definitely relate to that.”
Milo said, “What we’re onto here is this plane at a frequency unlike anyplace else above ground.”
Nieman said, “Man, I dunno where your realityspace is at, but it can’t be crowded.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Yeah, ole Milo, he’s pretty stretched out.”
Nieman said, “Principled dude.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “He’s like an old tree. I mean if anybody can exist without a witness, Milo he’s got balance in the dark.”
Milo said, “Speakin of the dark, I’m flashin on lights out for the people at the square.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Kinduva guerrilla moonlight observance in the making, more or less.”
Nieman said, “Radical.”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Uncut moonlight is the buzz.”
Nieman said, “Do I detect counter tourism?”
United Cab Ronnie said, “Imagine Deja Vu instead of hors d’oeuvres.”
Nieman said, “Which way to where this is at?”
Milo said, “You can come naked.”
Nieman said to Milo, “Y’know, I could swear I’ve seen you before.”
Milo said, “Ever done—course you haven’t done time, what am I talkin about?”
Nieman said, “Never done time, but I have done active duty.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Hey, we’re all inmates or out, know what I’m sayin?”
Nieman asked Milo, “Ever in country any chance?”
Milo shook it off: “Declined my invitation.”
Nieman nodded, “Hearya there. Served ‘n’ damn proud of it, don’ gimme wrong, but I don’t hold nothin gainst nobody for shinin that one on.”
Milo said, “You did your duty, I did mine.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Talk about inmates or out, I did active duty and time.”
Nieman said, “You served in the military?”
Brooklyn Bob said, “Private first class. Got my Parris Island pin. My Korean War Service Medal. Can’t fake them trimmings, man. Did I serve in the military.”
Forbert said to Nieman, “I didn’t believe it either at first.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “My honorable discharge should be as believable as his Section 8 Deferment.”
Nieman said, “I believe ya, man.”
Brooklyn Bob said, “All of eighteen when I enlisted. Fresh outta high school. Awyeah, I was gung ho, boy. Strictly John F. Wayne.”
Nieman said, “John fuckin Wayne! Ahright, you are a grunt!”
Comprehensive brother handshake . . .
Hey, if you don’t believe The Babe really called his shot, you damnside best had believe he meant to.
—Calvin “Bobo” Proffit
Concrete breakwater, foreyard Esplanade Wharf, down old Peter Street, opposite the French Market arcade;
. . .Wayside wallfront, shadowactive: parked cars outlined in crosstown headlights . . . metamakes, riderless, trace on the spook (to refer suchlike nextlight):
Scratchbuilt toolshed offlit from the produce arcade across the street; CLOSED handpainted letterimperfect on the door; assets in store: pushbrooms and binshovels long on wear, workgloves indeterminately stashed or discarded. (Toolshed under padlock, pushcarts on a chain, shape of issue what it was, inviting spoof; but like the bossman Bobo Proffit would say, “Not everybody comes to church to pray.”)
Pickup white with amber dome, Sanitation emblem either door: Bobo Proffit at the wheel—traveled bush hat, day or so stubble—vanishing sixpack at hand, singing Don’ fuh-get ah Mon-day date . . .
“Bananas” Joe Bonomo brooding foursquare at Proffit’s window: thumbs hitched in pockets, attitude Ain’t dis some shit
Day ago morningshift some old woman hosing shopfront pavement turned the hose on two of Joe’s crew and when Joe went to see whatdafuck and the old woman turned the hose on him Joe went upside her head. Now Joe was a fallen labor advocate and Proffit’s time had come: Proffit would be replacing Joe head of French Quarter street sweeping operations and Joe replacing Proffit head of this detail shitbottom of the municipal power structure (Joe claimed he stepped down).
The transfer of power met mixed reactions in the ranks:
The man’s a pathological fuckup, man
Yeah, well, we’re an equal opportunity outfit
He suckerpunched an old lady, man, I mean how insecure izzat?
