On the Streets of New Orleans

by Lynn Lorenz

  Scott wandered down the hall past the basketball gym. Even before Katrina, a Christian charity funded the place to house homeless men. It had showers with lockers, and several huge dorm rooms on three floors of an old warehouse.

  After showering and changing into a pair of sweats, Scott trudged up the stairs to the second floor, carrying the clothes he’d worn that day. He’d tucked his money back into his underwear for safekeeping. He walked past dozens of cots, nodding to the few men either lying or sitting on them, until he arrived at his usual bunk near a window looking out on the street. Welded to the foot of the cot’s metal frame, a padlocked footlocker held the rest of his clothing and a few belongings.

  He pulled back the covers, then sighed. He’d forgotten to pick up his clock.

  Leaving his bundle of clothes on the cot, he trotted back downstairs, got the clock, and hurried back up.

  In the few minutes he’d been gone, someone had spread his clothes over his bunk. All the guys in the dorm lounged around like nothing had happened.

  Scott smiled, knowing they’d found nothing and not even blaming them for looking. Most of the men here had some kind of habit. They even had counselors who led group meetings for them.

  He said a silent prayer as he folded his clothes, thankful he’d never fallen into that particular hell. God knew, there’d been times when he’d been tempted to escape his reality, but he’d always managed to find the strength to resist.

  Sometimes, he wasn’t sure he could keep holding out.

  Bunching the pillow under his head, he closed his eyes and thought of the large black man with warm chocolate eyes who’d rescued him.

  Scott fell asleep thinking of strong, dark-skinned arms holding him safe.

  HOME SWEET home.

  Tony looked up at the spray-painted X on the four-by-eight piece of plywood covering the front door. A matching piece covered the large front window. He’d been careful not to use one of the houses where they’d found anyone dead, because no way in hell could he stay there. Not in no haunted house. Uh-uh.

  He stepped over the pile of rubble on the sidewalk and slinked down the long, narrow alley between the shotgun houses. At the rear he checked the tiny backyard, then went up the three steps and unlocked the door. He’d found the key in one of the kitchen drawers, and the only lock it opened was on the back door.

  The house remained boarded up, like most of the houses in this poor neighborhood bordering the downtown area. Abandoned, just like him.

  In the kitchen most of the appliances had rusted, the floors were bare wood, but it didn’t smell too bad. He took off his jacket and hung it on a coat hook near the back door, then placed the take-out bag of hamburgers on the small table he used for eating. At the sink he turned on the water and washed his hands. The city kept the water going to the deserted neighborhoods so there would be water to fight fires. So his toilet flushed and he could take a cold bath, but with no electricity and the boards covering the windows and doors, the place was pitch-dark at night.

  Most nights before going to bed, he’d sit on the back steps, in whatever light the moon cast, and listen to the sounds of the dead neighborhood. Mostly the sounds of rats scurrying and cats chasing them.

  He’d tried to befriend a gray cat, but it was too wild and wouldn’t come near him. Most of the time, it sat on the fence and watched him. Maybe looking for food, but if it was, the little sucker was out of luck, just like Tony.

  He sat and ate the burgers, chewing slowly, savoring the taste of the still-warm food, even though his stomach demanded he gobble them down. With no way of knowing when he’d eat again, he forced himself to take his time and enjoy the meal. Closing his eyes, he imagined what it might be like to have someone to eat with, like that skinny white dude.

  They’d laugh and talk—about their day, about their lives before and their lives now. Make plans for the future. Maybe about leaving and going someplace where they stood a chance.

  He didn’t know where that was, but he’d go if someone led the way.

  When he’d taken the last bite, he gathered up the trash and put it in a plastic shopping bag, tying it in a neat bundle. Tomorrow he’d drop it off in a dumpster.

  He didn’t want to leave any evidence that someone lived here. The authorities might force him to leave or arrest him for squatting. Parish prison didn’t appeal to him.

