by Andy Finch
“Ian?”
A growl. That was not Ian.
“This isn’t funny.”
The pop of knees. Beside him, whatever—whoever called out to him was now kneeling beside him. Draven refuses to turn his cheek and face the noise. The childlike fear of the dark ignites within. He wishes one of his neighbors would turn on their porch light right about now. No one does. He was alone, except for the mosquitoes biting and the shadow-man next to him.
“Do you only know those four words?” A thick accent not from this gulf. The Mediterranean. Draven looks. He does not need to add a name to the face. Morris’ curls hang down his shoulders, touching the blades that connect his arms to his torso.
“Are you an angel?”
Draven knew now that there was more than enough alcohol bubbling inside. His organs give a wheeze, not accepting the feel of a stomach full of only fruity alcoholic drinks. Bile bubbles, but he keeps it down.
“You’re funny,” Morris does not look over to him. Draven wants to see his blue eyes, the ones that look almost as if pried out of a painting. Hollow. No human could have that type of stillness to them, “I guess you could call me an angel.”
Draven is aware of the would-be angel's breath on his skin. It was cold. Unnatural. Draven considers the possibility that he was more than an angel. Maybe a demon. Draven didn’t like that conclusion. He turns his cheek. Morris was only a hand’s distance away. He smells of lavender and poppies. The vanilla around him was gone. Or maybe it was blocked out by Draven’s half-asleep senses. Morris’ eyes, blue like cornflowers, flick between Draven and the night sky. Draven would catch him looking, then he’d try to match his gaze, and then the angel would look away before their eyes could meet.
“Am I dreaming?” Draven asks, but he already knows the answer.
“You catch on quickly,” Morris feels so close. Too close. Draven hates it, “Does it feel like a dream?”
A pause. Draven searches his surroundings. There was a firefly playing in the blossomless magnolia and mosquitoes all through the air. No sound from the bullfrogs, though. They have not been startled, so they do not cry out. He thinks, letting his face show his contemplation with a thick knot. Morris pulls that knot tighter and tighter until it cannot be untied.
“No,” Draven finally says, “It doesn’t feel like a dream.”
A noise of disagreement, “No?” Morris takes offense to that, but the mask of disappointment melts away, “Why did you ask if you were dreaming, then?”
“Because you’re here.”
“Oh,” Morris narrows his eyes on the firefly flying overhead. It lands on his arm. He squashes it, then uses the thorax to draw lines of luminescence. Draven thinks he’s being morbid, killing that innocent bug and then using his entrails to paint his skin? Yuck, “I guess I do have that aura to me, hm? Do you like it?”
“Do I… like what?”
“Me,” he flicks the carcass to the ground, “Do you like me?”
Silence. A lengthy pause. Draven thinks of his answer with careful thought. Morris would have to be patient with his answer. The rush of blood in his ears, letting the gates of pain loose, gives him his answer.
“No. I don’t.”
“Then you are a fool.”
He was gone, then. A porch light turns on. Ian stands on their balcony, another daiquiri in his hand. They had resorted to homebrew now. He’s got a smile written on his face, Draven imagines him smelling of alcohol and happy spirits. Draven likes it when Ian was happy. It meant everyone was in good shape.
“Did you get lost out there?” There’s a slur to his words, “Don’t make me come out there and haul you back in here, Dray.”
Draven smiles back up to Ian, sleepiness covered in his eyes. Ian stares down at Draven. Draven stares up at Ian. The bullfrogs begin to croak, a chorus of reep-reep-reep’s sounds the silence that embarks the lovers. Ian leans against the railings of the balcony.
“Did my heart love till now?” Ian quotes Shakespeare down to Draven. He puckers his lips, allowing a kissy noise to blow down to Draven.
“I don’t know enough Romeo and Juliet to finish this, babe.” His insides clench as Ian’s eyes burn a bittersweet glimmer of comfort that rolls down to enthrall him. A smile comes through, written on his lips in a font he can’t quite read.
“You don’t have to,” Ian rolls his eye, gathering himself off the railing on the balcony, “Just come back up here. It’s lonely without you.”
7
Mardi Gras had come. The streets were alive, now more than ever. Or maybe they were dead. Draven liked that answer better. The streets were full of bloated dreams and alcoholism. There was a lot of hate in this city during the week of Fat Tuesday. Mardi Gras was only a happy time for the bar owners. The tourists were far fewer than last year. It was attributed to the bad hurricane season. More houses were destroyed, more roads were ruined. New Orleans was dying, no matter what anyone said. It was the city that hope forgot.
“You’ve got pictures to take,” Mister LaVeaux said, placing the news’ commissioned camera in his hands. It was bigger than Draven’s brew. Thick, silver, and a high definition shot, “Capture all the pretty floats, ya hear me? Not them uglies.”
Uglies were the passed-out drunks who riddled the streets all over. Bourbon Street was always hit the worst during this plague of tourists. It was in the name. Bourbon. Draven gaged when walking down that stretch of road, too wide yet all too small. Or, it could refer to the women flashing their breasts for the chance of catching the plastic beads. Draven didn’t blame them for enjoying their time. They were given equipment made to attract eyes. It was right to shake what their mommas gave them, as Geneva had joked once before.
