SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER ELEVEN
More fun at MacLand. Mr. Milty creates a
large scowling face in the Stinko’s Copy Shop
window down Oak Street. Te face stops traffic and
causes an uroar. Later, Tyger, Mac Armor’s,
Nick Bowers, and Sandy Alexander go bowling
at Expressway Lanes, across the river at Gretna.
The team prepares for a wild night of bowling with a
pre-games meal at the Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese restaurant and other activities.
Armor’s nearly causes a riot at the alley through his behavior.
CHAPTER 11
“Smash-up at Stinko’s”
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Strange birds are always perched about MacLand Headquarters.
These rara avis sit in various zen-like positions; or free, at
last, fluttering about the three bedroom house
and large adjoining yard outside.
Poor lonely souls in terminal residence next door are a
bit less active. They are not Monty Python parrots pining
for the fjrds. They are past tense. It is a funeral parlor .
But jamming, so they say, can awaken the dead and as the
parade of bongo and conga lines forms to the right, to the left
dem bones, dem bones possibly dance up a storm. Lucky stiffs.
Mac and Sarah and lions and bears fly in formation through
rock solid air. Getting on barbecue time at the old Mac ranch and
the lead drummer grills up a hearty repast of chicken breasts and
ribs. The usual gaggle of geese and soiree of swans are present
discussing current affairs or simply duck quack resting.
Fee fi fo fum, Tyger smells the bullshit of a crummy bum.
Shit, Heave Broward, funky bass player of the New Neanderthals,
has dropped like a karmic dead lead weight to disturb the
ecological balance. Heave ho is the proverbial snake in the garden
ruining everybody’s paradise. His line is plumbing the water for some
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easy chum among the beautiful song birds inside.
“Why, you are the prettiest girl here,” he tells three
robins consecutively as he separates each from the safety of a
nest. Could anyone possibly be stupid enough to believe him?
But that is the pickup game. Soon he departs with a
particularly dull blue yay in tow. “You are the prettiest girl
here. I want to give you the greatest orgasm ever,” he is
overheard saying as he pushes his dainty prey out the door.
This occurs as Tyger and Armor’s enter. “Hey Heave,” Armor’s
calls to the long lanky bass fake. It’s go time.
“You’re an asshole. Loser.”
“Fuck you Armor’s,” Heave says, hastily exiting.
Heave’s departure has a salutary effect on the fruitful
gathering. Mac and Sarah, his squeeze, discuss another lame
brain member of the New Neanderthals.
“Yeah, I heard Roots Badburns is getting a doctorate,” Mac
says as Tyger overhears with disgust. “Man, that bullshit again.”
“Root bound shit has been saying that for 20 years,” Armor’s says.
“Hope he does get it. Then, we finally can stop hearing about it.”
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“Hey baby, what it is'” Armor ‘s calls over to Mac who
fiddles with a drum machine. “What it is baby?” says Armor’s
walking across the room to shake Mac ‘s shoulders.
Mac, nonetheless is concentrating on the world beat.
“What it is is to be awful,” observes Mac casually.
“Hey, just saw Heave leaving,” Tyger says. What was he
doing here? Trying to steal some fun? ”
“That’s cool,” Mac notes. “He keeps saying he is going to
sit in on a jam, but never seems to get around to it.”
Armor’s has flown to the kitchen area where he coo-coos
Heave’s left-overs. Some guys have no self-respect. Armor ‘s
qualifies when it comes to the the name of that tune.
Tyger dives into the comfy cushioned couch area, next to the
beanbag chair memorial park, picking a roach out of the ashtray.
“Mind if I partake?” he asks. “Be my guest,” Mac replies as
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the drum machine spews out a kind of disco beat.
“Didn’t I hear the Village People do that?” Tyger asks as he
inhales a big puff of smoke and holds it in ever so dearly before
it too must perforce fly. “Hey. Haven’t you heard?” Mac asks
rhetorically. “I used to be the Construction Worker.”
The actual reason for the visit is a rumor that Mr. Milty —
along with lead guitarist Buck the only other
acceptable New Neanderthal — is about to embark on a
semi-serious art project. Stinko’s copy shop where he works
has recently instituted a policy of letting artists
display their work in a side window.
Mac and the gang already have displayed their magnificent
salute to the nuclear family complete with painted and halfburned
styrofoam wig heads. It caused quite a public stir.
Now, it’s Mr. Milty’s turn at bat. He is going to try to
score with a giant face mural painted on the large glass window.
Milty has many strange, awful, and wonderful face paintings
at home. They are sort of to the rear of David Lynch’s
“Eraserhead,” just this side of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg of
Great Gatsby fame with a little Day of the Locust ambiance
tossed in for good measure.
Tyger dares not miss the magic project moment. Given Mr.
Milty’s track record, there is no telling how long the face will
grimace in public before something terrible happens. Milty has a
provocative and quirky attitude concerning art.
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Therefore, it is best to be on hand for he who hesitates is
lost. Or at least that is what Tyger’s high school baseball coach
said when it came to the topic of taking the extra base.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Milty’s down there now,” Mac reports as he
switches off the drum machine. “Let’s check it out.” So they fly
sky high little starlings and hunker down the road four blocks.
Sure enough, super thin Mr. Milty stands in the window
painting a giant multicolored face. And the face, comrades,
does not look amused.
No indeedy, it looks like apocalypse now with mad reds,
oranges. and greens cascading in every direction. And oh those
evil eyes, Mona Lisa grimace, and general flushed expression.
“Look like anyone you know?” Tyger asks Mac .
“Hope not,” he replies.
Mr . Milty walks inside the Stinko’s window dashing off
stroke after awful stroke. What is that, a penalty shot? No, it
is just a strange face exploding colors in your mind. Mr. Milty
is hard at work, his long sandy hair and Jesus beard flowing.
Screeeeech! Kerboom. Sound of steel crashing and tin cans
being opened by self-implosion.
Boom. Crash. Burn, yearn, fern, yo mama. Disputations and
sad embraces. All this in the Stinko’s window for any passerby to
be alarmed by and hopefully pass through to the other side.
“This is the best window yet,” Tyger remarks as glass
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shatters and representational art unflatters the small throng
across the street from Stinko’s now watching Mr. Milty’s every
monumental brush stroke.
An instant anti-karma news flake crew from WDSU — New
Orleans’ own around the clock source of lying commercialism
according to their self-promotions — drive by in their up-link
minivan. They stop to see what the commotion is about.
“Oh it’s just awful art,” a red-faced pumpkin lady tells them.
“You know how finicky artists can be.”
The on-air news flake looks bored. Since this is the most
important and interesting event of the day, he decides to pull up
stakes and move along little doggy to that exciting news porn house fire
on Elm Street. Better visuals for Ray-Gun family values.
Besides, the so-called reporter can’t figure out how he can
make trivial Mr. Milty’s very disturbing commentary on man’s
inhumanity to himself, taking the most awful art down to the
lowest level possible so his editors can understand.
Through it all, The giant disturbing face might be —
shall we say — eternally smiling.
Two police officers drive by noting a considerable commotion and
screech to a sudden stop. Since there seems to be no physical
danger present, they linger gently, joining the growing crowd observing
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M. Milty’s impresario strokes and grand gestures with mouths
approaching open wide.
Mac picks up the universal vibration. “Awful, of course,” he state
to the pumpkin lady, now one of MacLand’s temporary best fiends, er friends.
“I think it’s very nice,” she replies, adding, “What do you
mean awful?”
“Awful,” Mac reiterates. “Ya know–full of awe. ”
“Oh yes, it is that,” the matronly lady agrees. “But the
dear boy in the window must be a little, I don’t know,
disturbed maybe. A little disturbed I think.”
“No doubt,” Tyger says.
Crackle, snapple, pop, the police car radio mouths off as a
female cop calls in her position. “Ah, roger, roger; we have a
white male in the Stinko’s window painting a giant face.
Please advise. Over.”
Chhhh, chhhh … static … chhhh. “Never- mind. There’s a 20-30
over at Maple Street. Please respond.” orders the voice
disembodied. “We better get going,” cop-ette tells her podner.
They load in the police car. Driving off, the cop riding
shotgun rolls down his window, looks at Mac,
asking, “But is it art?”
Everyone is a citic . “Can’t help you with that one, man,”
Mac replies as they both laugh. “But I like it.”
Milty takes care of business inside the pained glass,
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oblivious to the outside Oak Street crowd in disturbance. Or
maybe he’s into it because that is his usual method of operation.
The Miltmaster soaks up the crowd’s ambivalence, turning
it into an increasingly wild face painting, if that is possible.
He mines a very disturbing vision of the soul’s eye.
“I’m liking this a lot,” Tyger tells Mac.
“I think he is on to something.”
It’s beginning to look a lot like nightmare on Oak Street,
part infinity, part end of the world, and part joke is on them.
Milty winds down the face thing, beginning to wash his
brushes, packing away the offending colors.
Out of the blue, into the pink, ka-boom! Ka-boom! Squealing
tires and jaw of nuked and neutered newt.
Screech! Sliding wheels. Suddenly, right before the crowd’s
Betty Davis eyes conglomeration, a fender bender three car urban
street jam pile-up. Smash! Smash? Smash!
In your face, bozo scum-sucker rubbernecks. Kerblam!
Believe it or nuts, three drivers as one jump out of their
respective you got Prince Albert in a can, well they are let out cars.
Mr. Milty’s face has proven its karmic powers beyond any doubt.
He has caused a three car pile-up accident.
The first driver had been watching through the window and
suddenly stopped only to be struck by the second whom, in turn,
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was hit by the third. Damn, that art is powerful stuff.
“I suppose they’ll try to make me investigate this,” Tyger
says. “Face mural causes accident and riot on Oak Street.
News fake at 10.”
The drivers stand on the side of the street jawboning various
pieces of impersonal misinformation. Nothing major really, just a
tribute to Milty’s artistic powers. The artist, himself, has now
finished. He crosses the confused street scene to view his
material damage.
“Not bad, if I don’t say so myself,” Mr. Milty concludes. “I
think I’ve hit a grand slam with this one.”
(Mr. Milty, besides being an advanced musician-artist is
also quite the baseball buff. He specialized in collecting
trading cards before that practice became fashionable.)
“Excellent stuff,” he concludes searching for a quick escape
hatch should he need to flee the surrounding crowd — of, shall
we say, admirers — if necessary. Parapazzi might be lurking
anywhere, not to mention Brigatisti Rosa.
The madcap smashed and crashed motorists are becoming a bit
too personally involved with their dispute so Mac, of all
persons, tries to mediate. “Come on guys. Calm down, ” he says.
“Not much damage. Not much. Relax and look at the nice face painting.”
“Hey that’s what caused this shit,” Driver Number One tells Mac.
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“If that asshole in front of me hadn’t stopped to look.”
Driver No. 1 pauses, reading the face on the glass.
“I think it sucks,” he says. Then, back to the accident at hand.
Grinning from ear to ear, our cheshire cat of an artist Mr .
Milty is having fun. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says before
departing. “Well, It’s getting ugly over here. I better like a banana split.”
Milty possesses an unerring sense of when to exit honed by
many near death experiences brought about in the name of art.
“You know who caused this shit?” realizes suddenly Driver Number
Three. “Where is the asshole who painted that window?” Too late, bub.
So too, the boys return to MacLand leaving the wreckage of
the unenlightened for themselves to sort out. “You got to give it
to Mr . Milty,” Mac says as he sits in the living space tuning a
conga drum. “He sure knows how to distract a crowd.”
Tyger walks back to the kitchen where Armor’s and Sarah are
playing with the cats, in this case literally. Armor’s needs some
new blood to compliment his brood and has agreed to take some of
MacLand’s excess nuevo kitten population.
Mama Cat recently delivered a large litter of genetically
inbred New Orleans specie wingheadius, a special type of feline
with super-wide ears spanning the globe found only
in the Big UnEasy. “They are cute little buggers,” Armor ‘s notes
as Sarah fetches up an orange female kitty and striped grey brother,
placing them in a carry-all enclosed cardboard box.
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“O.K. ready, steady. Let’s go,” says Armor’s as the proud
papa with his new family loads into the off-duty surveillance
vehicle. “See ya later alligator,” he yells out the passenger
side window as they drive back to the future.
The plan is to scatter for now, regrouping later at MacLand.
The gang intends to engage in some late-night bowling
practice across the river at the Expressway Lanes in Harvey.
Why not? Seems like something, er, athletic to do. Tyger, Mac and
Armor’s bowl the beguine with their good buddies Nick Bowers
and Sandy Alexander. Mr . Milty would usually be square and be there.
However, he is otherwise indisposed with the aforementioned
instrumental giants of the New Neanderthal age.
Seconds, minutes, and hours pass through this temporary
existence. Tyger fiddles around his house while Armor’s settles
the cats into their new environment. The usual outrageously fine
moments pass for the MacLand crowd. Mr. Milty’s face continues
blocking traffic along Oak Street Stinko’s.
Everyone hooks up at Mac’s place around midnight, piling
into official safe driver Sandy Alexander’s tasteful black
Volkswagen Jetta headed for a date with bowling destiny at Expressway Lanes.
The team has its usual intense pep rally before bowling.
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This is accompanied by team prayer at which joints are passed to
symbolize the nature of man’s quest for fun representing as well
the hope, the smoke, the holy huffing, and puffing of good high times.
Nick Bowers supplies some very good hydroponically grown
shit. Everyone agrees as they fill the Jetta with jet-streams of
exhaled reefer smoke; what a terrific guy, what great mutah.