  Shaking off that thought, he went deeper into the house, where the light of the late afternoon turned to dark. In the bathroom the light from the only working window in the house, a small transom over the tub, was enough for him to see his reflection in the mirror. He brushed his teeth and washed his face, undressed, and went to his equally dark bedroom.

  He’d managed to rescue a few pieces of furniture from a deserted camelback house nearby, including a bed frame and mattress, moving them during the cover of night so no one would see him.

  After feeling his way along the wall, he counted the steps to the bed. He kicked off his shoes, stretched out on it, and pulled two blankets over his body to keep warm. Raised off the ground, these old houses allowed the cold air from underneath to turn the bare floors icy.

  But it was better than the streets.

  In the darkness he could imagine lying next to someone, sharing the blankets and the guy’s warmth.

  He chuckled. Just how much heat could a skinny little white kid give off? Not much. Probably not enough to keep himself warm, much less Tony. But he’d give anything to find out.

  No way would that happen. They were in two different worlds. Boy had a J-O-B, job. Stayed at the downtown shelter where there was hot water, electricity, and other people to talk to. Maybe even a friend or two.

  A small ripple of jealousy ran over Tony’s skin, raising the temperature under the blankets. To Tony, the kid looked like the richest person he knew, and to the kid, Tony would look like poor ghetto trash. Worlds apart.

  He rolled over, ran a hand down his belly, and grasped his erection. It’d been weeks since he’d jerked off, and now here he was, balls heavy and cock thick and hard, all over some fuckin’ skinny white dude.

  Shit.

  He spit in his hand and stroked, imagining those pale blue eyes staring up at him as Tony pounded him into the mattress. Tony closed his eyes and dreamed, until the orgasm hit him like a happy surprise and he came, pleasure pulsing through his groin with each spurt.

  “Fuck.” He sighed. Now he’d have to get up and wash off.

  Tony climbed out of bed, one hand on the wall, and went back to the bathroom. He pissed and cleaned up, then hung the damp washcloth over the edge of the sink to dry.

  He needed to go to sleep so he could get up early and get downtown.

  Just in case that kid might need him again.

  Chapter 5

  SCOTT THOUGHT about changing his route, going another way to avoid the guy from last night, but that’s all it was, a thought. His feet took him down the same streets he’d walked for the last six months to get to work.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t alert, on the lookout for any movement in the shadows or along the darkened doorways of the buildings.

  Scott’s breathing sped up as the same alley where he’d been jumped loomed nearer, matching his heart’s staccato beat. He curled his hands into fists, ready once again to defend himself, although he’d been pretty useless in the last fight.

  Eyes focused on the dark mouth of the alley, he slowed his pace, his body tensing to flee if needed.

  A large figure stepped out of a doorway just before he reached the alley.

  Scott’s heart did a hard leap into his throat, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He braked, brought his fists up, and waited, like a boxer, to start swinging.

  The man came closer, hand out, as if to give him something.

  “Here. Take it.” The deep voice matched the size of the man.

  Scott narrowed his eyes, trying for a clearer look. This wasn’t his attacker. It was the man who had rescued him, then took
his money and fled.

  “You took my money.” At last Scott’s voice kicked in, wobbling but not cracking with the fear screaming at him to shut up and run.

  “I know. Sorry.” He sounded sincere, but Scott wasn’t sure if he should trust him.

  Scott moved to a nearby pool of light. “Come over here where I can see you.”

  He heard a soft sigh, then the man stepped to the light and looked up, his face dark as the surrounding night, dreadlocks falling to his shoulders.

  But those warm chocolate eyes. Scott would know them anywhere.

  “Here.” The man motioned with his hand again.

  Scott held out his fist, uncurled it, and opened his hand, palm up.

  Neatly folded bills dropped into it.

  “My money?” Scott cocked his head up to look into the man’s eyes. A head taller than he and about fifty pounds heavier, the guy would intimidate anyone. Still, Scott had the odd feeling he’d be safe.

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “It’s all there.”

