Life and Death of Bayou Billy

by Bevill, C. L.

  “The First Annual Bayou Billy Festival,” Pascal corrected politely. “And we’re going to be saved. By the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.”

  “Goddamn,” Bobby Joe Bruce muttered reverently and stumbled off.

  “I’m going to call my friend, John, at the First National Bank of Texas,” Pascal planned aloud. “First thing tomorrow. He won’t care if it’s Saturday. He’ll probably be on the first nine holes at the country club with two other bank presidents. They’ll be screaming to give us money. They’ll be throwing it at us. They’ll be offering us blow jobs if we’ll just take their money.”

  Bryant and George nodded solemnly. “Have another drink, Pascal,” Bryant urged.

  Pascal had to oblige. “Then, we plan Billy’s funeral. A parade. A band. No, two bands. Lots of trumpets and horns. Everyone with a black armband. Cheerleaders dressed in black miniskirts. A black hearse like you’d see in the old west, drawn by four black horses. With big feathers on their heads. A guy with a black top hat driving the hearse. Right down Main Street. Past City Hall. Right to Resurrection Cemetery. Pomp and ceremony. Welcome home, Billy. By God, we missed you something awful. Then we’ll bury him next to his wife until we get the monument finished. All the bells and whistles. We’ll invite every newspaper and news station in Texas. Send out press releases left and right. Send them out to every newspaper and news station in Louisiana, too.” He took another draw of beer, finishing it off, and moved onto the next, all without even giving it a thought.

  The patrons at the bar slowly quieted as they blatantly listened to Pascal’s intended tactics. Excitement flowed within the group like energy through a live wire. Sawdust City would be the final resting spot of Bayou Billy, infamous outlaw. Their dwindling economy would be revitalized. It was everything the town desperately needed. And here was the man to do it for them. The Honorable mayor of Sawdust City, Pascal Waterford.

  Then conversation gradually renewed and as Pascal worked his way through the waiting beers and various drinks that had been delivered to him, it occurred to him that something was very different about this evening. That thrice-damned, know-it-all reflection would have told him had Pascal been looking in a mirror. Consequently, Pascal excused himself and went to the men’s room. He checked under the two stalls to make sure he was alone and then he looked directly at his reflection in the small, chipped mirror above the single lavatory.

  His reflection scoffed appropriately. One lip curled upward and the eyebrows arched dramatically. “You want to know what’s different, you toe-sucking blight on humanity butt-brain?”

  “Yo mama,” Pascal said reflexively. Then he moderated his tone, “Uh, oh, yeah. Yes, I want to know.”

  “I kind of thought you’d be wandering in here at some point in time to ask me that particular question, you monkey-humping, mattress-soiling, flesh-creeping assault on any logical person’s senses.” His reflection appeared especially proud of himself for a moment.

  “Good insult,” Pascal approved. “Nice flavor. A little higher brow than usual.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes. What’s different?”

  “You know that miserable, scum-sucking feeling you had earlier, sausage jockey?”

  Pascal contemplated his reflection thoughtfully. It wasn’t quite a blur yet, so he knew that he hadn’t had quite enough to drink. Most likely, he would remember the conversation. However, if he went back to the table and finished all the drinks that were accumulating at what seemed to be an exponential rate, then he would have a black-out similar to the time that a boxer lost after a TKO in the final round. Every moment up to the point where he had consumed his sixth or seventh drink would be magically lost in the mists of an alcoholic blur of epic proportion. So Pascal concentrated, because he thought that he was supposed to remember this specific conversation, and more importantly, that he needed, with utmost urgency, to remember it. “You mean hope,” he said and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, hope,” answered the reflection acidly. “Hope. Hope. Hope. You think those people are like they are any other night of the week? Hell, no, they aren’t, you armpit licking cum bubble.”

  Pascal knew that he looked blank.

  The reflection threw up its hands in mock despair. “Hope, you wart-faced, ass-grabbing, turkey-headed numbnuts. Hope. To want. To expect something. To have a wish for something or to do something, or for something to happen. A feeling that something good is about to happen. A source of looming relief.”

  “You mean,” Pascal said slowly. “You mean, they’re hopeful, too?”

  “They’re happy, dipnerd. Has it been that long since you’ve seen someone who’s happy?”