“Yessir,” Draven refrains from arguing. It was enough trouble to beg them to let him back to work. The opposing new station had slandered his name with the police incident, “Do you have a schedule—”
“Just stand outside, Draven. It’s not that hard to find a parade.”
He had a point, but it came with flaw only Draven could see. Some of the parades here feature more… mature themes. Stuff not suitable for the Mardi Gras section of the newspaper, or the blog. Stuff Draven didn’t want to see. Boobs, specifically. He hopes, silently to himself, that there would be a gay parade. The ones where the men wear tight clothes so you could see their members. Draven wouldn’t mind seeing that downtown.
Now on a mission, Draven exits the news building and onto the streets of New Orleans. Already the waft of liquor and human urine emit from the people caked in. Canal Street wasn’t the one featuring any of the floats. It was the doorway to the French Quarter, though. And that was where all the partygoers were headed. Camera in tow, Draven follows the trail of trash (and the stench of tourists) down the stretch of concrete.
The Quarter was, on certain days, scenic. Usually, there’d be a smell of beignets cooking down near Café du Monde, or there’d be some zydeco music blaring through the shop doors.
Passing by a local, lesser-known café, Draven finds himself enthralled in memories. He envisions he and Ian’s dates down at the Quarter. Ian had powdered sugar all in his stubble. It enhanced the yellow of his teeth. Their kiss was sugary sweet. He’s pulled from thought as a tourist asks him for direction to Bourbon Street. He points them three roads down.
The streets were large, but no cars could ever pass during these times. Too many people, too many cops, and not enough road to share. Draven wonders how many jaywalkers get hit down these streets during Mardi Gras. Or how many accidents happen down the broken turnpikes. Probably too many to count. Mardi Gras brought out the worst in people. It was the alcohol, truly. Most people forget what Mardi Gras was even about nowadays. Draven didn’t care, he was just here to snatch photos for his company.
The wonders of Mardi Gras come in two phases. The first is the young years of life. The kiddy parades during the morning hours, with bright colors and smiles. The ones that mainly stuck to the West Bank and Uptown. The nicer side of t
he city. That wonder wanes as the child grows older. The spark returns when they’re twenty-one, though. Mardi Gras makes New Orleans the booze capital of the south. The fresh adults get to indulge with hand grenades and daiquiris. Soon enough, even that wonder disappears. Then you come to dread Mardi Gras. Draven was on that stage of life.
He turns. Cobblestone paves the sidewalks now. The French Quarter was old and held too much history. It was a shame, Draven thought, that it would mostly be remembered for the parades and not the suffering of the common folk or the memories of war. Draven puts the camera to his eye, snapping a picture of St. Louis Cathedral peeking through the buildings. The spikes of the roof seem to touch the sky from where he was standing. The contrast between modern-day life and the colonialism always brought about a good photograph. It was almost surreal, the amount of history held on these simple streets.
A hand touches his shoulder. He hisses, the more-scar-tissue-than-wound barks a complaint at the intrusion. The wound may have cleared, the infection long gone and the bullet more of a memory, but his brain still sparked nerves of pain whenever the scar tissues it touched. The bullet did more damage to his brain that to the thick skin of his shoulder. The pain evaporates, instead being replaced with confusion and wonder. His eyes meet the tired, familiar eyes.
“Morris?” Draven whispers, hoping that the choir of voices would block out his own. It doesn’t, though. Morris hears him loud and clear. Or maybe it was the heavenly aspect to him that allowed his ears to work better than a normal man’s own.
It was Morris. He knew it, deep in his bones. He was the cure for the ache in his muscles and the sniffle in his nose. Morris swipes his honey locks to one side of his face. The curls were even more wild today. Draven attributed it to a form of ‘just out of bed’ look. Morris wore that well. It was like a color made for only him to adorn.
“Why are you here?” Draven asks as if he’s said it a million times before. His face twists with the burden of confusion but then releases. To see a familiar face—even one he cared not to see—was welcomed during this hour.
It would be dark here, if not for the buzz of lights and flash of phones. It was nine-something. Maybe nearing ten. Draven didn’t know the exact time. It was a starless night, hidden beneath the layers of light pollution emitted ten-fold during this time of year. Draven wonders, quietly to himself, if Ian was looking up at the same sky, seeing the same stars, and the same moon up in Mississippi. Maybe the sky would shine a different color over there. Maybe it looked worse. Draven wouldn’t know, as he’s never ventured beyond Louisiana’s walls.
“Enjoying the show,” Morris says, breaking the lingering thoughts from Draven’s mind. A sleepy smile worn so beautifully on his lips emits its form of light, “They’ve got a float dedicated to me.”
An angel, definitely.