Everybody buys into the team concept. Y’all for one and one
P.J. — i.e., personal joint — of regular Mexican pot for y’all.
Let’s hear it for bowlers anonymous. Yaaaay team’ Smoke
billows from every Sandymobile orifice as the boys stumble
outside the car party towards their next destination.
The group walks across the Expressway Lanes parking lot to
the sacred Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese Restaurant.
Another gotta-have-it exercise revealed.
They voraciously consume a hearty pre-games meal of Goi Cuon
spring rolls, and Bun Thit Nuong. Sweetened with condensed milk
Cafe Sua Da washes down the great eats.
How do you say thank you in Vietnamese?
Pho Tau Bay’s owner is an American Indochina War veteran
who married a Vietnamese woman and her family. He seems like a
nice guy, tall and thin with a right forearm tattoo of an
arrow through a heart. (Ah, the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune form an appropriate symbol for the bowlers from across
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the River Styx.)
G. I. Joe hosts as various Vietnamese women, and children
wildly run around the restaurant that has quite a few late-night
diners. Besides the vet, who greet the boys in a friendly easy
manner, the bowling team fools are the only Caucasians at the pho joint.
It is a beautiful place with exotic tropical fish and bright
walls as yet undiscovered by the local news fakes. Eventually,
they will get around to it, but for now, all is pristine pleasure
and good eating before the battle royale begins.
Vietnam Cong Hoa’. Rumbling, bumbling, stumbling,
Armor ‘s is mumbling as the team bounces into Expressway Lanes,
your basic industrial grade bowling alley. Very bright lights flood the alley as dim
bulbs fling their hard round balls of joy down waxed wood boards.
Sandy and Mac zoom over to the snack bar, grabbing four cups
of beer. Armor ‘s is all bowling business, carefully unraveling
the cosmic cloth covering his black beauty 14-pound ball,
shining the sporting object clean of grease.
Sandy smokes a cigarette, the only nicotine habit in the
group. No matter as he fits in with the crowd.
Expressway Lanes after midnight on the weekends
is a smoldering chimney. All those fat asses blow
their lung weight in tobacco haze.
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They are drinking their bellies full of draft beer.
Odd excuse for a sport, this.
A very competitive environment predominates, as always. Each
bowler wants to come out on top. The lanes rent by the hour after
midnight, so games are much cheaper than during prime-time and
may be rolled in mass quantities.
Therefore, the boys usually roll 10 or 11 games each,
sometimes more, stopping only when their arms or thumbs fall off,
sometimes not even then . Huge blisters might form. A nuclear bomb
might fall. No matter. It takes more than that to eradicate bowling
fever after it has commenced. So begins the first of many games .
Armor’s is a tremendous bowler, believe it or nuts. He
brought along a clove cigarette for some reason. Lights it.
The sweet acrid clove smell drifts over to the other nearby
bowlers. They are a group of potbellied men with Rick’s Oil Field
Trash on their color coordinated white with red and blue trim
shirts. They stare swords at Armor’s target.
Armor’s ignores them, walking slowly to the ball return.
Smash smash smash all around the sounds of balls striking pins in
the nearly empty establishment, no more than one-quarter filled.
Armor’s takes no quarter either. He deliberately
approaches the boards, letting loose a solid pocket hit. Boom!
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Pins scatter. Strike one. A look of satisfaction on his face, he sits down,
re- lighting the DJakarta Elephant’s clove cigarette.
Good old boys from Rick’s Oil Field Trash look pissed
Feel free to grumble among yourselves, boys.
Heightened concentration following the Pho Tau Bay culinary experience
makes for a competitive match-up. Not to mention the happy effects of a dozen consumed reefers.
Strike. Strike. Spare. Spare. Strike. Open frame. “Shit, Tyger, you suck.”
Sandy announces beer frame. Armor’s strikes a spare.
Next round you’re buying,” Mac tells Sandy. Beer beer beer all around friends.
Armor’s throws a great game. Strike strike strike strike spare, shit,
spare, spare, shit, spare, shit, strike. He is right up there around 200.
What a great anchorman. And all the while toking on the clove cigarette.
For what–for luck? Perhaps. Finally a mid-sized fatty, person not blunt,
from the trash heap boys, sidles over, staring daggers at Armor’s white haze.
“What you smoking there, boy?” he asks. “Mari-ja-wanna? What is that shit?”
“Oh, haha,” laughs Armor’s to Rick guy’sred-beet face. “No man. “All good, legal.
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Clove cigarette from Indonesia. They’re great. Take a puff.”
The atmosphere lightens up considerably. The fellow takes a
hit, holds it, and exhales in a loud rush.
“Whoa Nellie. That stuff makes you dizzy as hell. How about
that,” he declares. “What you know. You learn something new every day.”
“Hey want one?” Armor’s asks, producing the strangely
colored pack with equally exotic elephant graphics.
“Y’all don’t mind,” Armor’s new bestest buddy says.
“Nah,” Armor’s says. Sharing is caring. Or caring is;
I dunno, here, they’re great.”
“Hey, you bowled a mean game there, too, motherfucker.”
Armor’s simply exudes his version of the cheshire cat grin.
“Thanks man,” as the guy wanders off into space.
Sandy returns from bowling his frame. “What was all that
about?” he asks. “The guy thought these clove cigarettes were
marijuana,” Armor’s reports.
Sandy shakes his head. “You’re up.” All business now as the
games continue. Armor’s drills another strike. “Gotcha,” he says,
pointing at the pins with a shooting gun gesture
ala Dennis Eckersley wrapping up a save.
Game after game, frame after frame, follow the bouncing
balls as pins collide, explode, dissipate, go black.
Welcome to the big bang, late night version.
Rolling bowling trolling, jolie fun and frolic shake. Beer
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frame after beer frame. Alternating between one person up while
others take a quick team prayer outside. And they are not
smoking clove cigarettes either, comrades.
The games seem quite competitive. Averages are fairly
consistent and respectable. Tyger is low man with a 135.
Nick and Sandy check in at 145.
Mac is hot with his odd shot-put style yielding a 150 pin
performance. Armor’s, fueled by clove and beer, chalks up an
awesome 190. You know what they say: Can’t have too much fuh.
Getting on to 3 a.m. as Rick’s Oil Field Trash along with
about everyone else has vanished into the West Bank
darkness. A teenage party at the far end of the brightly lit
lanes about sums it up.
One of them flings his ball diagonally across three lanes.
Sad lonely ball, bounces rudely stopping gutter adjacent.
His friend runs down and grabs the ball as they laugh hysterically.
Must be too much clove in their diet.
The night manager sternly lectures the boy. “Anyone home.
Anyone there. Anyone home.” he repeats in an endless tape loop.
Black hole. No one apparently is at home. No one is listening.
The boys wrap things up as they pack their bowling bags in
cloths of many colors, return the special shoes, head across the Greater New
Orleans Bridge back to the city of New Orleans. Downtown shimmers
with skyscraper lights that reflect along the muddy Mississippi River.
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Tyger removes a final joint from his altoids box.
So it goes, so it blows, so ends
the beery bowling barrel,
rolling Uptown through the mist.
Dawn is about to break a sweat.
Comrades, fare thee well.
Sweet dreams.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER ELEVEN
More fun at MacLand. Mr. Milty creates a
large scowling face in the Stinko’s Copy Shop
window down Oak Street. Te face stops traffic and
causes an uroar. Later, Tyger, Mac Armor’s,
Nick Bowers, and Sandy Alexander go bowling
at Expressway Lanes, across the river at Gretna.
The team prepares for a wild night of bowling with a
pre-games meal at the Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese restaurant and other activities.
Armor’s nearly causes a riot at the alley through his behavior.
CHAPTER 11
“Smash-up at Stinko’s”
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Strange birds are always perched about MacLand Headquarters.
These rara avis sit in various zen-like positions; or free, at
last, fluttering about the three bedroom house
and large adjoining yard outside.
Poor lonely souls in terminal residence next door are a
bit less active. They are not Monty Python parrots pining
for the fjrds. They are past tense. It is a funeral parlor .
But jamming, so they say, can awaken the dead and as the
parade of bongo and conga lines forms to the right, to the left
dem bones, dem bones possibly dance up a storm. Lucky stiffs.
Mac and Sarah and lions and bears fly in formation through
rock solid air. Getting on barbecue time at the old Mac ranch and
the lead drummer grills up a hearty repast of chicken breasts and
ribs. The usual gaggle of geese and soiree of swans are present
discussing current affairs or simply duck quack resting.
Fee fi fo fum, Tyger smells the bullshit of a crummy bum.
Shit, Heave Broward, funky bass player of the New Neanderthals,
has dropped like a karmic dead lead weight to disturb the
ecological balance. Heave ho is the proverbial snake in the garden
ruining everybody’s paradise. His line is plumbing the water for some
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easy chum among the beautiful song birds inside.
“Why, you are the prettiest girl here,” he tells three
robins consecutively as he separates each from the safety of a
nest. Could anyone possibly be stupid enough to believe him?
But that is the pickup game. Soon he departs with a
particularly dull blue yay in tow. “You are the prettiest girl
here. I want to give you the greatest orgasm ever,” he is
overheard saying as he pushes his dainty prey out the door.
This occurs as Tyger and Armor’s enter. “Hey Heave,” Armor’s
calls to the long lanky bass fake. It’s go time.
“You’re an asshole. Loser.”
“Fuck you Armor’s,” Heave says, hastily exiting.
Heave’s departure has a salutary effect on the fruitful
gathering. Mac and Sarah, his squeeze, discuss another lame
brain member of the New Neanderthals.
“Yeah, I heard Roots Badburns is getting a doctorate,” Mac
says as Tyger overhears with disgust. “Man, that bullshit again.”
“Root bound shit has been saying that for 20 years,” Armor’s says.
“Hope he does get it. Then, we finally can stop hearing about it.”
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“Hey baby, what it is'” Armor ‘s calls over to Mac who
fiddles with a drum machine. “What it is baby?” says Armor’s
walking across the room to shake Mac ‘s shoulders.
Mac, nonetheless is concentrating on the world beat.
“What it is is to be awful,” observes Mac casually.
“Hey, just saw Heave leaving,” Tyger says. What was he
doing here? Trying to steal some fun? ”
“That’s cool,” Mac notes. “He keeps saying he is going to
sit in on a jam, but never seems to get around to it.”
Armor’s has flown to the kitchen area where he coo-coos
Heave’s left-overs. Some guys have no self-respect. Armor ‘s
qualifies when it comes to the the name of that tune.
Tyger dives into the comfy cushioned couch area, next to the
beanbag chair memorial park, picking a roach out of the ashtray.
“Mind if I partake?” he asks. “Be my guest,” Mac replies as
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the drum machine spews out a kind of disco beat.
“Didn’t I hear the Village People do that?” Tyger asks as he
inhales a big puff of smoke and holds it in ever so dearly before
it too must perforce fly. “Hey. Haven’t you heard?” Mac asks
rhetorically. “I used to be the Construction Worker.”
The actual reason for the visit is a rumor that Mr. Milty —
along with lead guitarist Buck the only other
acceptable New Neanderthal — is about to embark on a
semi-serious art project. Stinko’s copy shop where he works
has recently instituted a policy of letting artists
display their work in a side window.
Mac and the gang already have displayed their magnificent
salute to the nuclear family complete with painted and halfburned
styrofoam wig heads. It caused quite a public stir.
Now, it’s Mr. Milty’s turn at bat. He is going to try to
score with a giant face mural painted on the large glass window.
Milty has many strange, awful, and wonderful face paintings
at home. They are sort of to the rear of David Lynch’s
“Eraserhead,” just this side of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg of
Great Gatsby fame with a little Day of the Locust ambiance
tossed in for good measure.
Tyger dares not miss the magic project moment. Given Mr.
Milty’s track record, there is no telling how long the face will
grimace in public before something terrible happens. Milty has a
provocative and quirky attitude concerning art.
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Therefore, it is best to be on hand for he who hesitates is
lost. Or at least that is what Tyger’s high school baseball coach
said when it came to the topic of taking the extra base.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Milty’s down there now,” Mac reports as he
switches off the drum machine. “Let’s check it out.” So they fly
sky high little starlings and hunker down the road four blocks.
Sure enough, super thin Mr. Milty stands in the window
painting a giant multicolored face. And the face, comrades,
does not look amused.
No indeedy, it looks like apocalypse now with mad reds,
oranges. and greens cascading in every direction. And oh those
evil eyes, Mona Lisa grimace, and general flushed expression.
“Look like anyone you know?” Tyger asks Mac .
“Hope not,” he replies.
Mr . Milty walks inside the Stinko’s window dashing off
stroke after awful stroke. What is that, a penalty shot? No, it
is just a strange face exploding colors in your mind. Mr. Milty
is hard at work, his long sandy hair and Jesus beard flowing.
Screeeeech! Kerboom. Sound of steel crashing and tin cans
being opened by self-implosion.
Boom. Crash. Burn, yearn, fern, yo mama. Disputations and
sad embraces. All this in the Stinko’s window for any passerby to
be alarmed by and hopefully pass through to the other side.
“This is the best window yet,” Tyger remarks as glass
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shatters and representational art unflatters the small throng
across the street from Stinko’s now watching Mr. Milty’s every
monumental brush stroke.
An instant anti-karma news flake crew from WDSU — New
Orleans’ own around the clock source of lying commercialism
according to their self-promotions — drive by in their up-link
minivan. They stop to see what the commotion is about.
“Oh it’s just awful art,” a red-faced pumpkin lady tells them.