  Pascal had to think about it. It had been that long since he’d heard someone smile spontaneously in Sawdust City, other than a young child. The days had been looking so grim; the essence had been turning to utter bleakness, the faces of the men and women he saw daily had colored to dismal despair. He’d forgotten what it felt like. He opened the door to the bathroom, and heard a half dozen people roaring with laughter, and another half dozen reply in kind.

  Sure prior to this day, there had been giggling here and there. There had been drunken chuckles that had come when the beer had been flowing like water over Niagara Falls. They might have been called obligatory laughs that had been forced out of miserable existence; the knowledge that a death knell has sounded and there’s not a goddamned thing to be done about it except to pretend it isn’t really coming. Chortle politely and make believe it’s nothing but a thing. It’s just life and life happens. Not only does life happen, but shit happens, and what else can a man do but snort graciously when shit was raining down upon his unprotected head?

  But instead that sound that Pascal heard at the moment was heartfelt. It was sincere. It was drunken as well, but the emotion came from the first buoyant sensation that had colored the town since General Motors had opened a factory in 1995. Two years later, it had been the first on a list to close and half the town’s population had disappeared along with the factory. Regardless of the outcome, it was the same feeling.

  Hopefulness. Expectation. Optimism.

  Pascal felt an unfamiliar lump in his throat and quietly wondered if he had swallowed his tongue in an intoxicated stupor.

  “No, stupid shit-for-brains,” came his reflection’s voice from behind him. “That’s pride, you limp-dicked, raccoon wrestling, spit-stained fartbreath.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” Pascal muttered. “Don’t fall in a urinal, doodlehead.”

  “Hah. That’s like saying, ‘Nanny, nanny, doo-doo.’”

  “Up yours,” Pascal said and headed out.

  •

  Pascal woke up with his head leaning on his arms. Reality came in the form of blinding pain to the exact center point between his eyes and a stomach that was threatening a full-blown eruption upon the moment. But the hangover was tinged with the knowledge that not all was wrong in life.

  Optimism. Oh, how I like that word, Pascal thought wonderingly. The rumbling that came from deep inside his intestines didn’t even deter the marvelous notion. He gulped down a mouthful of bile and narrowly prevented the onslaught of a comprehensive vomitive installment.

  Then he dragged his rebellious eyelids open and abruptly realized that he was leaning across the casket he’d purchased the day before. To be perfectly precise, he was draped unceremoniously over the closed half of the casket. Like many other models the top half and bottom halves opened separately on the model that he and Gibby had selected. The top half was wide open and he was halfway inside.

  Furthermore, the casket was precariously placed on three aligned tables inside the bar at the Gray Goose Inn. Remnants of a party were strewn gloriously about the bar. Chairs were upturned. Bottles stacked in odd little empty pyramids. A black brassiere hung from the stuffed goose over the main bar. Ashtrays overflowed. Little tiny umbrellas rolled about lazily in the delicate breeze of the still-moving overhead fan.

  Pascal pann
ed around slowly and saw that he was the last survivor of what was most likely an ambitious experience of sheer alcoholic quantity. The sun was beginning to peek into the broad windows of the Gray Goose and the odd silence told him it was still early. He looked around more and stopped when nausea twisted his gut like a farmer wringing the neck of Sunday’s dinner.

  There were faint memories. The black-out wasn’t complete. Pascal had gamely attempted to finish all the free drinks, but had stalled halfway into the proceedings. There had been a drinking game involving the black brassiere and the goose’s long neck. There had been drunken salutes to the memory of Bayou Billy.

  Then they had decided on a wake. Bayou Billy’s wake. Whose idea it had been, Pascal could not rightly recall. It had sounded like a fine strategy at the time. A toast was raised. More toasts were proposed. Drinks were consumed. And by God, it couldn’t be done properly if the old deceased rascal wasn’t present to hear the pledges himself, despite his being, well, dead. At that moment, Pascal could remember that he’d never gotten around to figuring out exactly what to do with Billy’s corpse until he could be suitably buried. So a dozen men tromped out to the dog catcher’s van and carried the casket inside.