Draven narrows his eyes on the crowd of people, then to the streets, trying to figure out which floats were just carbon copies of last year's Mardi Gras. Some things had to remain stable in this uncertain city. Something the tourists could digest. New Orleans, dangerous as it is, held a culture much unlike any other city. Something hard to understand unless you were immersed, born into it.
“Dedicated? To you?” Draven cocks a brow before forcing breath between his teeth to make a pssh noise. A laugh tries to weasel its way out of his throat, but the sternness wrapping around him forbids it from coming any closer. He tries to piece together what Morris had meant. The words of an angel were far too big for the ears of men to understand, Draven had concluded.
“It’s been around for a while,” Morris says. His hand outstretches, commanding Draven to follow, “Since before Katrina. I’ve been here for a long time.”
His smile, now eager and lost in thought, resounds with a sort of ancientness. Draven does not question it. There are already enough questions he has no answers for, he does not want to add another. The two walk and walk, passing Bourbon and Royal Street. They mix among the crowd. Hiding, unseen. Finally, they stop at the feet of Jackson Square.
The bronze statue of Andrew Jackson watches them with unmoving eyes. Draven has always hated that statue. Almost as much as the Robert E. Lee one right off the interstate. This area of the Quarter offered a better family-friendly view on the parades, so hopefully no breasts tonight. Draven silently snickers to himself with that joke. Who’d willingly bring a child down here anyways?
“How long have you been here?” Draven asks. His brain beats against his skull again. It, in turn, sparks a revolution in his bones to break out in achy fits.
“Longer than you’d think.”
There’s a pause. The last morphine capsule taken this morning releases in Draven’s stomach, pouring chemicals into his veins. It was a breath of life. The worries of Mardi Gras and stress from work melt away. He was happy and content. Happier than just happy.
“That didn’t answer my question.” Draven finally says, the softest touch of a smile embedded on his thick lips. He feels no anger nor fear. Only happiness and safety. To be without pain, anxiety. It was its own high. One just scratching the surface of what morphine had to offer.
“You didn’t ask exactly how long I’ve been here.” Morris looks back, almost as if he knows something has changed in Draven. He has this look to him; the same furrowed brow and half-thought grin when he’d coo to Draven to sleep.
“Well, exactly how long have you been here? How long do you think I think you’ve been here?”
Morris doesn’t answer. His eyes turn to face the sun. His frame shrivels in the too-hot-to-be-winter glare. His silence speaks a thousand words, but Draven understands none of them. Morris’ movements, the flick of his hands or the slugged drag of his feet, was an ancient, dead language and Draven hadn’t the ears to listen.
“Are you happy?” Morris blinks, narrowing his eyes up to Draven.
“Excuse me?” Draven cocks a brow, tilting his head as if it would make the words clearer.
“Are you happy here? Right now?”
A pause, pungent with thought, “I guess,” he isn’t sure how to respond.
“You sound conflicted,” Morris notes, “Are you happy at home?”
A breath of cool air comes from the Mississippi, but with it, the world slows. It dawns on Draven now, that Morris was twisting his mind, “Why do you care?” Draven sneers.
“Just curious,” Morris says, “I think you’d be happier if you came to visit me more often.”
More people crowd the square now. A float begins to roll down the crooked streets. This float had a crescent moon embed on the front. People wore sleep masks and pajamas, throwing cheap plastic beads onto the sidewalks, pointing to the women who showed their breasts. Morris’ eyes wrinkle with the moon’s gentle glare. He turns and flashes a grin.
“I know what you need.” Morris says, “Take this.”
Morris shoves a crinkled paper into Draven’s too-thin fingers. Then, almost as if it were magic, he disappears into the crowd. In his head, Draven tries to reach out for him, but his limbs refused to move. It was a business card, the font punched in the paper mocked a braille texture on the backside. Draven’s fingers trace over the indentions, physically reading the dents as best he could. He sucks at it, though.
Draven opens the paper, knowing he only had a lick of time before the perfect shot came into view. The paper named a doctor, here not too far. It gives a phone number and address. In handwritten font underneath, it says ‘ask for Erin’. Draven crumbles it back up and sticks it in his pocket, not wanting to ruin his artificial good mood with the worries of doctors.
“What’s the name of this one?” Draven asks the nearest person. He snaps a picture of the float as it passes by. The crescent moon bears a smile in the same drowsy way Morris had.
“Krewe de Morpheus.”
✽✽✽
“Do you know a Morpheus?” Draven’s voice punctures the veil of silence that surrounds both him and Geneva.
They stand in the Lower Garden District, on one
of the Muses. Euterpe, to be exact. It was safer, more distant from the crimes that tormented most of New Orleans. All the pedestrians turn an eye when Draven walks down the streets here. It was rich here. Not in spirits, not just in money. Rich in prejudice. It was here that people were safe from struggles. Here they became lame and distant from the hardships faced around this city. It made them cruel, ignorant. Draven does not like it here. He is only here to support Geneva and her career.
“Isn’t that the guy from the Matrix?” She looks up from the canvas at her hands for just a moment. Spots of paint trickle along her face, she always seemed to get dirty no matter how many precautions are taken.
“Aside from him.”