“You know how finicky artists can be.”
The on-air news flake looks bored. Since this is the most
important and interesting event of the day, he decides to pull up
stakes and move along little doggy to that exciting news porn house fire
on Elm Street. Better visuals for Ray-Gun family values.
Besides, the so-called reporter can’t figure out how he can
make trivial Mr. Milty’s very disturbing commentary on man’s
inhumanity to himself, taking the most awful art down to the
lowest level possible so his editors can understand.
Through it all, The giant disturbing face might be —
shall we say — eternally smiling.
Two police officers drive by noting a considerable commotion and
screech to a sudden stop. Since there seems to be no physical
danger present, they linger gently, joining the growing crowd observing
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M. Milty’s impresario strokes and grand gestures with mouths
approaching open wide.
Mac picks up the universal vibration. “Awful, of course,” he state
to the pumpkin lady, now one of MacLand’s temporary best fiends, er friends.
“I think it’s very nice,” she replies, adding, “What do you
mean awful?”
“Awful,” Mac reiterates. “Ya know–full of awe. ”
“Oh yes, it is that,” the matronly lady agrees. “But the
dear boy in the window must be a little, I don’t know,
disturbed maybe. A little disturbed I think.”
“No doubt,” Tyger says.
Crackle, snapple, pop, the police car radio mouths off as a
female cop calls in her position. “Ah, roger, roger; we have a
white male in the Stinko’s window painting a giant face.
Please advise. Over.”
Chhhh, chhhh … static … chhhh. “Never- mind. There’s a 20-30
over at Maple Street. Please respond.” orders the voice
disembodied. “We better get going,” cop-ette tells her podner.
They load in the police car. Driving off, the cop riding
shotgun rolls down his window, looks at Mac,
asking, “But is it art?”
Everyone is a citic . “Can’t help you with that one, man,”
Mac replies as they both laugh. “But I like it.”
Milty takes care of business inside the pained glass,
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oblivious to the outside Oak Street crowd in disturbance. Or
maybe he’s into it because that is his usual method of operation.
The Miltmaster soaks up the crowd’s ambivalence, turning
it into an increasingly wild face painting, if that is possible.
He mines a very disturbing vision of the soul’s eye.
“I’m liking this a lot,” Tyger tells Mac.
“I think he is on to something.”
It’s beginning to look a lot like nightmare on Oak Street,
part infinity, part end of the world, and part joke is on them.
Milty winds down the face thing, beginning to wash his
brushes, packing away the offending colors.
Out of the blue, into the pink, ka-boom! Ka-boom! Squealing
tires and jaw of nuked and neutered newt.
Screech! Sliding wheels. Suddenly, right before the crowd’s
Betty Davis eyes conglomeration, a fender bender three car urban
street jam pile-up. Smash! Smash? Smash!
In your face, bozo scum-sucker rubbernecks. Kerblam!
Believe it or nuts, three drivers as one jump out of their
respective you got Prince Albert in a can, well they are let out cars.
Mr. Milty’s face has proven its karmic powers beyond any doubt.
He has caused a three car pile-up accident.
The first driver had been watching through the window and
suddenly stopped only to be struck by the second whom, in turn,
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was hit by the third. Damn, that art is powerful stuff.
“I suppose they’ll try to make me investigate this,” Tyger
says. “Face mural causes accident and riot on Oak Street.
News fake at 10.”
The drivers stand on the side of the street jawboning various
pieces of impersonal misinformation. Nothing major really, just a
tribute to Milty’s artistic powers. The artist, himself, has now
finished. He crosses the confused street scene to view his
material damage.
“Not bad, if I don’t say so myself,” Mr. Milty concludes. “I
think I’ve hit a grand slam with this one.”
(Mr. Milty, besides being an advanced musician-artist is
also quite the baseball buff. He specialized in collecting
trading cards before that practice became fashionable.)
“Excellent stuff,” he concludes searching for a quick escape
hatch should he need to flee the surrounding crowd — of, shall
we say, admirers — if necessary. Parapazzi might be lurking
anywhere, not to mention Brigatisti Rosa.
The madcap smashed and crashed motorists are becoming a bit
too personally involved with their dispute so Mac, of all
persons, tries to mediate. “Come on guys. Calm down, ” he says.
“Not much damage. Not much. Relax and look at the nice face painting.”
“Hey that’s what caused this shit,” Driver Number One tells Mac.
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“If that asshole in front of me hadn’t stopped to look.”
Driver No. 1 pauses, reading the face on the glass.
“I think it sucks,” he says. Then, back to the accident at hand.
Grinning from ear to ear, our cheshire cat of an artist Mr .
Milty is having fun. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says before
departing. “Well, It’s getting ugly over here. I better like a banana split.”
Milty possesses an unerring sense of when to exit honed by
many near death experiences brought about in the name of art.
“You know who caused this shit?” realizes suddenly Driver Number
Three. “Where is the asshole who painted that window?” Too late, bub.
So too, the boys return to MacLand leaving the wreckage of
the unenlightened for themselves to sort out. “You got to give it
to Mr . Milty,” Mac says as he sits in the living space tuning a
conga drum. “He sure knows how to distract a crowd.”
Tyger walks back to the kitchen where Armor’s and Sarah are
playing with the cats, in this case literally. Armor’s needs some
new blood to compliment his brood and has agreed to take some of
MacLand’s excess nuevo kitten population.
Mama Cat recently delivered a large litter of genetically
inbred New Orleans specie wingheadius, a special type of feline
with super-wide ears spanning the globe found only
in the Big UnEasy. “They are cute little buggers,” Armor ‘s notes
as Sarah fetches up an orange female kitty and striped grey brother,
placing them in a carry-all enclosed cardboard box.
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“O.K. ready, steady. Let’s go,” says Armor’s as the proud
papa with his new family loads into the off-duty surveillance
vehicle. “See ya later alligator,” he yells out the passenger
side window as they drive back to the future.
The plan is to scatter for now, regrouping later at MacLand.
The gang intends to engage in some late-night bowling
practice across the river at the Expressway Lanes in Harvey.
Why not? Seems like something, er, athletic to do. Tyger, Mac and
Armor’s bowl the beguine with their good buddies Nick Bowers
and Sandy Alexander. Mr . Milty would usually be square and be there.
However, he is otherwise indisposed with the aforementioned
instrumental giants of the New Neanderthal age.
Seconds, minutes, and hours pass through this temporary
existence. Tyger fiddles around his house while Armor’s settles
the cats into their new environment. The usual outrageously fine
moments pass for the MacLand crowd. Mr. Milty’s face continues
blocking traffic along Oak Street Stinko’s.
Everyone hooks up at Mac’s place around midnight, piling
into official safe driver Sandy Alexander’s tasteful black
Volkswagen Jetta headed for a date with bowling destiny at Expressway Lanes.
The team has its usual intense pep rally before bowling.
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This is accompanied by team prayer at which joints are passed to
symbolize the nature of man’s quest for fun representing as well
the hope, the smoke, the holy huffing, and puffing of good high times.
Nick Bowers supplies some very good hydroponically grown
shit. Everyone agrees as they fill the Jetta with jet-streams of
exhaled reefer smoke; what a terrific guy, what great mutah.
Everybody buys into the team concept. Y’all for one and one
P.J. — i.e., personal joint — of regular Mexican pot for y’all.
Let’s hear it for bowlers anonymous. Yaaaay team’ Smoke
billows from every Sandymobile orifice as the boys stumble
outside the car party towards their next destination.
The group walks across the Expressway Lanes parking lot to
the sacred Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese Restaurant.
Another gotta-have-it exercise revealed.
They voraciously consume a hearty pre-games meal of Goi Cuon
spring rolls, and Bun Thit Nuong. Sweetened with condensed milk
Cafe Sua Da washes down the great eats.
How do you say thank you in Vietnamese?
Pho Tau Bay’s owner is an American Indochina War veteran
who married a Vietnamese woman and her family. He seems like a
nice guy, tall and thin with a right forearm tattoo of an
arrow through a heart. (Ah, the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune form an appropriate symbol for the bowlers from across
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the River Styx.)
G. I. Joe hosts as various Vietnamese women, and children
wildly run around the restaurant that has quite a few late-night
diners. Besides the vet, who greet the boys in a friendly easy
manner, the bowling team fools are the only Caucasians at the pho joint.
It is a beautiful place with exotic tropical fish and bright
walls as yet undiscovered by the local news fakes. Eventually,
they will get around to it, but for now, all is pristine pleasure
and good eating before the battle royale begins.
Vietnam Cong Hoa’. Rumbling, bumbling, stumbling,
Armor ‘s is mumbling as the team bounces into Expressway Lanes,
your basic industrial grade bowling alley. Very bright lights flood the alley as dim
bulbs fling their hard round balls of joy down waxed wood boards.
Sandy and Mac zoom over to the snack bar, grabbing four cups
of beer. Armor ‘s is all bowling business, carefully unraveling
the cosmic cloth covering his black beauty 14-pound ball,
shining the sporting object clean of grease.
Sandy smokes a cigarette, the only nicotine habit in the
group. No matter as he fits in with the crowd.
Expressway Lanes after midnight on the weekends
is a smoldering chimney. All those fat asses blow
their lung weight in tobacco haze.
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They are drinking their bellies full of draft beer.
Odd excuse for a sport, this.
A very competitive environment predominates, as always. Each
bowler wants to come out on top. The lanes rent by the hour after
midnight, so games are much cheaper than during prime-time and
may be rolled in mass quantities.
Therefore, the boys usually roll 10 or 11 games each,
sometimes more, stopping only when their arms or thumbs fall off,
sometimes not even then . Huge blisters might form. A nuclear bomb
might fall. No matter. It takes more than that to eradicate bowling
fever after it has commenced. So begins the first of many games .
Armor’s is a tremendous bowler, believe it or nuts. He
brought along a clove cigarette for some reason. Lights it.
The sweet acrid clove smell drifts over to the other nearby
bowlers. They are a group of potbellied men with Rick’s Oil Field
Trash on their color coordinated white with red and blue trim
shirts. They stare swords at Armor’s target.
Armor’s ignores them, walking slowly to the ball return.
Smash smash smash all around the sounds of balls striking pins in
the nearly empty establishment, no more than one-quarter filled.
Armor’s takes no quarter either. He deliberately
approaches the boards, letting loose a solid pocket hit. Boom!
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Pins scatter. Strike one. A look of satisfaction on his face, he sits down,
re- lighting the DJakarta Elephant’s clove cigarette.
Good old boys from Rick’s Oil Field Trash look pissed
Feel free to grumble among yourselves, boys.
Heightened concentration following the Pho Tau Bay culinary experience
makes for a competitive match-up. Not to mention the happy effects of a dozen consumed reefers.
Strike. Strike. Spare. Spare. Strike. Open frame. “Shit, Tyger, you suck.”
Sandy announces beer frame. Armor’s strikes a spare.
Next round you’re buying,” Mac tells Sandy. Beer beer beer all around friends.
Armor’s throws a great game. Strike strike strike strike spare, shit,
spare, spare, shit, spare, shit, strike. He is right up there around 200.
What a great anchorman. And all the while toking on the clove cigarette.
For what–for luck? Perhaps. Finally a mid-sized fatty, person not blunt,
from the trash heap boys, sidles over, staring daggers at Armor’s white haze.
“What you smoking there, boy?” he asks. “Mari-ja-wanna? What is that shit?”
“Oh, haha,” laughs Armor’s to Rick guy’sred-beet face. “No man. “All good, legal.
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Clove cigarette from Indonesia. They’re great. Take a puff.”
The atmosphere lightens up considerably. The fellow takes a
hit, holds it, and exhales in a loud rush.
“Whoa Nellie. That stuff makes you dizzy as hell. How about
that,” he declares. “What you know. You learn something new every day.”
“Hey want one?” Armor’s asks, producing the strangely
colored pack with equally exotic elephant graphics.
“Y’all don’t mind,” Armor’s new bestest buddy says.
“Nah,” Armor’s says. Sharing is caring. Or caring is;
I dunno, here, they’re great.”
“Hey, you bowled a mean game there, too, motherfucker.”
Armor’s simply exudes his version of the cheshire cat grin.
“Thanks man,” as the guy wanders off into space.
Sandy returns from bowling his frame. “What was all that
about?” he asks. “The guy thought these clove cigarettes were
marijuana,” Armor’s reports.
Sandy shakes his head. “You’re up.” All business now as the
games continue. Armor’s drills another strike. “Gotcha,” he says,
pointing at the pins with a shooting gun gesture
ala Dennis Eckersley wrapping up a save.
Game after game, frame after frame, follow the bouncing
balls as pins collide, explode, dissipate, go black.
Welcome to the big bang, late night version.
Rolling bowling trolling, jolie fun and frolic shake. Beer
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frame after beer frame. Alternating between one person up while
others take a quick team prayer outside. And they are not
smoking clove cigarettes either, comrades.
The games seem quite competitive. Averages are fairly
consistent and respectable. Tyger is low man with a 135.
Nick and Sandy check in at 145.
Mac is hot with his odd shot-put style yielding a 150 pin
performance. Armor’s, fueled by clove and beer, chalks up an
awesome 190. You know what they say: Can’t have too much fuh.
Getting on to 3 a.m. as Rick’s Oil Field Trash along with
about everyone else has vanished into the West Bank
darkness. A teenage party at the far end of the brightly lit
lanes about sums it up.
One of them flings his ball diagonally across three lanes.
Sad lonely ball, bounces rudely stopping gutter adjacent.
His friend runs down and grabs the ball as they laugh hysterically.