  An inebriated wake had commenced with those present saluting the notorious criminal with alcoholic remembrances. Someone had opened the casket to take a peek. There was a moment when Pascal clearly recalled someone pouring a little whiskey through Billy’s desiccated lips. Later someone had given the old bastard a smoke. Cell phone cameras emerged for the culmination of eternal existence via the Internet.

  Pascal looked down. Motherfucker. He looked around again, pausing only until the room stopped spinning. If I’m in the casket, then where the hell is Bayou Billy?

  Chapter Nine

  From a letter dated April 5th, 1946. The author is named Jerrald Fortson, information about whom is limited. The letter is the possession of Mrs. Elvira Cruz of Battleland, Texas. How the letter was delivered to William Douglas McCall is unclear as the envelope has been lost over time. Mrs. Cruz has stated that her mother was once an acquaintance of Mr. McCall, but will not elaborate on the nature of her mother’s relationship with Mr. McCall:

  Der Bi-yu Billee (sic),

  My naim (sic) is Jerrald Fortson and I am 10 yers (sic) old. I want to thak yu (sic) becaus yu gaiv (sic) my pa hop agin (sic). Sins (sic) he caim (sic) back from Germanee (sic) he has bin (sic) no good. He has nitemares abowt (sic) them Nazees (sic) and how they amed (sic) to cut him up good. Pa says them Nazees kilt bunchs (sic) of folks what caled jewes (sic). I do not no (sic) what them jewes (sic) that was so bad, but the Nazees kilt em (sic) off like mad. Pa says somtine bout (sic) the smel (sic) but I do not no (sic) what he meens (sic). He wakes up cring (sic) and yeling (sic) and skeers ever (sic) body on the farm. Then he be in toun (sic) last week and yu robed (sic) the bank in Tulipwod (sic), Texas. Pa saw how yu (sic) was real gentel (sic) with them folks as what werk (sic) at the bank, ceptin (sic) that bank manger (sic) who yu lef tyed (sic) up in his nekkidnes (sic). Also yu gaiv (sic) Pa his deposet (sic) back and we wod (sic) not be albe (sic) to pay the folks what hold the not (sic) on the farm. I aint (sic) never seen Pa laff (sic) so much sins (sic) afore he caim (sic) back from Germanee (sic) and kiling (sic) them peskee Nazees (sic).

  Thank yu (sic), Bi-yu Billee (sic). If yu (sic) need somone (sic) with a good gun I am the 1 (sic). I am rit handee (sic) with a shotgun and a rifel (sic). Also I kin skin a skwaral rit fastly (sic).

  Yur (sic) grateful freend (sic),

  Jerrald Tobias Fortson

  The Present

  Friday, July 14th – Saturday, July 15th

  Shreveport, Louisiana

  Ophelia Rector was rumpled. Bashful pink Ralph Lauren linen jacket and slacks were bashfully wrinkled with abstract sweat stains that would have made Jackson Pollock jealous. The heel of one metallic gold sling back sandal had broken in the crack of one of the mosaic tile and broken glass pieces that made up Tamara Danley’s patio. The silk pink camisole had begun to unravel, courtesy of catching on something sharp and pointy. Her brassiere was pinching in the most uncomfortable location. Her hobo calfskin Kate Spade purse was stained with an as yet unidentified substance that appeared to be cow shit. She no longer looked like a wealthy sophisticate lady of leisure. Ophelia looked as if she had been ravished in a back alley by a company of horny sailors and then thrown in a garbage dumpster for the hell of it.

  But Ophelia had the signed and notarized power of attorney in her hands and she was standing in front of a locked and closed door that stated unequivocally that the morgue of the Good Parish Hospital of Shreveport, Louisiana was closed. Not only that, but it had been closed for the past three hours. Two of which that Ophelia had been driving from Edom, Texas to get to her present site. Not only that, but that it was closed on Saturdays, Sundays, and all legal and Louisiana holidays to include Mardi Gras.

  The only good thing about that was that the date was not anywhere close to Mardi Gras.

  “Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch,” she said and immediately covered her mouth with her hand. “I can’t I believe I said that. How very vulgar.”

  Ophelia carefully looked up the hallway and saw nothing or no one that would be able to help her. She carefully looked down the hallway and discerned the same. It was, however, a hospital, with a twenty-four/seven emergency room and an information desk in the front lobby. She smiled insincerely and waved the power of attorney before her as if the papers were tablets brought down from the mountain by Moses.

