Past drumbeat and starlight and little tin crosses, we walk arm in arm thru the night streets of the Quarter. Over on Frenchmen, the buskers are still playing, their collars turned slightly to the cool breeze. In a vacant lot, a man sits painting skeletons on sheets of slate by candlelight. His mustache drooping, his beard crusty, his face could have leapt from a Civil War tintype, so beset is his regiment of teeth by deserters. He’s the kind of guy young boys call old and old men call pal. I nearly address him as Colonel when he first speaks. “Feel this one,” he says,“ offering the slate on which he’s currently working. “It’s from 1880.” My wife’s not sure whether to take it, but he insists. “Light, in’t it?” She agrees that it is and hands it back. He takes a sip from a can of beer he’s been keeping at his feet. Someone has woven once-living roses into the vines of the wrought iron fence. He’s been to Paris, he says, to study art—then confesses, “I might not make much sense, I had some marijuana earlier.” I have the feeling that no matter where we say we’re from, he’ll say he’s been there. I tell him anyway. “Reminds me,” he says, “of a guy named Spoon. Had his arm tore off in a wreck, and they put this fake one on. One night, Spoon gets in a fight, takes off the arm, and whacks the other guy a good one over the head with it.” I don’t ask what that has to do with our home town. “Twenty bucks for the small ones,” he says, indicating the slates standing like soldiers along the fence. We plead poverty and apologize, wishing him well. He returns silently to his work of skulls and bones. A few yards away, a cymbal crashes at the Spotted Cat. The next set is about to begin.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
:)
Posted by: Sarah | April 20, 2011 at 08:47 PM