Joe overcompensates
Proffit called it shape up, like they call it on the docks—workaday connection hung on this crew to be cute. (“Hippiz with jobs ain’t hippiz or ain’t jobs—look again.”)
Liz Klutch would find Proffit hale if not well met: “Carrotcake, Bobo. Homemade.”
“You know ah don’t eat nuttin hippiz make.”
“Oh for heavensake.”
“No tellin what konna locoweed you people put’n somp’n like ‘at.”
“Far be it from me to shake your serenity, dear.”
Proffit stepped out the truck, stood full height—backbend loosen some truckseat out him—not to see fifty again though still a fair figure of the onetime sandlot mainstay used to make backhand stops, drive balls over heads (“Nothin beats a bat ‘n’ya hands, a cigar outcha mouth ‘n’a cold one in the cooler . . .”): Inch or so upward six foot, sturdy underbite, brew yet to tell round the middle (once got tossed for dusting the due batter during warmups).
Shushubaby stepped forward: “Bobo, can I have new gloves? These’re grody.”
“No baby, y’can’t. Ah jiss gaveya dem.”
“I know you did. I need new ones already. These leave prints.”
“Woish’em if dey doity.”
“I did. They’re still disgusting.”
Blaha said, “Give the girl the gloves, Bobo.”
Shushubaby said, “I’m ashamed to have these in public.”
Albert had gloved up, tweaked fingertiphold one of Shushubaby’s gloves: “We’re talking germ signatures from some of the most intense gutters in the city.”
Proffit said, “Woish y’hans bafaw y’go handlin y’sevs y’won’t be gittin no goims aboutcha. ‘At’s what crotchrot’s all about. Hippiz don’t knowdat.”
Blaha said, “Yer talkin outtayer ass, Bobo.”
“Awta be glad a whatcha got, y’ass me. Wudn’ no new gloves eva mont when ah woiked ott hehh. We brought ah own uh we did widout, simple azzat.”
Albert said, “Reflections of a golden age!”
Blaha: “Give the girl the gloves, Bobo.”
Proffit cut Blaha a look not trained on redeeming qualities: “Tommy, if ah gitchu a seaman’s cawd, wouldjou take a ship?”
“Pack it dirty, Bobo.”
Albert said, “Strictly short time shippers, thank you,” and Liz got a husky laugh. Albert said, “Select bars afford boarding privileges in kind.”
Proffit said, “Yeah, ah’ll betchu da pride o’ d’fleet, awncha?”
Albert said, “Keep your contacts for someone who can’t make it on a ship without a seaman’s card.”
Liz yukked, “I love it!”
Not one to linger in a downhill conversation, Proffit got a line on a whole other drift, eavesdropping only so long, then homing in for the strafe: “‘At’s like da one about da fella pulls a gun ‘n’ sez, ‘Awrightchu muttastickas, dis is a fuckup.’ I’m tellinya, somebody wanna git hisself laughed off a cellblock pullin a stunt like ‘at. Holdin up a streetsweepa fa Godsake, whoeva hoida such a thing? I’ll tellya one goddamn thing, you think you caught da hindmost—ma good friend Thibidoux got mugged by some bulldyke disguised like one a dem Krishnas. Yeah. You huyd about da bulldyke disguised like a Krishna. You ain’t huyd about da bulldyke disguised like a Krishna? Mugged ma friend Thibidoux right up hehh on Rampawt Street. Put a shitkickin on’im, too, umma teyya what. Thibidoux he couldn’t unnestan it. He thought it wuz one a dem Krishnas, see. Come to fon ott it was a bulldyke in disguise.”
Albert said, “Sub-Saharan ancestry, no doubt,” and people laughed.
Mimic rattletrap all along the wallfront: ashtruck hitting on about half its cylinders; dumpbody percussion every pothole. Engine idle upto halfminute after shutoff.
Driver out the Ninth Ward, Leo Dazzolini: sagging figure in bargain threads fitting somewhat; hands downside, toothless pidgin tongue, tried eyes out worldview by lowbeam. Shed the trademark porkpie lid he mightcould slip recognition.
