Billy worked on a fishing boat at the oldest New Orleans pier, near Delacroix . No one called him Billy, since a child he ran around with voodoo dolls and potions of all kinds. Once, when he was 9 years old, he burned his right arm real good foolin' around with these chemicals he'd acquired from Stela down the street. Since, friends or not, called him Wrinkles. He lived in Nawlins all his life and loved it. Even the crusty, piss smell. All that was, he'd say, is the lasting scent of a good time.
The fishing season ahead looked promising. Which was good news, not much work had come from the cotton gins. It seemed everyday, a gin closed. Recently, the harbour had renovated several of the docks. But, the new wood didn't have the same New Orleans feel like the old, chipped wood. Saddened, Billy a modern artifact of an old world, was dying in the bud of his youth. Not in the way old people die, or the unfortunate sick do. In a physically painless way but devastating to the soul.
(ill finish it)
No comments:
Post a Comment