By E.A. Cook
Scarface Billy saw me before I saw him. “Hey Roll-Yer-Own. What’s up, tramp?”
I said “Hi” with my chin, and set my duffel down by his park-bench.
I didn’t expect to see a familiar face in Portland when I crawled out of the boxcar that morning. Night Eyes was sleeping off a drunk under an over-pass when I slipped away and hopped a freight out of Seattle the night before. She wouldn’t cry when she woke-up. Citizens cry. Tramps just move on.
Scarface aimed the neck of his bottle of Thundebird at the other end of the bench, and said,”Sit and light. Chief’s sittin’ there, but he went on a wine run. Been gone awhile.”
I took out the makings, rolled two smokes, and flipped one at Billy. He caught it with his left hand, his right was lifting the bottle to his lips.
“Drink?” He offered in a wine-whisper between swigs. I nodded, reached for the offered bottle, lifted the bottom to the cold, over-cast sky, and let the medicine burn it’s way past my cold heart, into my damaged stomach.
Scarface looked sharply over my shoulder, said”Chief! No!”, when the ham-sized fist found my temple. I half-turned in time to get a glimpse of the big indian before the grey washed over me.
On the way to the ground, I heard “My spot!”. Then the blackness came.
It was dark when I woke up on the ground, right where I fell. Cold rain hit my exposed cheek, while dried blood glued my other cheek to the grass. I hissed the pain through my gritted teeth as I peeled my head from the ground. A young couple on an evening stroll down the bike-path stepped wide and away as they saw me rise from the shadows. Their arrogant, dis-approving eyes watched me closely until they were safely away. “Nasty.” I heard her say. Bitch.
Citizens cry. Tramps just move on.
My first memory is of a big man in a white T-shirt named Babe, telling me to pick my own switch for an ass beating. I remember going out into the humid Alabama night, chickens at my feet, to pull a branch off of a bush. My five-foot-two mom was fighting for me, and Babe’s parents jumped in the middle of it. My next memory was of me and Mom sitting on a bench at the Greyhound Bus station in the early morning darkness. Babe was begging her to stay. We didn’t.
We went to the South Side of Chicago from there that summer and Mom got a job making triggers at a Smith and Wesson gun factory. When she worked, the downstairs neighbor family babysat me. There was a little girl my age with her afro tied to look like Minnie Mouse. Her Father grabbed her by those tufts once while we were playing, picked her up, and flung her against the wall over my head. I was three years old
The picture in this piece is of me on a tricycle that I got for my third birthday. It got stolen the same day.
We moved to Mom’s homeland then, Minnesota, and things got better.
Rusk Gasparilla never understood what made Jovetta Robineux the “Tornado That Caused the Train-wreck”, but she was all of that and more. She was a force of nature that couldn’t be denied. Everyone that encountered her was affected by her, and those who tried to get close to her body or heart were sent into a tailspin and left in a heap. Except Rusk.
He had been by her side for four years, had never made a play for her bed and had no experience with affairs of the heart. He had never given or received love from anyone before meeting her in Storyville, but in short order he found himself shot while defending her in an alley against three armed men. One died of a broken neck, another from a collapsed skull, and the other ran off. Rusk had become her protector since recovering from the gunshot wound, rarely leaving her side. He had killed for her and would die for her.
Further is the sequel to Spanish Moss. Vin, Esteen, Sophie and Chris are all back for this tale. It’s been six years since Calvin crashed through the guardrail and became Vin Robineux. He’s a little older now, and jaded.
This is a story of predators, survivors, warriors, gristle and broken teeth. Coming soon..