  “Thank you.” Scott didn’t know what else to say. For some reason he didn’t want to embarrass the dude by checking the amount, so he just shoved the money in his pocket.

  They stood there, looking at each other in the soft ring of light. Overhead, bugs bumped against the cover of the street lamp, and the distant sound of streetcar clangs filled the night with a weird sort of music.

  “I have to go.” Scott motioned toward the Quarter. Maybe he should take off, make a dash for it, haul ass all the way to Tiffany’s. But he didn’t move.

  “I know.” The man stepped aside to let him pass.

  “Bye.” Scott dragged his gaze from the black man’s and started toward Canal Street. He didn’t want to go, but if he lingered, he’d be late.

  The man fell into step next to him, and they walked to Canal Street in silence. Scott had so many questions he wanted to ask but didn’t know where to start.

  At Canal they stopped, as if it were some sort of barrier. As if once crossed together, things would change. Scott wasn’t sure what would change, but he hoped… he hoped it would be good.

  “My name is Tony.”

  Scott turned to face the big guy. “I’m Scott.” He held out his hand to shake.

  The man stared at it, stared at Scott’s face, then back to the hand. Then he slid his hand over Scott’s, engulfing it. Black skin against white, a sharp contrast. Sharp, but somehow exciting.

  The man’s hand was warm, dry, solid. Built like a rock, he stood over six feet, his broad shoulders straining at the old khaki jacket he wore. His dreads gave him an almost wild look, but the softness of his features and the shyness of his smile told a different story.

  He towered over Scott, but Scott didn’t fear him. In fact, he didn’t want to let the guy’s hand go, but he did, pulling it out of the tight grip holding him in place. Wondering how those large hands would feel on his body, caressing him.

  “Well. Good-bye.” Scott gave him a nod and crossed the street.

  The man stayed on the corner, watching him. Scott could feel the dude’s eyes on his back, feel their warmth, as if they were connected in some way.

  He lost the feeling as he stepped into the Quarter, the warmth wicked away from his body as if he’d discarded his windbreaker and wore only his thin T-shirt.

  Scott wanted that warmth back.

  TONY TOUCHED the palm of the hand he’d held Scott with against his cheek. It was still warm, as if he’d held it to a heater or over the flame of a stove. He’d felt that gentle warmth before, a long time ago, but maybe it had just been a dream. The slim figure disappeared across Canal and down the half-lit street, on his way to Tiffany’s Waffles and Wings.

  If he hurried he could make sure Scott got to work safe, then maybe head over to the Market and see if he could pick up some work there. There was still a lot of ground Scott had to cover, and not all of it was safe at this time of morning.

  Tony followed Scott.

  He still had a few dollars left from yesterday. Maybe if there was work, afterward he’d get some beignets and coffee. Maybe if he saved up some money, he could go to Tiffany’s and get some wings. And a waffle with lots of butter and dark, rich cane syrup.

  He licked his lips at the thought. That led him to wonder if Scott would taste like waffles, or wings, or a mixture of both.

  Scott, now a small, thin figure two blocks ahead of him, moved farther down Decatur Street. Tony kept him in sight but stayed back, to keep out of sight. They passed Café Du Monde, went by the Market, crossed Esplanade Avenue, and headed into the Marigny, down the blocks to the restaurant.

  Scott turned into the alley.

  Tony came up to the restaurant and leaned against the building to peek inside.

  A good crowd this morning.

  The food looked so good, smelled even better.

  Tomorrow he’d definitely order himself some breakfast.

  SCOTT GLANCED up at a movement beyond the front window. A dark shape of a man darted back, as if afraid he’d been spotted.

  Tony.

  Scott smiled and wiped down the next table, stacking dishes in the cart.

  “Dawlin’, what you smiling at?” Tiffany called to him.

  He shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “Smile like that, well, something put it there. Something. Or someone.” She cocked a pencil-line-thin eyebrow upward.

  He couldn’t help but smile again, and his cheeks heated.

  Tiffany let out a loud whoop. “See! I knew it! You got yo’self a boyfriend.”

