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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v215) (the December 2010 Issue) |
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Order this issue from our printer as an ISSN# paperback book:  or as the ISBN# book “Entering the Ice Age”:  |
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French Quarter Night
Billie Louise Jones
A sleeping French Quarter street, gold street lights blended down to grey shadows along the shuttered houses, all the striving and noise of the day now hushed, resting; and the bars have turned out their last patrons.
Out of the stillness, booted feet and a voice that started with bottled up rage and rose – “Motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” – to a wordless primal scream.
Under the corner streetlight, it was two young men, one white, one black, both in Western gear. The black boy put a hand on the white boy’s shoulder, a steadying gesture; but the white boy slapped it off. He flung himself away and leaned on a door, buckling at the knees.
“Motherfucker! I’m not your slave!” he shrieked and turned sobbing against the door.
The black boy stood close behind him, enfolding tenderness in the curve of his back. Whatever he said did not carry. The white boy broke away, slapping his hands around in the air, and ran a few steps down the block.
“You always want to humiliate me publicly,” he screamed back. He was buckling at the knees and straightening to give his voice more force, hips swaying a little. “You know what you did in the Bar! You always make a public scene!”
“Man, you be making the scene!”
The black boy walked forward slowly, holding out his hand. When he was close enough almost to touch, the white boy ran away a few doors. This time their voices could be heard down the street, but the words were not distinct.
A deep bass voice rumbled from behind a shutter. “For God’s sake, girls, either shut up or tell us all about it! From day one!”
The white boy covered his face with his hands and ran, bent over in sobs, past the next street light and away.
The black boy followed slowly.
