Wolf Howling

by Brian van Brunt

  Now here I am, sitting at my desk with a wastepaper basket filled with the Sneaky Snatch Snake’s word vomit. I have a different problem on my mind today. Something that requires intentional action.

  I stand up and reach under my bed to take out the small safe I keep there. I unlock it and take out the leather-bound journal. This is where I write down my best ideas. Chapter 5:3, “The spider’s web is created over time and is a result of practice.” I’m not like those other idiots tipping their hands for all to see with their legacy tokens and writing about who they will kill on Facebook. Making YouTube videos about their hit lists. I read about those. I’ve studied. I’m smart enough to know that anything I write down on the computer can be found easily. The sharks, the school, the government; all three working in cahoots. They could track me that way. I know that and I’m aware. But my journal, well, I learned from my run-in with Dr. Robert Hawkins to be smart about my research and planning. To be quiet. Stealthy.

  I open the journal and take out my pen to begin a new page. I write one word at the top and then underline it a few times. I write it in all caps. For emphasis.

  INITIATION.

  I continue writing, flipping backwards and checking my notes.

  I’m slightly embarrassed to tell you this next part. It’s personal and I think you will judge me. But I’ve shared so much already and I’m starting to feel like you might be able to understand. Maybe just a little.

  Here’s the thing. As I’m flipping and checking my notes, I look down at my stiff erection poking pleasingly against my jeans. I grin.

  Apparently, I’m excited about what is to come.

  Don’t be a fuck about it.

  Chapter 3

  New Orleans, Spring, Tuesday, 4:45pm

  Wagner sat on the corner of St. Peter and Royal leaning against a long, iron post supporting the overhead gallery of an apartment.

  He wore washed-out jeans and faded boots. A Rolling Stones t-shirt hung off his tall, thin frame. The shirt was faded with age, as was he; both held onto the vibrancy of times past, a floating red balloon against the stone grey of an office building.

  She caught him by surprise. Not an uncommon occurrence for Wagner, to be caught by surprise in New Orleans. It was a town prone to shock and wonder, given that its inhabitants were often soaked in gin, quinine, and their unfocused thoughts.

  What had she said? Her words plagued him like a song he couldn’t stop humming. Something about people waiting. Somewhere. People waiting for him.

  A musician across the street strummed a guitar to a small gathered crowd. Wagner listened to this music and closed his eyes; his mind drifted and he thought of marauding pirates, Otis Redding, and silver lockets. It was one of those rare, warm, spring days that lacked the substantial heat common to New Orleans. The heat was coming though; Wagner could feel that unbearable, heavy warmth. The humidity moistened everything it touched, leaving the city and its inhabitants damp throughout the day.

  He was across from Rouses Market, a small family-owned grocery in the center of the French Quarter. He sat on the stone curb that separated the sidewalk from the street. A few blocks over was Jackson Square. The square was an open expanse of palm trees, benches, and a large statue of Andrew Jackson riding his horse, Duke, at the battle of New Orleans. The massive cathedral stood with its three prominent spires stretched out above the grass and stone. It was a central place in the city. A place where the city’s poor and lost stood shoulder to shoulder with the rich and achieving, to the betterment of both.

  He thought again of the blonde girl who whispered in his ear. And “girl” was a misnomer, an artifact that came with being in his early forties. The woman was probably around 19 or 20, though it was hard to say with certainty. The quality and timbre of her voice unnerved him more than her touch. There was something hypnotic about her voice that laced her words. Some kind of magic underneath. After she spoke, Wagner turned to see her more clearly. She breathed a last word to him and faded like an apparition. It was all so familiar to him. She was familiar to him. A memory from another time.

  The kid across the street played his battered guitar to the tune of Bob Dylan’s classic “Tangled up in Blue”. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, kind of on the young side to know Zimmy. He wore those skinny jeans that were popular these days and a vintage looking black t-shirt with a busty 50’s pinup straddling a record player. A washed-out green canvas strap hung across the t-shirt’s white lettering—Vinyl Vixens. A steady crowd passed as they went about their shopping and sightseeing. They saw the musician briefly, in that absent-minded way a person clicked through the channels on a television when they were unsure of what to settle on. No one noticed him for long.

  Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’ and I was layin’ in bed

  Wonderin’ if she changed at all and if her hair was still red…

  The song hung in the air as the people passed. A couple in their sixties crossed the street and the woman shook a half-folded tourist map in her hands. She gave off a rushed and frustrated annoyance, clearly wanting to be somewhere else. The man, undoubtedly her long-suffering husband, tried to keep up. He watched the sights around him with a tourist’s smile. He reached into his wallet and took out a dollar, ready to drop it in the musician’s open guitar case. The wife realized what he was going to do and forgot all about her map. She swatted his hand and ushered him past the guitar player.

  “God damn it, Charlie. You don’t have to give every bum a quarter to buy a bottle of old grand dad,” she gruffed. His hand fell to his side in response to her scolding. It was an old and practiced movement. Wagner took in his expression. Resigned. Defeated. Numb. Charlie had been there before. He’d been there for 40 years.

  The musician continued the song without missing a chord. He watched the couple with a distant look. He’d seen them before. The melody swam in Wagner’s head. He tried to remember the first time he heard this song. College maybe? He always liked Dylan. He liked “Tangled up in Blue” because it was hard to follow, jumping around in time and space, changing characters and locations all along this underlying thread. It was a likable song, but also a disquieting one. There was this thin, haunting nostalgia; a faint undertone pulling the listener toward some illusive crescendo. The more you tried to follow, the more lost you became.

  The song gave Wagner a feeling of déjà vu. Thoughts scurried away before he could put his finger on it. Just like the girl.

  Two teenagers came out of the market talking to each other with animated expressions. They shared a bag of Zapps BBQ potato chips. Each took a long pull from his respective bottle of Coca-Cola before moving into the sun. The boys looked to be fourteen or fifteen.

  A young woman crossed in front of Wagner. She had a tattoo of a white rabbit on the back of her upper thigh. The rabbit was flying a kite. The tail of the kite was made to resemble thin strips of tangled paper. She had grey-white hair that hung in a swoop over her right eye. She wasn’t nearly old enough to have grey hair and the juxtaposition of her hair color and age was sensual. She wore a loose shirt, cut low across her chest. Her skirt was high, showing off her athletic legs. She wore black boots with the handle of a knife reaching out of the top of the left one. A heavy bicycle chain circled her waist like a belt, with a brass lock securing it in place. She walked fast, like she had somewhere to be, but then paused to listen to the music. A faint smile crossed her lips. She walked over to the musician and bent down to place a five-dollar bill into his open guitar case. Wagner looked at the tattoo and her legs for longer than he should have. She was very pretty.

  The woman stood and gave the musician a kiss on his cheek and whispered something to him between the verses as he strummed. He missed a chord change, his first mistake since Wagner had sat down to watch him. Then he thought for a moment. Had he sat down? I mean, of course he had because he was here. But Wagner had trouble recalling that exact moment. What was he doing before he was here on the street corner? He shook his head free of the
se thoughts and returned to what was in front of him.

  The woman continued down the street. She turned once, offering a glance back at the musician over her shoulder. Wagner watched her leave. He imagined she was accustomed to men watching her.

  He found the entire exchange highly erotic. Which wasn’t unusual in New Orleans. Sex permeated the city, as plentiful as the cracked and uneven sidewalks. A block away, a dozen strip clubs flashed their neon signs down the expanse of Bourbon Street. Women in bikinis and lingerie stood outside the deep-set doorways of the clubs fronted by male barkers calling to passing tourists. The barkers barked, “You look like you could use some whiskey and some tits in your face!” “Come on in! Give it a try. No cover. Cold beer and hot women!” New Orleans wasn’t coy; she sold sin and decadence on every cross street like Lucky Dogs from a cart.