Must be too much clove in their diet.
The night manager sternly lectures the boy. “Anyone home.
Anyone there. Anyone home.” he repeats in an endless tape loop.
Black hole. No one apparently is at home. No one is listening.
The boys wrap things up as they pack their bowling bags in
cloths of many colors, return the special shoes, head across the Greater New
Orleans Bridge back to the city of New Orleans. Downtown shimmers
with skyscraper lights that reflect along the muddy Mississippi River.
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Tyger removes a final joint from his altoids box.
So it goes, so it blows, so ends
the beery bowling barrel,
rolling Uptown through the mist.
Dawn is about to break a sweat.
Comrades, fare thee well.
Sweet dreams.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER ELEVEN
More fun at MacLand. Mr. Milty creates a
large scowling face in the Stinko’s Copy Shop
window down Oak Street. Te face stops traffic and
causes an uroar. Later, Tyger, Mac Armor’s,
Nick Bowers, and Sandy Alexander go bowling
at Expressway Lanes, across the river at Gretna.
The team prepares for a wild night of bowling with a
pre-games meal at the Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese restaurant and other activities.
Armor’s nearly causes a riot at the alley through his behavior.
CHAPTER 11
“Smash-up at Stinko’s”
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Strange birds are always perched about MacLand Headquarters.
These rara avis sit in various zen-like positions; or free, at
last, fluttering about the three bedroom house
and large adjoining yard outside.
Poor lonely souls in terminal residence next door are a
bit less active. They are not Monty Python parrots pining
for the fjrds. They are past tense. It is a funeral parlor .
But jamming, so they say, can awaken the dead and as the
parade of bongo and conga lines forms to the right, to the left
dem bones, dem bones possibly dance up a storm. Lucky stiffs.
Mac and Sarah and lions and bears fly in formation through
rock solid air. Getting on barbecue time at the old Mac ranch and
the lead drummer grills up a hearty repast of chicken breasts and
ribs. The usual gaggle of geese and soiree of swans are present
discussing current affairs or simply duck quack resting.
Fee fi fo fum, Tyger smells the bullshit of a crummy bum.
Shit, Heave Broward, funky bass player of the New Neanderthals,
has dropped like a karmic dead lead weight to disturb the
ecological balance. Heave ho is the proverbial snake in the garden
ruining everybody’s paradise. His line is plumbing the water for some
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easy chum among the beautiful song birds inside.
“Why, you are the prettiest girl here,” he tells three
robins consecutively as he separates each from the safety of a
nest. Could anyone possibly be stupid enough to believe him?
But that is the pickup game. Soon he departs with a
particularly dull blue yay in tow. “You are the prettiest girl
here. I want to give you the greatest orgasm ever,” he is
overheard saying as he pushes his dainty prey out the door.
This occurs as Tyger and Armor’s enter. “Hey Heave,” Armor’s
calls to the long lanky bass fake. It’s go time.
“You’re an asshole. Loser.”
“Fuck you Armor’s,” Heave says, hastily exiting.
Heave’s departure has a salutary effect on the fruitful
gathering. Mac and Sarah, his squeeze, discuss another lame
brain member of the New Neanderthals.
“Yeah, I heard Roots Badburns is getting a doctorate,” Mac
says as Tyger overhears with disgust. “Man, that bullshit again.”
“Root bound shit has been saying that for 20 years,” Armor’s says.
“Hope he does get it. Then, we finally can stop hearing about it.”
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“Hey baby, what it is'” Armor ‘s calls over to Mac who
fiddles with a drum machine. “What it is baby?” says Armor’s
walking across the room to shake Mac ‘s shoulders.
Mac, nonetheless is concentrating on the world beat.
“What it is is to be awful,” observes Mac casually.
“Hey, just saw Heave leaving,” Tyger says. What was he
doing here? Trying to steal some fun? ”
“That’s cool,” Mac notes. “He keeps saying he is going to
sit in on a jam, but never seems to get around to it.”
Armor’s has flown to the kitchen area where he coo-coos
Heave’s left-overs. Some guys have no self-respect. Armor ‘s
qualifies when it comes to the the name of that tune.
Tyger dives into the comfy cushioned couch area, next to the
beanbag chair memorial park, picking a roach out of the ashtray.
“Mind if I partake?” he asks. “Be my guest,” Mac replies as
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the drum machine spews out a kind of disco beat.
“Didn’t I hear the Village People do that?” Tyger asks as he
inhales a big puff of smoke and holds it in ever so dearly before
it too must perforce fly. “Hey. Haven’t you heard?” Mac asks
rhetorically. “I used to be the Construction Worker.”
The actual reason for the visit is a rumor that Mr. Milty —
along with lead guitarist Buck the only other
acceptable New Neanderthal — is about to embark on a
semi-serious art project. Stinko’s copy shop where he works
has recently instituted a policy of letting artists
display their work in a side window.
Mac and the gang already have displayed their magnificent
salute to the nuclear family complete with painted and halfburned
styrofoam wig heads. It caused quite a public stir.
Now, it’s Mr. Milty’s turn at bat. He is going to try to
score with a giant face mural painted on the large glass window.
Milty has many strange, awful, and wonderful face paintings
at home. They are sort of to the rear of David Lynch’s
“Eraserhead,” just this side of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg of
Great Gatsby fame with a little Day of the Locust ambiance
tossed in for good measure.
Tyger dares not miss the magic project moment. Given Mr.
Milty’s track record, there is no telling how long the face will
grimace in public before something terrible happens. Milty has a
provocative and quirky attitude concerning art.
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Therefore, it is best to be on hand for he who hesitates is
lost. Or at least that is what Tyger’s high school baseball coach
said when it came to the topic of taking the extra base.
“Oh yeah, Mr. Milty’s down there now,” Mac reports as he
switches off the drum machine. “Let’s check it out.” So they fly
sky high little starlings and hunker down the road four blocks.
Sure enough, super thin Mr. Milty stands in the window
painting a giant multicolored face. And the face, comrades,
does not look amused.
No indeedy, it looks like apocalypse now with mad reds,
oranges. and greens cascading in every direction. And oh those
evil eyes, Mona Lisa grimace, and general flushed expression.
“Look like anyone you know?” Tyger asks Mac .
“Hope not,” he replies.
Mr . Milty walks inside the Stinko’s window dashing off
stroke after awful stroke. What is that, a penalty shot? No, it
is just a strange face exploding colors in your mind. Mr. Milty
is hard at work, his long sandy hair and Jesus beard flowing.
Screeeeech! Kerboom. Sound of steel crashing and tin cans
being opened by self-implosion.
Boom. Crash. Burn, yearn, fern, yo mama. Disputations and
sad embraces. All this in the Stinko’s window for any passerby to
be alarmed by and hopefully pass through to the other side.
“This is the best window yet,” Tyger remarks as glass
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shatters and representational art unflatters the small throng
across the street from Stinko’s now watching Mr. Milty’s every
monumental brush stroke.
An instant anti-karma news flake crew from WDSU — New
Orleans’ own around the clock source of lying commercialism
according to their self-promotions — drive by in their up-link
minivan. They stop to see what the commotion is about.
“Oh it’s just awful art,” a red-faced pumpkin lady tells them.
“You know how finicky artists can be.”
The on-air news flake looks bored. Since this is the most
important and interesting event of the day, he decides to pull up
stakes and move along little doggy to that exciting news porn house fire
on Elm Street. Better visuals for Ray-Gun family values.
Besides, the so-called reporter can’t figure out how he can
make trivial Mr. Milty’s very disturbing commentary on man’s
inhumanity to himself, taking the most awful art down to the
lowest level possible so his editors can understand.
Through it all, The giant disturbing face might be —
shall we say — eternally smiling.
Two police officers drive by noting a considerable commotion and
screech to a sudden stop. Since there seems to be no physical
danger present, they linger gently, joining the growing crowd observing
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M. Milty’s impresario strokes and grand gestures with mouths
approaching open wide.
Mac picks up the universal vibration. “Awful, of course,” he state
to the pumpkin lady, now one of MacLand’s temporary best fiends, er friends.
“I think it’s very nice,” she replies, adding, “What do you
mean awful?”
“Awful,” Mac reiterates. “Ya know–full of awe. ”
“Oh yes, it is that,” the matronly lady agrees. “But the
dear boy in the window must be a little, I don’t know,
disturbed maybe. A little disturbed I think.”
“No doubt,” Tyger says.
Crackle, snapple, pop, the police car radio mouths off as a
female cop calls in her position. “Ah, roger, roger; we have a
white male in the Stinko’s window painting a giant face.
Please advise. Over.”
Chhhh, chhhh … static … chhhh. “Never- mind. There’s a 20-30
over at Maple Street. Please respond.” orders the voice
disembodied. “We better get going,” cop-ette tells her podner.
They load in the police car. Driving off, the cop riding
shotgun rolls down his window, looks at Mac,
asking, “But is it art?”
Everyone is a citic . “Can’t help you with that one, man,”
Mac replies as they both laugh. “But I like it.”
Milty takes care of business inside the pained glass,
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oblivious to the outside Oak Street crowd in disturbance. Or
maybe he’s into it because that is his usual method of operation.
The Miltmaster soaks up the crowd’s ambivalence, turning
it into an increasingly wild face painting, if that is possible.
He mines a very disturbing vision of the soul’s eye.
“I’m liking this a lot,” Tyger tells Mac.
“I think he is on to something.”
It’s beginning to look a lot like nightmare on Oak Street,
part infinity, part end of the world, and part joke is on them.
Milty winds down the face thing, beginning to wash his
brushes, packing away the offending colors.
Out of the blue, into the pink, ka-boom! Ka-boom! Squealing
tires and jaw of nuked and neutered newt.
Screech! Sliding wheels. Suddenly, right before the crowd’s
Betty Davis eyes conglomeration, a fender bender three car urban
street jam pile-up. Smash! Smash? Smash!
In your face, bozo scum-sucker rubbernecks. Kerblam!
Believe it or nuts, three drivers as one jump out of their
respective you got Prince Albert in a can, well they are let out cars.
Mr. Milty’s face has proven its karmic powers beyond any doubt.
He has caused a three car pile-up accident.
The first driver had been watching through the window and
suddenly stopped only to be struck by the second whom, in turn,
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was hit by the third. Damn, that art is powerful stuff.
“I suppose they’ll try to make me investigate this,” Tyger
says. “Face mural causes accident and riot on Oak Street.
News fake at 10.”
The drivers stand on the side of the street jawboning various
pieces of impersonal misinformation. Nothing major really, just a
tribute to Milty’s artistic powers. The artist, himself, has now
finished. He crosses the confused street scene to view his
material damage.
“Not bad, if I don’t say so myself,” Mr. Milty concludes. “I
think I’ve hit a grand slam with this one.”
(Mr. Milty, besides being an advanced musician-artist is
also quite the baseball buff. He specialized in collecting
trading cards before that practice became fashionable.)
“Excellent stuff,” he concludes searching for a quick escape
hatch should he need to flee the surrounding crowd — of, shall
we say, admirers — if necessary. Parapazzi might be lurking
anywhere, not to mention Brigatisti Rosa.
The madcap smashed and crashed motorists are becoming a bit
too personally involved with their dispute so Mac, of all
persons, tries to mediate. “Come on guys. Calm down, ” he says.
“Not much damage. Not much. Relax and look at the nice face painting.”
“Hey that’s what caused this shit,” Driver Number One tells Mac.
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“If that asshole in front of me hadn’t stopped to look.”
Driver No. 1 pauses, reading the face on the glass.
“I think it sucks,” he says. Then, back to the accident at hand.
Grinning from ear to ear, our cheshire cat of an artist Mr .
Milty is having fun. “That’s what I like to hear,” he says before
departing. “Well, It’s getting ugly over here. I better like a banana split.”
Milty possesses an unerring sense of when to exit honed by
many near death experiences brought about in the name of art.
“You know who caused this shit?” realizes suddenly Driver Number
Three. “Where is the asshole who painted that window?” Too late, bub.
So too, the boys return to MacLand leaving the wreckage of
the unenlightened for themselves to sort out. “You got to give it
to Mr . Milty,” Mac says as he sits in the living space tuning a
conga drum. “He sure knows how to distract a crowd.”
Tyger walks back to the kitchen where Armor’s and Sarah are
playing with the cats, in this case literally. Armor’s needs some
new blood to compliment his brood and has agreed to take some of
MacLand’s excess nuevo kitten population.
Mama Cat recently delivered a large litter of genetically
inbred New Orleans specie wingheadius, a special type of feline
with super-wide ears spanning the globe found only
in the Big UnEasy. “They are cute little buggers,” Armor ‘s notes
as Sarah fetches up an orange female kitty and striped grey brother,
placing them in a carry-all enclosed cardboard box.
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“O.K. ready, steady. Let’s go,” says Armor’s as the proud
papa with his new family loads into the off-duty surveillance
vehicle. “See ya later alligator,” he yells out the passenger
side window as they drive back to the future.
The plan is to scatter for now, regrouping later at MacLand.
The gang intends to engage in some late-night bowling
practice across the river at the Expressway Lanes in Harvey.
Why not? Seems like something, er, athletic to do. Tyger, Mac and
Armor’s bowl the beguine with their good buddies Nick Bowers
and Sandy Alexander. Mr . Milty would usually be square and be there.
However, he is otherwise indisposed with the aforementioned
instrumental giants of the New Neanderthal age.
Seconds, minutes, and hours pass through this temporary
existence. Tyger fiddles around his house while Armor’s settles
the cats into their new environment. The usual outrageously fine
moments pass for the MacLand crowd. Mr. Milty’s face continues
blocking traffic along Oak Street Stinko’s.