  Scott ducked his head and concentrated on a particularly large spot of syrup.

  “All right. Be like that. Treat me like I ain’t the only friend you got.” She tsked, then rang up a customer at the register.

  Scott kept his head down and continued to clean up. He pushed the cart into the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and swapped out his white busboy apron for his black waiter’s apron.

  The early morning crowd had cleared out, with only a few stragglers left, so his job would just be pouring coffee and cleaning up after them.

  When he came out, Tiffany was sitting on a chair at a nearby table, switching into her black fuzzy slippers, the ones she wore when her feet gave her trouble.

  “After-church crowd should be here soon, boy. I’m going in the back and get off these feet. Can you handle it for an hour or so?” She rubbed one foot and looked up at him.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you when the crowd shows.” He glanced at the clock—quarter to nine on Sunday morning. Mass let out at ten-fifteen at St. Louis Cathedral.

  “I got a batch of waffle mix done, and two dozen wings battered and ready to drop in the fryer. It’s all in the fridge.” She pushed to her feet and limped to the kitchen. “If you need me, call. Don’t try to handle it on your own.” She winked at him, then disappeared into the kitchen, heading for the back room where she kept a cot for the workers to rest on between shifts.

  He spent the rest of the time filling sugar jars, salt and pepper shakers, and wrapping silverware in paper napkins. Occasionally, he’d glance up at the window, but he didn’t see Tony again.

  The smile stayed on his face until the first of the churchgoers entered, dressed in their Sunday best—hats, gloves, suits, and spit-shined shoes. After he got them seated at tables and the coffee poured, he went in the back and woke up Miss Tiffany.

  TONY WAITED for the old man to park the truck, then he stepped from the shadows. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep the man from seeing how nervous he was about asking for more work.

  The old man looked him over, spit a stream of juice to the side, and gave him a quick nod. Tony grinned and met him at the back of the truck. They got the gate down, and Tony started to unload the truck.

  “My name’s Tony.”

  “I’m Roscoe.” The man didn’t offer more.

  Tony wondered, as he unloaded the cardboard boxes and wooden crates, if Roscoe didn’t have any family to help him, no sons or nep
hews. ’Course, since Katrina, a lot of folks simply never came back.

  E-vac-u-ees.

  Everyone knew that just meant “poor black folks.”

  There were days when Tony envied them—the ones who got away, went off to a new city and a better life, a life with jobs, dignity, all shiny new and fresh.

  Some days, he thought they were all traitors to the city. Leaving when times were hard and never coming back. Like his mama. Abandoning their pasts, their responsibilities, and their lives.

  Some folks never got the choice, did they? Some, like him, had the choice, but just couldn’t make themselves get on that bus. He didn’t deserve to leave. Didn’t deserve to have a fresh start, a new life.

  His brothers and sister didn’t get that chance, so why should he?

  Chapter 6

  TONY WAS waiting for him when he got off his shift. Leaning against the building, he gave Scott a nod, then fell into step beside him.

  “Work okay?”

  “Yes.” Scott smiled, wondering where this was going. Wondering where he wanted it to go.

  “I worked today.” Tony grinned at him.

  “That’s great! Where?”

  “The market. I unloaded produce.”

  “That’s a good job.” Scott shot a glance at him. “You look pretty strong. Throwing those boxes around must be easy for you.”

  Tony ducked his head, and although he couldn’t see it, Scott bet Tony blushed at the compliment.

  “Yeah. I guess. ’Bout all I’m good for, anyway.”

  Scott stopped. Tony took another step, then stopped too.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” Tony cocked his head at him.

  “Run yourself down. It’s bad enough we’re treated badly by others. We don’t need to do it to ourselves.” Scott didn’t mean to sound as mad as he felt, but by the way Tony took a step back, he figured he’d come across that way.

  “Okay.” Tony nodded, eyes wide.

  “Okay.” Scott relaxed. “Anyway, any job is a good job.” He started walking again, and Tony fell in beside him.