  Wagner was intrigued by the tattooed woman. She made him curious and pulled him from his fog. He wondered why the rabbit was flying a kite. He thought about what the rabbit meant. If she knew the musician or was just teasing him. What had she whispered that made him miss a chord? It was an occupational hazard for Wagner—curiosity, thinking deeply about things. He thought about the rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. He wondered if it was a kind of ‘Drink me!’ sign. He thought about the rabbit as it looked at its watch and ran, late for the party. That was the feeling; like the rabbit was trying to tell him something.

  He took his leather wallet out of from the front pocket of his jeans. It had a small notebook and pen attached to it—a gift from long ago and a favorite possession. He jotted down the woman and her tattoo. There was something there he might use later in a story. A writer’s sketch. Now she was further down the street and he could no longer make out her tattoo. Wagner’s eyes drifted up to the curve of her thigh and how the short skirt perfectly captured her backside. He contemplated her in a base way and felt slightly guilty for that.

  Well, fuck it, he thought. Maybe Bourbon Street tonight. It was good to remain congruent; match his geography with his philosophy. He learned this trick long ago, surfing with the moods and thoughts that swept into his mind. He turned back to the guitar player.

  She was married when we first met, soon to be divorced

  I helped her out of a jam I guess, but I used a little too much force…

  A disheveled man wearing cutoff jeans and a dirty Saints t-shirt walked by pushing a light blue bike. The bike had a black and red sticker that said, “Pirate Alley Ghost Tours” and had a Jolly Roger skull and crossbones in black and white. The man could have been in his late twenties or early fifties; he had one of those faces.

  The man saw Wagner looking at him and he was off to the races. “Hey man,” he said. “Wannna buy a bike? Five bucks!” Wagner had been here long enough to give a small smile and gestured ‘no thanks’ and looked back to the guitar player.

  “Come on! It’s a good deal. Almost new bike!” he said.

  A tall man wearing a fedora stopped on his way into Rouses and overheard the conversation. “Leave him alone. No one wants to buy your stolen bike.”

  Saints t-shirt looked irritated. “I didn’t steal no bike. This here’s my bike. I’m selling it.”

  Fedora laughed and went into the market muttering, “Sure…a brand new bike for five bucks. Deal of a lifetime.”

  “You don’t know nothin’! It’s my bike an’ I’m sellin’ it!” he shouted at Fedora, who was already out of his earshot. He shook his head and continued down the street in search of some new customers for his bike.

  This was the music of the city. The man played his guitar.

  So I drifted into New Orleans, where I happened to be employed

  working for a while on a fishing boat, right outside of Delacroix…

  He was lost in his thoughts and jotted them down in his notebook. Images of a red coral necklace, a worried young woman with a luxury purse and a rain gutter next to the St. Louis Cathedral. This is when she had come up behind him and whispered to him. The intimacy of her closeness surprised him and he turned to look at her.

  She was young and pretty; someone Wagner would normally be happy to have invading his personal space. She was thin, small, and her mannerisms made him think of a pixie or a fairy. Light and playful. He absentmindedly closed his notebook and listened.

  She wore the colors of the earth, tan and brown, her dirty blonde hair tied into dreadlocks. She watched him with green eyes and an intense curiosity. She tilted her head and smiled at him. A large hound dog gathered itself protectively by her side, tethered with a rope leash. Her worn blue canvas knapsack lay on the ground at her feet. She regarded Wagner with interest.

  “What did you say?” he asked.

  She smiled again and shook her head slowly. Mischievous. She picked up her bag. Her dog heeled without being called. She gave Wagner a look that was both playful and challenging. Her eyes seemed to tell him, “You already know the answer to that question.” There was an enchanting quality to her voice. She offered nothing more and walked away.

  Wagner called after her, “Hey! Wait!”

  Nothing. The girl walked down the street and was gone.

  He wanted to call after her again. He wanted to ask what she meant. Something about people waiting for him. Something about a bar? The musician continued his song. Wagner listened half-heartedly and debated the merits of chasing after her.