Everyone hooks up at Mac’s place around midnight, piling
into official safe driver Sandy Alexander’s tasteful black
Volkswagen Jetta headed for a date with bowling destiny at Expressway Lanes.
The team has its usual intense pep rally before bowling.
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This is accompanied by team prayer at which joints are passed to
symbolize the nature of man’s quest for fun representing as well
the hope, the smoke, the holy huffing, and puffing of good high times.
Nick Bowers supplies some very good hydroponically grown
shit. Everyone agrees as they fill the Jetta with jet-streams of
exhaled reefer smoke; what a terrific guy, what great mutah.
Everybody buys into the team concept. Y’all for one and one
P.J. — i.e., personal joint — of regular Mexican pot for y’all.
Let’s hear it for bowlers anonymous. Yaaaay team’ Smoke
billows from every Sandymobile orifice as the boys stumble
outside the car party towards their next destination.
The group walks across the Expressway Lanes parking lot to
the sacred Pho Tau Bay Vietnamese Restaurant.
Another gotta-have-it exercise revealed.
They voraciously consume a hearty pre-games meal of Goi Cuon
spring rolls, and Bun Thit Nuong. Sweetened with condensed milk
Cafe Sua Da washes down the great eats.
How do you say thank you in Vietnamese?
Pho Tau Bay’s owner is an American Indochina War veteran
who married a Vietnamese woman and her family. He seems like a
nice guy, tall and thin with a right forearm tattoo of an
arrow through a heart. (Ah, the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune form an appropriate symbol for the bowlers from across
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the River Styx.)
G. I. Joe hosts as various Vietnamese women, and children
wildly run around the restaurant that has quite a few late-night
diners. Besides the vet, who greet the boys in a friendly easy
manner, the bowling team fools are the only Caucasians at the pho joint.
It is a beautiful place with exotic tropical fish and bright
walls as yet undiscovered by the local news fakes. Eventually,
they will get around to it, but for now, all is pristine pleasure
and good eating before the battle royale begins.
Vietnam Cong Hoa’. Rumbling, bumbling, stumbling,
Armor ‘s is mumbling as the team bounces into Expressway Lanes,
your basic industrial grade bowling alley. Very bright lights flood the alley as dim
bulbs fling their hard round balls of joy down waxed wood boards.
Sandy and Mac zoom over to the snack bar, grabbing four cups
of beer. Armor ‘s is all bowling business, carefully unraveling
the cosmic cloth covering his black beauty 14-pound ball,
shining the sporting object clean of grease.
Sandy smokes a cigarette, the only nicotine habit in the
group. No matter as he fits in with the crowd.
Expressway Lanes after midnight on the weekends
is a smoldering chimney. All those fat asses blow
their lung weight in tobacco haze.
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They are drinking their bellies full of draft beer.
Odd excuse for a sport, this.
A very competitive environment predominates, as always. Each
bowler wants to come out on top. The lanes rent by the hour after
midnight, so games are much cheaper than during prime-time and
may be rolled in mass quantities.
Therefore, the boys usually roll 10 or 11 games each,
sometimes more, stopping only when their arms or thumbs fall off,
sometimes not even then . Huge blisters might form. A nuclear bomb
might fall. No matter. It takes more than that to eradicate bowling
fever after it has commenced. So begins the first of many games .
Armor’s is a tremendous bowler, believe it or nuts. He
brought along a clove cigarette for some reason. Lights it.
The sweet acrid clove smell drifts over to the other nearby
bowlers. They are a group of potbellied men with Rick’s Oil Field
Trash on their color coordinated white with red and blue trim
shirts. They stare swords at Armor’s target.
Armor’s ignores them, walking slowly to the ball return.
Smash smash smash all around the sounds of balls striking pins in
the nearly empty establishment, no more than one-quarter filled.
Armor’s takes no quarter either. He deliberately
approaches the boards, letting loose a solid pocket hit. Boom!
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Pins scatter. Strike one. A look of satisfaction on his face, he sits down,
re- lighting the DJakarta Elephant’s clove cigarette.
Good old boys from Rick’s Oil Field Trash look pissed
Feel free to grumble among yourselves, boys.
Heightened concentration following the Pho Tau Bay culinary experience
makes for a competitive match-up. Not to mention the happy effects of a dozen consumed reefers.
Strike. Strike. Spare. Spare. Strike. Open frame. “Shit, Tyger, you suck.”
Sandy announces beer frame. Armor’s strikes a spare.
Next round you’re buying,” Mac tells Sandy. Beer beer beer all around friends.
Armor’s throws a great game. Strike strike strike strike spare, shit,
spare, spare, shit, spare, shit, strike. He is right up there around 200.
What a great anchorman. And all the while toking on the clove cigarette.
For what–for luck? Perhaps. Finally a mid-sized fatty, person not blunt,
from the trash heap boys, sidles over, staring daggers at Armor’s white haze.
“What you smoking there, boy?” he asks. “Mari-ja-wanna? What is that shit?”
“Oh, haha,” laughs Armor’s to Rick guy’sred-beet face. “No man. “All good, legal.
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Clove cigarette from Indonesia. They’re great. Take a puff.”
The atmosphere lightens up considerably. The fellow takes a
hit, holds it, and exhales in a loud rush.
“Whoa Nellie. That stuff makes you dizzy as hell. How about
that,” he declares. “What you know. You learn something new every day.”
“Hey want one?” Armor’s asks, producing the strangely
colored pack with equally exotic elephant graphics.
“Y’all don’t mind,” Armor’s new bestest buddy says.
“Nah,” Armor’s says. Sharing is caring. Or caring is;
I dunno, here, they’re great.”
“Hey, you bowled a mean game there, too, motherfucker.”
Armor’s simply exudes his version of the cheshire cat grin.
“Thanks man,” as the guy wanders off into space.
Sandy returns from bowling his frame. “What was all that
about?” he asks. “The guy thought these clove cigarettes were
marijuana,” Armor’s reports.
Sandy shakes his head. “You’re up.” All business now as the
games continue. Armor’s drills another strike. “Gotcha,” he says,
pointing at the pins with a shooting gun gesture
ala Dennis Eckersley wrapping up a save.
Game after game, frame after frame, follow the bouncing
balls as pins collide, explode, dissipate, go black.
Welcome to the big bang, late night version.
Rolling bowling trolling, jolie fun and frolic shake. Beer
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frame after beer frame. Alternating between one person up while
others take a quick team prayer outside. And they are not
smoking clove cigarettes either, comrades.
The games seem quite competitive. Averages are fairly
consistent and respectable. Tyger is low man with a 135.
Nick and Sandy check in at 145.
Mac is hot with his odd shot-put style yielding a 150 pin
performance. Armor’s, fueled by clove and beer, chalks up an
awesome 190. You know what they say: Can’t have too much fuh.
Getting on to 3 a.m. as Rick’s Oil Field Trash along with
about everyone else has vanished into the West Bank
darkness. A teenage party at the far end of the brightly lit
lanes about sums it up.
One of them flings his ball diagonally across three lanes.
Sad lonely ball, bounces rudely stopping gutter adjacent.
His friend runs down and grabs the ball as they laugh hysterically.
Must be too much clove in their diet.
The night manager sternly lectures the boy. “Anyone home.
Anyone there. Anyone home.” he repeats in an endless tape loop.
Black hole. No one apparently is at home. No one is listening.
The boys wrap things up as they pack their bowling bags in
cloths of many colors, return the special shoes, head across the Greater New
Orleans Bridge back to the city of New Orleans. Downtown shimmers
with skyscraper lights that reflect along the muddy Mississippi River.
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Tyger removes a final joint from his altoids box.
So it goes, so it blows, so ends
the beery bowling barrel,
rolling Uptown through the mist.
Dawn is about to break a sweat.
Comrades, fare thee well.
Sweet dreams.
Doggy Girl/Bill Conley
CHAPTER TWELVE
Joe organizes the tam effort for
the first encounter with Mildred Baker who
has a doctor’s appointment near Touro Infirmary
on Prytania Street. Tyger records Baker’s
bizarre activity from a parking garage
across the street. Following this, Tyger
goes to Livingston Parish and interviews
the estranged wife of Bingo LeBoeuf,
Joe’s evil Moriarty of an arch enemy.
Tyger also cases the Loranger home
of the ridiculous Dill Pickle.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“”The Fabulous Baker girl, Bingo LeBoeuf and Dill Pickle”
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Listen my children and you shall hear of the first encounter
with Mildred Baker. What a dear. Grab a chair, and abandon fear .
Comrades: You are there.
A week has transpired without any cases, which is fine as
Tyger is very worn out from all the–Maynard G. Krebs voice:
woooork ! It is not all that easy to go from being blissfully
unemployed — blissful to the degree that the attendant lack of
financial resources can be tolerated — to working constantly.
Tyger could lift and press the heavy workload because he was
well rested and assignments were interesting. But the respite has
had a refreshing effect. He’s ready, willing, and raring to go.
Dorothy sets up commas. “We are going in on Mildred Baker,
and Joe wants to meet you outside Que Sera on St. Charles Avenue .
You know where that is, don’t you?”
“A horse is a horse of course, of course. ”
“Good. Be there for 10 a.m. Bring the system. ”
The appointed time, as it
must, rolls down da broad oak
tree lined avenue, home to
must, rolls down da broad oak
some of New Orleans’ wealthiest
mannerisms. Joe waits outside the canopied cafe wearing a “NASA–
Space is the Place” blue cap, and shades. He clutches in his
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right hand a copy of the St. Petersburg Times.
“Hey, how you doing, bro?” inquiring minds wants to know.
“Doing O.K.,” Tyger replies. “Ready for anything.”
“You are going to enjoy this one,” Joe continues. “We have
Mildred Baker scheduled for a doctor’s appointment.
“She is supposed to show up at 11:30 a.m. at a Dr. Singer’s
office in the medical center on Prytania Street across from Touro
Infirmary. I want you to set up and get some good shots of her
coming and going.”
The plan, as usual, is somewhat overblown but ingenious.
Lana is over in New Orleans East by Baker’s apartment. Joe will
join her. But first, they must find a convenient pay telephone.
Joe will call Tyger at the pay phone when Baker leaves for
the doctor’s office. Then, the junior associate should set up in
a good spot to catch her arrival at the clinic.
Meantime, Lana will try to photograph the sub leaving the
complex. Joe will follow the taxi in which the little girl Baker is
encased while she travels Uptown. This way they have thrice the
opportunity to catch the elusive Ms. Baker in action. Of course,
The very real possibility exists that Ms. Half-Baked will continue the
lame act throughout. However, the client wants to start taking the first good
shot. there and rumble, stumble, bumble, tumble from there.
Who knows. Luck is the residue of design as Branch Rickey, baseball genius,
said. The fabulous Ms. Baker may sip up and slip out of her blessed wheelchair.
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Then, the tired trap thee act would be over–gotcha. It’s a
mega-million dollar question. Therefore, some sub rosa fun seems well
Off into the ozone floats Joe as Tyger takes up residence
near the chosen pay phone. It is situated on the bottom level
of the parking garage directly across Prytania — pronounced pry and
tanya, as in Patty Hearst, by natives — Street from Touro Infirmary.
Tyger sifts around for a good spot. Inspiration strikes.
Why not try the open top level of the garage? He can get a good
long shot of the entire street and any activities like strange
flips or hanging from a railing by former trapeze artist Mildred Baker.
Goody goody gumshoe. This is what surveillance of
the pelicana is all about. Let the good times roll as hopefully
will Mildred’s Baker.
Tyger grabs a quick brew over at the Bluebird Cafe and retakes
his position by the pay phone. After about 25 minutes of pacing
to and fro across the concrete floor by the reeking of piss
elevator area; holy shit, batman, ring ring rings the telephone.
Tyger grabs the gecko by the long tail of a cord.
“Hey that you?” Joe Fine’ s voice on the line. “Yeah chief.
Anything happening?”
“Nah. The bitch is still at home. Lana is watching over on
the corner. Just checking to keep in commas. I anticipate she
worth the effort.
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should be moving any time. Hold that Tyger. We should have
something soon.”
“Gotcha chief. On my toes.” “Good. Be talking to you soon.”
“Back at you.”
About 20 minutes pass. A garage attendant walks by a couple
of times which naturally arouses Tyger’s innate sense of
paranoia.
What does that fucker want anyway? What is his fucking
problem? Tyger wishes he would, like the toilet bowl cleaner,
vanish.
Finally deciding that lack of discretion is the better part
of valor, Tyger catches the attendant’s gaze after a third passby.
“Hey man, is it alright if I wait here? I’m supposed to meet
my girlfriend,” Tyger lies.
“Oh yeah, I’m just on break,” notes the small black
attendant with an official parking
looking for a place to take a smoke.
around at the entrance.”
” I know how that goes,”
garage logo shirt. “Just
They don’t like us hanging
Tyger as friendlinessman
impersonates. “Yeah, work’s a bitch,” the attendant remarks. ” As is my
girlfriend,”Tyger says.
Suddenly, the phone rings-a-ding-dings. Tyger snatches it
like a bug eating plant. The attendant wears a quizzical expression.
“What? What?” Tyger answers an unintelligible voice. ”Izz
Shoily dere?” “Shirley?”
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“Oh, I must have the wrong number .” Click. “What do you
know,” Tyger says to the attend ant, “wrong number.”