“No Rudolph ‘n’ Clyde?”
“Ah waited twenny minith, Bobo. Ath wha ahm late.”
“Why’n y’pick up y’radio? Ah been callin ah dunno how long.”
“Radio buthit, Bobo.”
“Ya radio’s busted!”
“Ah tolya bout dat.”
“You neva tole me nuttin bot no radio.”
“Ah tolyadat, Bobo.”
“Y’tolme da hahdrolik wudn’ right ‘n’ ah had dat looked at.”
“At wuth night bafaw ah tolya bot d’hahdrolik, Bobo. Memba lath night ah come inna Humminboid . . . you’n Brotha Boike . . .”
“Yeah, yeah—”
“Ath when ah tolya bot d’radio wudn’ woikin.”
“Ahright ahready. Putcha name onna timesheet, Dazzlin.”
“Wudn’ f’dem otha two ah’d a been heh on time, Bobo.”
“Think ah didn’ have at figgid up front? At’s how come y’don’t see dem pushcawts dumped way dey at, ah got news fuyya.”
Beverly Griffin stepped up: “I’ll volunteer for the truck.”
Leo beamed: “You’ll woik wit me, Beb?”
Proffit jammed Bev: “Pushin a broom in the street ain’ man enough fuyya?”
Bev said, “If I were a man it wouldn’t matter, would it, Proffit?”
Proffit shrugged: “Don’t make me no diffence. Be too confusin if it did.”
Liz screened Bev; back her off, cool her out.
The pushcarts wanted dumped before operations got underway.
Somebody said, “Who’s gettin up in the truck?”
Proffit said, “C’mon, somebody git up’eh, be nice.”
Doc made it topside.
Detachable cans, two per cart, for the hefting:
Tighten up, Doc.
Crossway and Blaha hefted one, then another; heavy metal rung on the slamhome. Bev stood ready to gear in with Albert. First can went up without a hitch, but the next only so high and almost back down but for Doc at his reach to weigh the save.
Proffit yelled, “C’mah, git doze cans up eh. Y’gawna break d’man’s back makin’im gotudda well like ‘at.”
Bev dropped back, next can all Albert, she was taking off her gloves. She drew full height, hand behind, twist and bow, see could she work out her back, short favoring it. Proffit was watching. She cocked him a snoot—hand at her back passed off strictly casual, strictly unconscious attitude. Crossway, on looksee, brought Albert coverage, no hitch in the getalong. Was Bev broke eye contact—jump steady at the toolshed.
Proffit said, “No maw volunteeh f’da truck?” He had this smirk now. “Wha hapna voluntee’n f’da truck?”
Bev said, “Change of heart, Proffit?”
Proffit said, “Less jess say ahm impressed wit what ah seen.”
A pushcart jamming ragged blacktop took Blaha flush on the shin; he pitched a fit: one after the other over the tailgate with the cans, then over the wall with the pushcart.
Proffit said, “Wanna git dat cawt back heh while you still got a job, son?”
“Bullshit Bobo. You want proper work, get us some proper equipment out here.”
“Back heah widdat cawt or yo fired.”
Blaha read Proffit to filth every step of the way. Last word went down with the pushcart retrieved under protest: “Ahm puttin you on notice, son. One maw fuckup ‘n’ you betta be streetwise, unnestan?”
Johnny Albesharpe swung the market arch in his maroon ’67 Galaxy 500; with his usual showtime stop next Proffit’s truck, the trademark driverside exit feature was in effect (door wouldn’t open/window wouldn’t close). Johnny would be the latest of a streetcrew succession of lapsed scholars (termpaper short a bachelor’s in anthropology). What was more, his senior ranking on upward four years tenure was far an alltime streetcrew consecutive service record (compared, say, to Blaha’s five years in three tours).
Proffit said, “Saddy night late again.”