  She was working at a topless place, and I stopped in for a beer

  I just kept looking at the side of her face, in the spotlight so clear…

  He stood slowly, a balanced mix of stretching and overcoming the inertia that held him to the curb. Déjà vu struck and his head swam. This all felt so familiar to him. He walked across the street and took a few dollars out of his pocket and dropped them into the open guitar case. The musician nodded at him and played on to the next verse.

  But me I’m still on the road, heading for another joint we always did feel the same,

  we just saw it from a different point of view

  …Tangled up in Blue.

  A bar? That was what she whispered to him. Something about people waiting for him. Wagner had no idea what any of that meant. No one was waiting for him. He was alone in the city. What did she mean? He took some tentative steps and the guitar player watched him. He tried to remember if he had heard this song played here before. Maybe. Yes, maybe he had. But he couldn’t quite remember when, and there was something different about it this time.

  The harder he pushed into that memory, the more slippery it became. He wasn’t sure about this new mix of feelings. The emotions were uncomfortable and built in his mind rather than abating. The guitar player continued with other songs. An Eagles tune, then Clapton, and a really good rendition of “Ain’t No Sunshine” by Bill Withers. All older songs, but he sang them well, with heart. Still, none had the effect on him like “Tangled up in Blue.” There was something about that song, in this place, at this time; something that evaded him.

  Wagner’s déjà vu lingered. Did the guitar player know him? Had he seen him in the Quarter before? Maybe it’s just the memory of this song that pulled him back to college. That feeling of nostalgia again. Uncertainty mixed with familiarity; an odd cocktail, like absinthe and chartreuse, competing flavors, but intoxicating nonetheless.

  Wagner opened the door to Rouses. The aisles in the store were oddly close to one another. There was barely room for two people to pass side by side. He walked past the two registers at the front and nodded to the security guard. He wasn’t sure what kind of crime he was hired to prevent. Maybe shoplifting? Keeping the homeless out? He didn’t know. He found what he was looking for past the front alcohol case and down the left to the cold beverage section. He took two long cans of Abita beer and walked back to the cashiers and security guard. He paid for the drinks and went back outside.

  The guitar player had moved on and was replaced by a large black woman. She had drawn an even larger crowd as she belted out an Aretha Franklin-worthy version of “Respect” be
fore dropping into a salacious version of Nina Simone’s “I Need Some Sugar in My Bowl”. Some tourists had taken over Wagner’s favorite spot on the corner. They stood in a group smiling and clapping along with the song. Wagner leaned up against the gallery support and listened to some songs. He thought about buying her CD. He drained the first Abita and made his way through the second and started to find a comfortable buzz.

  He needed a distraction. Bourbon would offer that; a neon-bright cacophony of sound and vice. It would dull his mind and help reset things; help him focus. Wasn’t that the thing to do when you can’t remember a word? When the memory of it just dangles on the tip of your tongue. Like the lure the fish wouldn’t quite take. The trick was to let it go, free your mind. Let it hang out there in the periphery of your thought. And when you don’t expect it, that’s when it would materialize. Wagner thought about cold Abita beer and Jameson on the rocks. He thought about Jackie. He wondered if she was working. Maybe that was how he could figure out what the hell was going on. What the girl was all about.

  The black woman had been at it for quite some time and told her crowd she had one more song to share with them before taking a break. She chided them to “share some of your own cash in the tip jar.” She picked it up and shook it. Some in the crowd looked sad at the idea of her finishing. Others simply cheered her remarkable voice. Several dozen people were now pushing at each other for a better position to hear. When she began to sing “When the Saints come Marching In”, Wagner took this as his cue to start marching out.

  Wagner felt this discordant mix of excitement and worry. He had not been feeling much lately. All these emotions were new. Ever since he left Boston and made New Orleans his home, he had been floating, drifting. Until now. Until the girl. He felt antsy, like he should go somewhere. He should do something. But what?