“Slacker. Get up!” Smilin’ Chris outside my door. My only friend, and driver. I’m off the grid. I’ve never had a license.
When I first rolled into New Orleans, Chris was my first cabbie. He’s been getting me where I need to go ever since. He never knocks, just speaks through the door. I got up from the kitchen table, black coffee in-hand, and made my way over to the door and snapped the dead-bolt open.
“Palaver?” I said.
“Yeah, you right.”
Palaver, a word my father uses for a sit down discussion. It was understood that we wouldn’t waste words until we both had a cup in one hand and a smoke in the other. I poured a cup for my “brother from another mother” while he lit a smoke. It was 2 pm. I had been up for about fifteen minutes. The ebony, eternally smiling guy across the table from me knew that this was morning for me. We’re both night-owls but, as far as I know, he never sleeps. That makes me the slacker. Whatever. Asshole. I wake-up homicidal. He thinks it’s hilarious.