The attend ant walks over to the phone and picks up the
receiver. “Uhh, what are you doing?” a worried Tyger asks. After
all, Joe Fine could be calling at any moment. “I got to check in
at home. Y’all don’t miiiiiiiiind. Do you?”
Tyger figures he better let the attendant have his head.
Dial dial, doo-dah, diddy as Tyger waits nervously at arm’s
length from the sacred object.
“Hey there baby. What it ain’t,” the attendant says. “How
you beautiful doll doing? Yeahhhhhhh.” Pregnant pause. Tyger is a
tad nervous, but lets it go.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. Yeah? Oh yeah,” and so
forth for two or three minutes that seem much longer.
“She said what? Hey, don’t let that bother you none baby.
You my baby doll gal. Don’t listen to that shit. Yeah. Oh yeah.”
Tyger starts losing his shit. How long is this guy going to
take? An inner debate flares between civil civilian Tyger and the
forces of investigative disorder .
Finally, thank goodness,
Tyger looks perturbed.
the attendant gets off the phone.
“Anything the matter man?” the attendant asks. “Oh, no no no
no. I was waiting for my girlfriend to call on this line about
when she’s going to pick me up. Forgot to mention that to y’all.
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Didn’t know how long you would take.”
“Yeah, dem wild women . Can’t live wid dem and can’t live
widout dem. You feel me, man?” “Oh, yeah, and then some.”
Finally, ring ring da-riiing as Tyger lunges for the phone.
“Who were you talking to?” Joe Fine asks. “Focus.” Thank the good
Lord and pass the ammo.
“It’s for me,” Tyger says to the attendant who waves his
hand adding, “Okee-dokey. Got to be off. Dem wild wild women,”
chuckling as he trails into the garage darkness. “Yeah, you right
man,” Tyger calls out. “See ya when I see ya.”
Back to Joe Fine. “Damn. The parking attendant was using
the phone to kill time.” “I was wondering if I had the right number
but I figured would get you eventually,” Joe says.
“The bitch is off,” the super sleuth continues. “The game is
afoot. They wheeled her in a Yellow Cab. Yellow Cab Number 23. She should
be there in 15 minutes.”
“Got anything on her?” Tyger asks. “Lana took a few
stills, but Baker was doing the act,” Joe says. “I didn’t shoot
any video. You got a good spot?”
“Great spot on the top floor of the parking garage. Got a
nice angle down on the entire street and no one to hassle me.
Looks good.”
“Good show. we’ll be down there in a little while. I’ll try
to get her from the street. You stick where you are. See ya. Got
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to get after her.” Click.
Tyger takes the elevator to the top floor. The odoriferous
smell of taxi zum klo piss displeases his sensitive nostrils.
But atop the garage in the fresh crisp air, all is right
again. Tyger removes the video camera and recorder .
He is not even going to bother setting up the system. No
need to. It is a straight ahead mission above ground zero. This
way he has more videographic mobility in the splendid isolation
of the empty top floor.
Checking the picture, and looking good. As usual, the
hurry up and wait department. Tyger pauses, and takes another hit
… of sweet air.
But for good measure, he smokes a roach that was in the
ashtray. After
all, an intrepid investigator can never be too
prepared.
So it goes, so it flows. Minutes pass. Tyger focuses w.1th
extra attention span on each and every passing vehicle waiting
for the magic moment of decision .
The Tygermeister scans like a pelicana
back and forth down
along Prytania Street until presto magic,
Joe Fine·s Toyota
Cressida pulls into an empty parking space. Can the Baker party
be far behind?
Sure enough, a couple ot minutes later the cab pulls up to
the front entrance of the medical center. Tyger zooms in on the
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taxi driver jumping out the door and running into the open
ended building.
Baker remains seated in the cab. A nurse with wheelchair
accompanies the cabby back curbside. They load in Ms. Baker like
a sack of angry potatoes. She appears to be mouthing off to the
cab driver.
Tyger checks his watch. He finally gets it. They are late
for the appointment and Baker’s hopping mad. Now, if only she
would actually hop. That would be somewhat entertaining.
Tick shtick tock. Nothing nothing nothing. Boring boring snoring.
A car passes around the upper curve that spirals the
parking garage thereafter cruising downward. Tyger pays scant
attention to irrelevant details. Or tries to.
Getting on to 1 p.m. For a long lonely time Tyger has been
waiting each nanosecond for the other shoe to drop. Tick friggin
tock. Nothing neither way. Boring boring snoring.
At long and lovely last, they wheel out the fat little Baker
girl. She is a porker alright, no doubt about it. The nurse talks
to her for a while, then returns to said office.
Baker idles just under the building’s awning and waits. And
waits. And Tom Waits.
All this time, Tyger rolls videotape, but, alas, no
suspicious activity to record. Baker is playing it by the book.
She continues looking at her wrist. What time is it? Tyger
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follows suit. About 1:15 p.m. which reminds him to watch “Al 1 My
Children” on tape when he returns home.
The fabulous Mrs. Baker appears perturbed. She wheels down
Prytania Street. She wheels back to the awning.
She waits a short while. She wheels down Prytania Street and
back again. She has heavy metal braces hanging from each arm.
Tyger continues with his mission control, taping the
diminutive doll judgment day style from above. She looks
pissed through the little birdy viewfinder .
The cab company must be late again. What a cryin’ shame. Joe
Fine sits in his car down the street as well. What a game.
Another United Cab pulls up. Baker wheels towards it.
But, can you beat that–a passenger is ejected, yet the cabby
refuses to take Baker in replacement. The cabby must already have
a previous engagement. Ms. Baker looks very very pissed. Wild
stuff, Johnny, says Ed McMahon.
Another cab arrives, stopping down the street at the corner
of Touro Infirmary. Suddenly, what do you know, Baker forgets
about the horrible condition her condition is in,
springs out of the wheelchair, and
runs down the street, her metallically braced arms waving wildly
in the wake.
This claimant moves along very well for a fat lady, injured
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or otherwise. Holy cow! Tyger frantically tapes the scene.
Baker walks back to the wheelchair. Now, she leans heavily —
woe is her — on the metal braces, and plunks back down, all
the while giving the cabby quite an apparent earful. Nice lady.
The cabby helps her lumber into the back seat. They drive
away. It is a crazy world comrades in bizarre situations. Welcome
to the Baker asylum where the inmates have become quite surly.
Tyger departs the scene and back down to Prytania Street
paying the booth attendant who looks at him oddly. “Ya goil get
wit you man?” he asks timidly.
“Oh yeah. I just finished having lunch with her. Just came
back to get my car.”
“0h. Well , don’t do anything I wou 1 dn’ t do, man.” “I hear that.”
By this time, Joe Fine is yoicks the fox off off and away
into the urban street scene haze, presumably following Baker back
to New Orleans East, Morrison Road.
Tyger checks in with Dorothy telling her about the Baker mad
dash. She loves it.
“Isn’t that something?” she says. “Funny how sometimes the
lame can walk.” “In this case run,” Tyger adds.
“Strange lady. I’m sur-e we’ll be back on her again. Come on
over to the West Bank tomorrow, drop off the tape and your report
if you can. Then, we have another assignment for you.” “Sounds
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good.” And a day’s work is done.
The next morning, “Yip yip yip,” who is
that snapping at
Tyger ‘s heels? Why, ’tis Poopsie of course–Dorothy’s, shall we
for the sake of argument say, cute little poodle.
“Hey there slugger,” Tyger calls bending down to pet the
pedigreed mutt. Dorothy lets him in the door. Fawning over
Poopsie, Dorothy leads her to the
backyard, telling Tyger to sit
down at the kitchen table.
“This is a toughie,” she says as Tyger sits down and she
brings him a cup of coffee. “Milk and sugah?” “No thanks. I like
it black.”
“O.K. This is Bingo LeBoeuf,” she continues, showing Tyger a
picture of a thin, blonde, mean looking soul, about 32 years
old. He has a very special scar across his nasty right cheekbone.
“This is kind of a special deal for Joe. He has been trying
to get Bingo for quite a while. Sort of a personal mission.
Joe will be very well pleased if you can get something on him.
“LeBoeuf’s a real low-life, a little on the violent side .
Supposedly he got in a fight with his best friend over his wife
and blasted him in the face with a shotgun .
“You know the type, kind of white trashy. They are always
shooting each other up there and sometimes don’t even need a
reason .” “Oh.”
Dorothy chuckles at Tyger’s natural reaction . “Look, don’t
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worry. We’re not going to ask you to put yourself in any danger.
Don’t hesitate to bail out if it gets tight.
“What we want you to do is meet with LeBoeuf’s ex-wife. At
least, that’s what she told Joe. Those people are always
fighting, breaking up, and getting back together. You know how
that goes.
“Meet her at the AB&D Cafe at Springfield. That’s where she
works as a waitress. Bingo is supposed to be living in Tickfaw.
“She told Joe that she has some information about Bingo
working as a roofer. We want to find out where and if possible
get some pictures on him.
“He has been a slippery little devil. You just have to
play it by ear. After that, go over to Loranger and check up on
this fellow … ”
A pause while Dorothy chuckles, “You are not going to
believe his name–Dill Pickle. I kid you not.”
“I guess he was born to be an insurance claimant with a name
like that,” Tyger says.
“No kidding,” Dorothy continues. “Anyway, Dill claims to
have an injured neck. We want you to verify his address. Do the
usual outine. You know the drill by now. Check on vehicles and the
layout of his home.
“Also, sit on him for an hour, but give him a lot of room.
We’ll go back on him later, This is just a preliminary check.”
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Merrily merrily verily, north of the lake we go. The next
day Tyger leaves early for the AB&D Cafe, cutting across the
Bonnet Carre Spillway on Interstate 10, leading to Interstate 55
North. and lovely Tangipahoa Parish.
Comrades of the short attention span pay attention as Tyger
transports you through a landscape undergoing several changes
from urban environment to swampland just past New Orleans
International Airport.
Beautiful peaceful La Louisiane. Long vistas of exotic trees
and wetlands, pelicans and other indigenous creatures drifting
off to the south while Lake Ponchartrain and less well-known
sister body of water Lake Maurepas stand guard to the north.
Tyger shifts in that direction on a long stretch of highway
cutting through the wetlands parallel to railroad tracks and not
much else. Only the small town of Manchac separates the pristine
beauty of the wetlands from — shall we say — civilization .
The environment changes north of the lakes. Here the world
more closely resembles the rest of the cracker South in humanity
and landscape with tall pine trees and flowing green fields
punctuated by cattle and red clay.
So close and yet so far, Tangipahoa Parish resembles a
foreign land to the native New Orleanian, and of course, the same
is true in reverse.
The air seems crisp and clean. Tyger wends his way along the
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interstate to Ponchatoula and the metropolis of Hammond, home of
the Southeastern Louisiana University Lions.
Oops. As Tyger melds with the forest, he temporarily loses
all sense of direction. He stops at a Hammond gas station and
finds the proper directions to Springfield, which lies to the
southwest just across the parish line in Livingston Parish.
Tyger criss-crosses the famed Pearl River, for now a tiny
sliver of a stream that with April rains transmutes into a
roaring raging flood plain
engulfing nearby houses and businesses.
More piney woods and inspiring vegetation are scattered
around the flood plain. Bet
marijuana grows real well there, Tyger observes.It is tough to obtain
flood insurance as a result of 100
years floods that occur on an annual basis, so a lot of the
crackers have become expert arsonists. Joe Fine spends much
time there investigating suspicious fires.
Over and under the woods we go along Louisiana 22 to Mrs.
LeBeouf’s place of employment at the AB&D Cafe, a nondescript
restaurant just off the road.
A couple of pick-up trucks stand watch in the gravel and
dirt parking area. Tyger pulls in, parks, grabs a yellow legal
pad, and enters.
The cafe is surprisingly airy inside and well furnished with
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hardwood tables and comfortable wooden chairs. Pleasant natural
light cascades through the front windows. A cooking area lurks
behind a half-door to the rear of the cafe.
An equally pleasing aroma drifts over as a pretty young girl
with long blonde hair approaches the looming Tyger, “Are you
Deena LeBeouf,” he asks.
“Hey Deena,”. she calls, then turns to Tyger burning with
nascent lust. “She’ll be out in a second. Grab a seat,” and
surveying the empty cafe, “I guess anywhere.”
Tyger follows her instructions to the letter-. Deena emerges
from the kitchen. She is long and gaunt, more hard than pretty,
but might have been better looking before life’s r-esponsibilities
descended upon her short brown hair . “You looking for me?” she
asks. “Looking for me?”
“Yeah, Tyger- Williams. I’m an associate of Joe Fine. He
asked me to look you up and find out what’s happening.”
“The detective feller,” she recalls. “Where is he? He said
he was coming up.”
“Couldn’t make it. He sent me to find out what’s going on
with your- husband.” “Ex … ” “Ex-husband and report back to him.
Then I’m sure Joe will know what to do.”
“Where are my manners,” Deena states. “Care for some coffee ?
This is after- all a restaurant. We have quite a reputation around
here as the place to go to. The food is very good here.” Tyger
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takes his coffee black .
“Hey Mary. Can you bring us some coffee?” Deena calls out
and a few seconds later Mary emerges with a full pot. Tyger
samples his brew. “Not bad,” he says. “In fact, very good.”
Deena LeBeouf’s story goes this way: Bingo treated her, and
her two children, like crap during their 14 years together , Bingo
was faking his back injury which really pissed her off.
“Hell, he went hunting over Christmas and was working as a
roofer even though he was collecting money from the insurance
company. That’s pla1n wrong.”