Albesharpe shrugged, “Oldies radio, Bobo. No way I can break away before midnight, what can I tellya?”
“Well ah’ll tell you somp’n, son. From now on, you ain’ hyeh fa quatuh afta, you will git mawked absent ‘n’ you won’t git paid, unnestan?”
“Can’t do that, Bobo.”
“Awyeah? Well you jess see what ah can uh can’t do when ya paycheck comes in light.”
Albesharpe shook it off, “I got sick days, I got personal days.”
“Dat’s immaturial.” (A Bobospeak buzzword: immaterial.)
“Tell Civil Service that.”
“Ah’ll tell Civil Soivice same as ahm tellin you, son, don’ make me no fuckin diffence.”
Hidden Dave Crossway took mock indignant: “I do no be-lieve that I am hearing this particular language at a municipal depot.”
Albert Johnson said, “I share my colleague’s outrage at such indescriminate use of double negatives.”
Albesharpe smirked, “King’s English with a yattitude!”
Proffit said, “Yeah you right, ah don’t dot ma oz—but ah do git read—so roll ‘at ‘n’ya zigzags ‘n’ nevamind.”
Leo came forward, forefinger for begpardon: “Ahm takin Beb, Bobo, no kiddin?”
Proffit smirked, “Y’wanna putcha gloves on you gonna take Bev.”
Liz snapped, “Ca-rude, Bobo,” and Shushubaby said, “Really.”
Leo flustered, “Ath not what ah meant, you know betta’n ‘at. Hith makin ‘at up. You awful, y’knowdat? Ain’ he awful?”
“Ahright ahready. Evabody present ‘n’ unaccounted fuh? (Bobospeak read hippies did everything stoned.) Ahright, hezza deal. You pickin up Boibon Street—”
Say fuckin what?
“Da sweepa machine is down.”
Saturday night again!
Hidden Dave Crossway spoke up: “Sir, in the words of the Big Bopper, and I quote: ‘But . . . but . . . but . . .’”
Proffit told Crossway, “You woik wit Milo.” He cut Milo a smirk. “Ya pawdna voluntidda woik onna truck, wudn’at nice?”
Crossway told Milo, “Not the breakthrough it appears. Do not be unduly impressed.”
Proffit said, “Awyeah ‘n’ Fognoggin (Forbert), by d’way, ah got anotha complaint from the hotel. See datcha all git dat got, y’hear?”
Doc heard that. “Dammit, Proffit, we’re not hotel help. Hotel garbage is hotel work. Where do they get off puttin it on us?”
“Some folks is f’doin, some folks is done fuh, whattaya gonna do?”
“Dogs ‘n’ garbagemen scatter hotel garbage, we’re supposed to sweep it up?”
“Routine heroics, Doc.”
Doc went away mad.
“Heah you people talk you’d think y’had real jobs uh somp’n. Ah neva seen maw people wanna blow an easy setup cuz it ain’t easy enough. Awta be backin up to pick up y’paychecks as it is.”
. . . Tour carriage rolling by, driver at his rap: “Know wha d’French Mawket neva close?”
Blaha, Liz and Johnny amped off: “Because it has no doors!”
Carriagedriver rolled with it: “Yeah you right. It have no doze . . .”
Blaha hollered in their wake: “You ain’ never lied!”
Womanvoice in the carriage: “Who are those people?”
. . . brainchild of some local shaker and mover name of Ken Pope, advocate for Quarterpeople earning wages keeping the Quarter kept, the duly formed Vieux Carre Task Force came to be known as Proffit’s hippies . . .
Proffit said, “Ahright ahready, go git it got.” (Vintage Bobospeak, “Get it got”—by some lights the “Hippocratic Oath of streetsweepery.”)
Hidden Dave moved out at a fetchdown sixties slouch, dragging his broom, whistling off his Marche Slave/Enigma Variations medley . . .
. . . Appointed rounds east of midnight, pavements heart of town, pushbrooms and cartwheels made nightmusic for the soul . . .