  Ten minutes later Ophelia waited impatiently before the information desk while the young man who manned it talked with his girlfriend on the telephone. “Excellent,” he said. “Sweet,” he added. “Fiending for that,” he verbalized. “Phat,” he stated emphatically.

  Ophelia leaned forward and tapped her nails across the desk, automatically displaying the two karat diamond ring.

  The young man, who had pink tipped hair and no less than five facial piercings in places that made Ophelia grimace, glanced at the woman with the nails tap-tap-tapping on his territory. His name tag proclaimed him, ‘Nemo.’ With a derisive expression Nemo dismissed Ophelia and went back to what was apparently an eminent telephone conversation of the importance of obscure adjectives. “Kew-ell,” he breathed.

  Ophelia looked down at herself. Rumpled was one word for her appearance. Bedraggled was another. Homeless looking was not a distant third. She deliberately and slowly rattled her nails across the counter and shoved her head closer to the young man so that he could understand that she was not insignificant.

  Nemo rolled his eyes. “Listen, babe,” he said carelessly. “I gotta bounce. Baby keep her hootchie-fied self hot for big daddy?” He made kissy sounds. “Bye-bye, honey-poo.” Then he hung up and slowly turned to Ophelia with all the speed of a slug that has just had twelve hours of intensive, mind-blowing, terrestrial mollusk loving. “Yeah?”

  There was a moment where Ophelia honestly considered that the legal argument of temporary insanity might very well get her acquitted of a charge of attempted homicide of the young man who sat in front of her. His unlined, sullen face was awry with sneering condescension and her fingers positively itched to wrap themselves around his neck. Perhaps if Ophelia were quick enough she might even get away with murder. No, she rejected the thought. No. Not worth the trouble. All the suits I’d have to buy to look fabulous in court. All the female jurors would be jealous and then where would I be?

  Nemo sighed dramatically. “Waiting much here?”

  “I need to claim the infinite remains of a lost soul,” Ophelia said as politely as she could muster through clenched teeth and jaws.

  “Morgue’s closed until Monday,” Nemo said with a theatrical flip of one hand. “You’ll have to come back then.”

  “You mean to say that if I have a loved one in the morgue, I have to wait all weekend to claim his last vestiges?” Ophelia stared intently at Nemo.

  Nemo looked directly at Ophelia an
d a muscle in his cheek twitched infinitesimally. “Yep,” he said. “Only morticians and civil authorities are allowed to-”

  “I’m a mortician,” Ophelia said firmly. “Licensed and bonded by the state of Louisiana and St. Germaine Parish. And no, you don’t have to be a mortician or a civil authority to claim the final remnants of a spirit gone to the other side.”

  The young man’s eyes wavered slightly and he went on as though Ophelia hadn’t spoken at all. “St. Germaine? Well, I think you have to be out of Bossier or Shreveport Parish in order to facilitate the process.”

  Ophelia leaned in for the big, death dealing smile. “Call…your…boss,” she said, slowly, precisely, and as threateningly as she could get across without ripping off one of her legs and using it to club the irritating, pink-tipped, little son of a twat who sat before her with his annoyingly smug facade.

  “What?” Nemo said. The facial tic came again, signally the onslaught of knowledge that not only has one’s Maker called, but that Senor Maker has called collect from the tip of Argentina, reversed all charges, and damned the torpedoes.

  “Are you deaf?” Ophelia said. “Call your boss. You know, the person who employs you. The one in charge. The one who signs your paycheck, lays down the law, and the one who’s about to fire you when he is informed about your gross incompetence.”

  “Hey,” Nemo protested. “No point in being rude, lady.”

  “Ms. Rector,” Ophelia informed Nemo with no little note of satisfaction in her voice. “Tell your boss that Ophelia Rector is waiting in front of you, you hopeless chromosomal deficient waste of humanity.”

  Nemo had to think about that. With an expressive sneer, he called his boss, who took ten minutes returning the call because he was in bed with his mistress. Once Nemo had said, “Ophelia Rector,” his boss replied, “Ophelia Fucking Rector? Who the hell is that? Tell her to go take a flying long leap off a short frigging bridge.”