She wanted to trap Bingo by using his desire to see his
children as bajt. Of course, she wasn’t quite sure that plan
would work. Bingo only paid $10 a month for each child in child
support which was shit, but she was letting it slide for now.
There was no formal agreement, so she was using the threat
of higher child support set by a judge as a form of leverage.
(For what, Tyger has no idea.)
Deena reports she recently moved to a place Bingo didn’t
know about and wanted to set him up by offering to let him visit
the kids — the 14 year old boy is the spitting image of him —
and then telling him about a roofing job.
She will call Joe Fine with details. Joe gave her his card a
few months ago. “The Super Sleuth,” she notes, laughing. “He must
be good.”
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Deena provides a few non-relevant details about herself, but
Tyger lets her ramble. He is killing time anyhow and being paid
$10 an hour to boot, Bingo child support money.
Besides, he is not entirely certain on whose side Deena
LeBeouf treads. Maybe she is setting the detectives up for Bingo.
After all, this is reportedly a very devious and evil scam
artist.
Continuing the story’s thread, Deena mentions her work as an
actress in a wild west show. “A what?” asks Tyger. “I’ve never
heard of that.”
” Oh yeah, we go to the country and western bars and do a
shoot-em-up show. I throw the lassos and the boss does a whole
western routine.
“You should check it out sometime. We’re down in Gretna at
Mudbugs occasionally. I can get you in.” “That sounds –good? Maybe
sometime.”
Deena loves her children and is working full-time to try to
provide them with everything they want. She has a beautiful 10
year old girl in additon to the boy.
“Raising the kids is hard work and that damn Bingo. He should
cough up some child support.” She repeats her desire to take him
to court. But first, she wants
revengeful satisfaction.
Looking at his watch, Tyger realizes that time is a·wasting.
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Tyger is anxious to check out the Dill Pickle situation. This
conversation does not seem to be leading anywhere in particular.
Therefore, he excuses himself.
“Come back any time you are hungry. I’ll get you a fr\ee
meal,” Deena offers. “This place is famous around here as the
best food you can get. Real good and wholesome.”
“Thanks. I’ll pass along what you said and I’m sure Joe Fine
will be in touch. Give Mary my regards.” Who knows, Tyger hopes,
he might be back again, and Mary looks very good to a lonely
detective on badass assignment on the road.
Right back on Louisiana 22, over and under through Hammond
on I-55 in the noisy smoky makes station wagon fr-om hell, zoom
zoom Tyger driving. He heads north through the fabled home of
Bingo LeBeouf, stately Tickfaw, and the equally magnificent town
of Independence.
From there, it’s along two-lane Highway 40 across the
Tangipahoa River and on to Loranger.
Loranger is a very scenic and beautiful place, a sharp
contrast to the insipid r-edneck motherland where the inmates tool
around in pick-up trucks making loud rackets, resembling hell
warmed over.
Gentle rolling hills for a change with grazing farm animals
and lovely green fields that stretch to the farthest vista. Tyger
has only a rural post office box to go by as Pickle’s address. He
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stops at a small rural post office nearby and asks the
postmistress for directions.
“Oh yeah, the Pickle place,” she states. “Just go down
Highway 40 east a mile and turn off on Highway 1062. It’s got a
yellow flashing light, the only light. Can’t miss it.”
Sure enough. Tyger turns right at the flashing light and
makes a pass-by at the rural box Pickle has given the insurance
company as his address. The house is set off the road among a
group of two trailers and two very large wood frame structures.
The Pickle residence seems to be the large house that is
painted blue with white trim. A satellite TV dish receives
signals from space to the east of the house.
This object makes Tyger very jealous. The damn low-life
subject is living the life of Reilly. It would be great to have a
dish and be able to watch all the baseball and Saints games.
A woman, in her late 20’s plays with two small children near
the dish. This fits the Pickle profile.
A Ford Bronco Louisiana License Number R30998 sits in the
long driveway. That makes for positive identification as the
vehicle reportedly belongs to Pickle.
A large wooded area lies west of the house just beyond one
of the trailers. Unfortunately, it is a tough surveillance scene.
Anyone entering down the dirt road that leads exclusively to the
four residences is bound to make, shall we say, waves.
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Almost simultaneously with that observation, the woman seems
to notice Tyger in his vehicle perched along the woods by the far
trailer , Therefore, he pops open the hood and goes to the usually
reliable ruse of automobile trouble.
Said lady walks across her large green yard towards Tyger,
questioning his activity. Tyger dishes out the usual reply. He
heard a knocking in the engine and happened to pull off to the
spot by accident.
It looks alright. So, he will be moving right along now,
thank you very much (not). That seems to suffice.
Git along little doggies. Tyger exits the area. He drives up
down Highway 1062, which crests at a hill about a half-mile
the road. He spends the hour checking out the various
external circumstances relating to the Dill Pickle experience .
A farm house sits high on the hilltop. Fluttering around the
house and yard like beautiful butterflies are two — no, make
that three exquisitely attractive young girls probably in
their late teens or early 20s.
Ah, sweet day. The temperature is in the low-60’s and
the humidity is unusually low, maybe 30 percent. Tyger loses
himself in the moment.
An older woman, maybe 50 years old, very attractive for her
age, comes over to his vehicle sitting just beyond the property
off the narrow road. She smiles and seems quite friendly in an
other-worldly sort of way.
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Tyger tells her he was lost and shows a road map as
evidence, politely asking about Highway 51 which he knows is
nearby. She surmises that he must have gotten turned around,
noting that the highway is about 10 miles west of there.
The woman gives Tyger directions which he pays scant
attention to for he is gazing with longing at her beautiful
daughters as they float laughingly about the farm house
boundaries.
“Thank you ma’am,” he replies extra politely as he will be
back this way again. “Guess I’ll be on my horse.”
“You’re welcome sir . If you re in the neighborhood again
sometime, feel free to drop by. We recently moved here from
Pennsylvania and ar-e also getting acclimated to the area.”
“My, what a lovely invitation,” Tyger replies ever so
gratefully. “Just might take you up on that. l’m in
the area quite often on business. Good bye.”
Tyger roars onto the highway headed southeast towards home.
Looking good comrades. Looking good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carnival begins as New Orleans descends
into the grips of Mardi Gras madness. Numerous
observations are made about the festival. Tyger
returns to the familiar spot at the Polish Dog stand
showing tourists how to eat the fabled dog. Early
parades are attended and explained.
CHAPTER 13
“Mardi Gras Mambo”
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Carnival is in the air. Can’t you just feel it? Warning signals
of the coming conflagration have mambo’d across town
for about week. Stray oddballs and odd stray cats have begun
showing up uninvited along the Crescent City fire line.
One can distinguish the visitors quite easily by a general
confused demeanor. That is to say they are wandering about lost
in a haze far different from the native malaise.
Even a road map can’t help them out much.
Carnival crowds represents easy pickings for the local
criminal element. They differ not from the regular tourists in that regard.
The difference between the adult Disneyland and Carnival
tourist crowd is a matter of simple economics. The former tours
on gold American Express Cards while the latter resembles
survivors from a war zone with tattered clothes and empty bank books.
In other words, the Carnival crowd is either a step above or
a step below dereliction. You figure it out.
They arrive like an army of wandering pilgrims, headed not
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for Canterbury, but for the sacred site that encompasses Mardi —
pronounced “Mahdi” by locals — Gras. Some come every year.
Others have heard the word in far-off lands from returning advance scouts.
Either way, they start taking up physical and psychic space
reserved the rest of the year for local yokels. That mandates a
bittersweet welcome from the likes of Tyger Williams and his
crowd who have nothing to gain from the touristas presence.
True, it can be interesting to commune with those from other
cultures, places like Los Angeles or the Portlands, being Oregon
and Maine. On the other hand, they are a gigantic moronic hassle.
Firstly, they know nothing. They don’t know where to go,
how to act, or what to say.
They clog up the sewage lines waiting impatiently at the K&B
Drugstore. These are insanely long anyway due to genetically
inherited local brain damage. Any small unusual request
like a travelers check or one from an out-of-state bank might
occupy a clerk’s short attention span in perpetuity.
The newly washed up on these hallowed shores evince
additional negative aspects. They don’t care much about where
they at, not their native land nor problem.
They think nothing of tossing litter in the
already horribly dirty streets, or exhibiting the most
outrageously lewd and lascivious behavior.
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New Orleans, thy name is partyville to them.
The leisurely visiting class is interested in partying only,
leaving their piggy mess for locals to clean.
This squalid little piece of Third World insanity called
N’awlins might seem like a minor cesspool, like a small thing,
but it’s thine New Orleanians own. Locals adopt an ambivalent
attitude being generally helpful but always on guard.
Not much sport is involved zapping stupid Carnival
travelers. Sort of like clubbing baby seals in the north country.
One false move and blammo, a deadly dose of disinformation slambangs
the tourist cabbage head. Ouch.
One objectionable object might be told
to check out the tombs at St. Louis Cemetery at night.
It doesn’t realize the danger of such an outing.
Or a happy fake helpful this way to the Desire Projects,
nice friendly place to crash turning a tourist trick. Happy
traveler happily out of a local’s face. Carnival spook forever banished.
Fuck em. Most of them are not going to be around after
Mardi Gras anyway so fuck em.
(Of course, a few particularly lost souls somehow manage to
be left behind permanently. They account for the third most
popular excuse for living in the Crescent City. Number one is the
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unfortunate fact of being born in New Orleans. Number two is
some job related piece of bad luck.)
Yes comrades, it is coming on Carnival time. The mass
hysteria of the “Mardi Gras Mambo,” endless parades of costumed
clowns, worthless beads, doubloons, trinkets, and, of course,
Polish Dogs looming inevitably on the horizon.
Mardi Gras, the celebration that made New Orleans
infamous has become a major economic event
worth hundreds of millions of dollars to the local economy.
Mardi Gras Mambo, baby. Get one in a King Cake, those
frosted purple, green, and gold sugar monsters that appear on
Martin Luther King Cake Day as required by psychic law.
Find the baby, buy the next year’s cheese stuffed version for the party.
Each cake contains 10 zillion calories. However,
those calories are rendered harmless by decree of Comus.
The season has turned chilly as Mardi Gras Day falls on a
relatively early Feb. 16. It can fall anytime between early
February and early March depending on the lunar calendar.
Carnival has like a cat burglar snuck up on the uncaring
Tyger Williams, about to steal his concentration. He has
hardly paid attention to the coming Mardi Gras explosion due to
working out of town on the LeBeouf and Pickle cases, among
others; following the usual routine of reefer and television madness at home.
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Signals are now far too clear that soon there will be no avoiding the
poop party, Perhaps that’s the historical charm of the festival that
began with a dozen guys from Mobile saluting Camus along St.
Charles Avenue in 1857. No ducking the big parade. Mardi Gras quacks
everywhere. Eventually, even the most active anti-Mardi Gras
fanatic is forced to surrender and join the fun. Like the
damn out-of-town traffic clogging New Orleans· avenues royale,
no getting around it.
Tyger fastens his psychic seat belt, driving headlong
straight into the waiting arms of Carnival, always a season to dismember.
First parades roll two-and-half weeks before Carnival Day, otherwise
known as Fat Tuesday. Key to following the special season is
keeping in mind it is all designed to build up into a
tremendous frenzy on that fabulous day. (Only to be followed, of
course, by the equally inevitable crash of Ash Wednesday.)
First parades of the season are relatively small affairs
with maybe 15 or 16 floats accompanied by somewhat cheesy throws.
They are available mainly for Mardi Gras practice, sort of the
equivalent of baseball spring training.
Here and there to catch if you dare with a child’s disregard
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of care are silly made in China beads and plastic cups.
Doubloons, gold more valuable and silver too, rain also from the
passing floats thrown out by maskers dressed in motley costume.
These plastic and tin baubles take on a meaning far exceeding actual retail value.
“Throw me something mister” crowds merge into one primal scream.
A masker on the salute to cosmos float holds up a sign illustrating
an essential Mardi Gras bead retrieval tactic.
“Show us your tits,” the sign says referring to a valuable
feminine attracting device for worthless throw collection.
Mardi Gras is really for the children in all of us,
not just mere sexual perversion. That is unless you·re
one of the brave souls who venture down to the French Quarter
where it is every mother’s son and daughter for themselves,
damned be the consequences. Oh joy.
The next two weeks bring on a considerable slowdown in the proverbial
work pace. Insurance adjustors adjust their personal schedules
to include partying partying par-tying, to hell with any business.
Similarly, attorneys are a’turning their limited attention
spans to more serious social skills like dressing up like women,
if they are men; and dressing up like men if they are women.
So it goes folks, a charming N’awlins traditional institution.
Everyone is committed.
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Tyger is pretty much on his own concerning personal loafing
lifestyle preferences aside from a few routine records checks for
IRS Inc. He logs the usual space travel at MacLand and over
at Armor’s cat petting zoo.
There is the pro forma New Neanderthals gig with the usual
lame bullshit. “You’re the prettiest girl here, ” Heave Broward
tells some innocent young chick. Roots Badburns sits in a corner
self-coma, pulls on a drum set, saying what a good boy am I
before beating drums semi-consciously, then
passing out in a heap on the bar floor.
All eyes turning to an endless Carnival parade noisily
approaching. More Mardi Gras revelers each and every day
accumulate on Crescent City doorsteps ready to party hardy until
they drop. And unlike the Haitian boat people, no sending them back.
They soon discover to their chagrin that it is impossible to out party
New Orleanians because the locals have the invaluable experience of
annual practice. Tourists, too late as usual, will have realized
that by Ash Wednesday when it is time to leave and don ‘t let the
door slam your backs on the way out of here.
A racing engine motoring beyond control, Carnival picks up
considerable steam. Two weekends before Carnival Day begins
the onslaught of dozens of Carnival balls to which
only the select few are invited.
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These balls are for the privileged upper society classes of
New Orleans and their associates. A few are for the upper
crust of Creoles of color, that is African-American, society.
None of them are for the vast majority of everyday in your
face New Orleanians or the flood of lost and losing it tourists.
Again, the beauty of Carnival is only fleetingly revealed.
Everyone goes to the party, yet only a few attend the real
party or mask on floats above the crowds, throwing their
worthless trinkets to multitudes below. lt is the ultimate in
trickle down partying. How apropos for the Age of Ray-Gun.
Tyger misses the first parades of the week before Mardi
Gras. They are neither interesting nor important. A thin crowd
lines the traditional Uptown parade route that starts at Napoleon
Avenue and Camp Street, cascading down St. Charles Avenue around
Lee Circle, and on to Municipal Auditorium.
Such is the focus ot our attention, comrades. Parades are
breaking out like teenage acne all over town.
They cover the area like overflowing water spilling from the
boat floats along the Tchefuncte River , and Slidell to the north,
down to the Metairie family parades that roll along Veterans
Boulevard; West Bank, and Algiers parades; and the East Bank New
Orleans alternative routes in Gentilly and along
Boulevard. Hum baby, as one might recognize, there is simply no
avoiding the, shall we say, fun.
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By Thursday Feb. 11, Tyger decides he has to abandon the
anti-Mardi Gras ghost and hunker down to the gang’s traditional
hang-out spot by the YWCA one block down from Lee Circle.
Mardi Gras, after all, represents tradition. Like it or not,
New Orleanians are bound by the rules of engagement.
Tyger drives downtown to the spot, a miserable masker on an
invisible float. He girds himself for a scenic cruise to the annual disaster.
It is time for satirical Momus, one of the main-line krewes
with cowardly covered faces disguising society dolts. The parade
has some charm as nuts and bolts deride on old wooden wheeled
floats, and each year thematically the ridiculous world decry.
They mainly toss thin strands of chintzy beads and the
usual emblem doubloons. The joke, therefore, is these chintzy
throws are being tossed by the wealthiest white men of New
Orleans hidden behind wryly smiling masks. Most of them are drunk
as skunks by the time they reach the end of the line.
Tyger pulls into the YWCA parking lot, unattended
for now. Soon, some unknown power will begin charging
progressively higher prices for parking until the toll reaches
$20, or more, for recreational vehicles on Fat Tuesday.
There is more to this lot than meets the naked eye for
beside the Y’s fence looms the greatest of all Mardi Gras
traditions for Tyger and his friends. This is the beyond reproach
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Polish Dog Stand run operated by the Dascenzo family for as long
as there has been Carnival or at least since the early 20th Century.
What else is new? A quick check of the area reveals that
nothing beyond cosmetics has changed. The half-derelict knick knack
vendors hawk the usual array of silly string, wig-heads,
fake handcuffs, plastic toys, dolls, and the most integral part
of their inventory, snap-and-pops.
Crack crack crack sparkle light explodes. Hahaha. Another
snap pops while Mardi Gras rabbles roar loving approval.
All systems go. Tyger floats to the famed Polish Dog Stand
where he is immediately greeted like the return of a
victorious army. Mardi Gras officially has begun.
“Hey hey hey. There he is. How you doing buddy?” asks Roy,
the Polish dog scion, now king of the P.D. jungle.
“Let me know when you want one.”
Yes! Grand slam, baby, and slugger Roy always hits the sweet
spot. “I better take one right now,” Tyger answers,
“The works?” Roy asks. “Ya know it.” “Ya got it buddy. How
has it been going?” “The usual scandals.” “I hear that.”
Roy follows the ancient Polish Dog preparation ritual. He
takes the incredibly tasty andouille sausage — native to
Louisiana — and loads a sea of green pepper, tomato, onions,
chopped vegetables, spices, and condiments before applying the
coup de grace, a fistful of jalapeno peppers.
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Weisman
Youch! Welcome uninitiated comrades to one of the wonders of
Carnival. Tyger pays the early parade bird special $3 price
which rises to $5 on Mardi Gras Day; rumbling, bumbling,
stumbling negotiating his way to the St. Charles Avenue curbside.
Kerplunk. Tyger plops his butt on the dirty curb, and sits;
staring at the dog with appreciative wonder. (It stares back and
winks.) Some traditions are much tastier than others.
Man oh Manna, there is a hell of a party going on in Tyger’s
mouth. He savors each delightful bite as a group of fatass
tourists from Ohio stare in amazement. They do it every Mardi Gras.
At long last, one of the tourists decides to broach the
flavorful subject. “Ahhh, what is that?” it asks tentatively.
“Polish dog,” Tyger replies. “Tasty treats,”
Tourists huddle up. A large lady with shocking pink
wig-head takes the plunge, purchasing one with “the works.” Roy
exhibits his P.(h.)D. artistry making the sandwich in about a New York minute.
Another perfect P.D. rolls off the Mardi Gras assembly line.
Likewise takes a bit of artistry to finish off the mass caloric
product. The tourist drops as much P.D. tilling as she consumes,
nonetheless smiling broadly when she mission accomplishes.
“We simply must tell everyone in Columbus about this,” she
concludes before fairly keeling over from the weight of internal
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jalapeno pressure. “This is really something.”
Tell Tyger about it. Tyger, fulfilling his traditional role of Carnival
historian, fills the group in on the enormity of their discovery.
The P.D. family lives in Slidell. They have operated on this spot
since at least World War One, or so the legend goes. Hell, they
might even have invented the Polish Dog for all we know.
They own a number of stands along the Avenue, but this is
the flagship station where Roy, his wife, teenage son, and other
more anonymous family members supervise operations like
skilled surgeons at a teaching hospital.
Mardi Gras begins the P.D. busy season as the family travels
around the nation during spring, summer, and fall working various
carnivals, fairs, and celebrations until retiring for winter back
home in Slidell. And our national taste buds are the better for it.
Indigestion and stomach rumbles be damned, beat that Japan.
Expert parade viewer that he is, Tyger times his visit
the Polish Dog stand to maximize the parade experience,
minimizing the amount of time he must wait before whatever
given parade rolls by the sacred spot. Speaking of which,
Momus rolls down the avenue mere minutes after
conclusion of P.D. dinner number one million and one. The ancient
monarch is followed by his legions as flambeaus light the
darkness and various military bands march between the strange and
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beautiful floats. The crowd is relatively thin as the air is a bit on the nippy side.
They stand one or two persons deep along the street.
Tourists and locals alike clap and tap their toes
to the bands playing parade and cheesy pop music.
They shout to the gods for throws when one of the 21 magnificent floats rolls by.
A good time, as always, is had by all. Tyger succumbs to the Carnival spirit.
He might step on a throw if he likes it, or nonchalantly allow the thin
chintzy beads to bounce off his broad shoulders.
He always defers if a child wants a certain throw, no matter how “valuable.”
That is th golden rule of Karnival Karma.
Kids get anything their dear hearts desire.
That always has made Mardi Gras special, among other charms.
Finally, the 45 minute parade rolls down the avenue and out of view.
The crowd quickly disperses. Tyger checks out with the P.D. bunch.
“O.K ., guy, see you tomorrow,” he says.
“I’ll have a dog waiting for you buddy,” Roy replies. “Thi
has been a good one so far. See ya tomorrow.”
Friday, as it has for 50 years, brings Hermes
Flying down the traditional parade route.
Armor’s always jokingly refers to the parade as Herpes.
He is joking, right? Adding for good measure,
“This parade should be Roots Badburns’ favorite,
since he has such a monster case. Hahaha…”
Armor’s has had it in for Roots ever since
the brain dead drummer ripped him off in a pot deal.
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Tyger and Armor’s do the Mardi Gras Mambo thing, parking at
the YWCA and scarfing down Polish Dogs. Armor’s wears a home-made
button that reads “POLISH DOGS–YES!!!”
Armor’s has become a vegetarian in the off-season, so Roy
prepares a special veggy Polish Dog with all the fixings sans
sausage. Dear boy is a particular favorite to the Polish Dog gods.
He usually gets his fill at a $3 preferred customer price
throughout the Carnival season, even on Fat Tuesday, which is
quite impressive to all observers. Crowds are now
appreciably larger at the stand and throughout the Mardi Gras region .
Even though Herpes isn’t much of a parade — although it has been growing in
recent years and now has 27 floats and 15 bands — the party
partly hardy crowd is out in droves. Many tourists
come for the weekend parades not realizing
that the whole point of the exercise
is Fat Tuesday, which is the
wildest by far day of all.
They have left the Crescent City long before then back to
their nowhere jobs while New Orleanians enjoy the fruits of their
laborious celebration which is to say a unique day off from the
worries of the world.
Herpes flows and goes a puss here, a hive there, down the
streetcar tracks and narrow Downtown portion of St. Charles Avenue
approaching Gallier Hall, and the various state and
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federal courts and office buildings.
Armor’s is at the front of the human wave yelling,
“Bead riot!” singling out maskers for particularly close scrutiny.
“Hey asshole, your float stinks,” he shouts, and other endearing remarks.
Riders can’t hear much more than a nitrous type roar of affirmation
anyway. The key to grab that cherished cup or special throw is to
attract their attention. It doesn’t matter how you go about it
although showing tits always works.
That is not really an option in Armor’s case. He must
resort to the less obvious tactic of verbal abuse.
Armor’s goes crazy out there, but merely blends with the
various groups of tourists who have found the spot by accident
and locals who return there on an annual basis.
Ker-plunk. A cup hits Armor’s on the side of his head,
bounces, and a quick black youth scoops it up, continuing to
run down the street not even missing, like Roots Badburns often
does, a beat. Who dat, baby? Whom do you love ?
Next the parade strikes up the St. Augustine Marching Purple
Knights Band followed in a parallel fashion by their camp
followers, those endearing Purple Knight wannabees like an army
of black ants knocking over anyone in their path.
Ah, the simple joys of Carnival. Pound pound pound the
pavement black their military marching sounds in close lock-step,
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rising trumpets and falling trombones,
drums a’beating, purple and gold banners waving.
Foreign fatasses shake their booties.
“Here sir, you’re great,” approves an Ohio tourist handing a cold drink
to one of the escorts who walk with the band on the street
separating players from its legion of admirers in the crowd.
“Thanks man,” replies the tall black escort as he stops for a second,
then resumes a mission traditional calling over his shoulder,
“Happy Mardi Gras.”
A group of New York college students — hey, Spring Break is that way — echo
the sentiment. They start screaming “Happy Mardi· Gras'” in unison,
careening wildly, beers in hand, near the Polish Dog stand.
Other homogeneous parties coalesce around the corner, crossing St. Joseph Street.
Here, a fat white Yat lady with her daughter. There, an elderly couple.
A few derelicts wander about with no obvious goal in mind.
After all, this is ther home the rest of the year.
And of course (a horse is a horse) Armor’s, Tyger, and burly bears;
beret heads, Tulane junkies and simply curious onlookers
interacting strangely. Another float as the crowd noise
rises to the occasion. Tourists, watching the locals scramble for beads,
seem a bit hesitant at first. Now, they join the melee
with the vengeance of the converted, fairly diving in the gutter,
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reaching down wildly with their hands to retrieve — what is that? —
strands of plastic blue beads made in China.
They have one more lesson to learn, however, before they can become Mardi Gras experts.
Tyger inflicts it on a moronic middle-aged lady whom
he finds totally obnoxious in her personal uncultured bead frenzy.
She has already grabbed a cup away from a very sweet young girl and is diving into
the fray like there is no tomorrow, which there probably isn’t in her specific worthless instance.
Tyger positions himself directly behind her. Armor’s comes over for the show.
“Watch this,” Tyger tells him. “I’m going to show this bitch something.”
Sure enough, as it must, a worthless strand of pink beads falls from the sky at the woman’s feet.
She is about to reach for them when boom blasto ker-blump…
Tyger takes his heavy right shoe foot and stomps it on the ground.
She withdraws her hand a few inches in shock.
Then, she tries to tug the beads from beneath his feet.
Sorry bitcharoo. Tyger’s foot will not budge.
She is left grabbing at air while grumbling.
She withdraws her grubby paw angrily complaining.
“Hey those are mine. Get off them.”
“That ain’t the way it works, ma’am,” Tyger says.
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“You don’t know shit.
The fastest way to get at a throw is to step on it. You’ll find out.”
“Oh yeah,” she replies in a hard tone.
“Hey, don’t believe me. You’ll find out,”
Tyger concludes, casually bending down to conquer.
He picks up the beads, examines them, and then nonchalantly
passes the worthless junk down the line to a small sweet black girl
standing nearby who politely thanks him tor such munificence.
Bead stomping is a Mardi Gras tradition fostered like many out of practicality.
That woman will soon find out it is totally valid. She is not.
“Hahaha,” Armor continues laughing, “Gotcha. It happens every Carnival.”
A group of flambeau carriers troop behind the next float holding aloft their burning lights.
Kerosene odor tills the air. Audience members toss the flambeaus spare change for which they tip
their torches and like treasure divers recover shiny coins.
Flambeaus near the sidewalks hold out their spare hands as onlookers hand them small
tokens of affection. Armor’s takes a snap-and-pop, throwing it after some change.
The explosion startles the flambeau, who takes it good- naturedly,
laughs and makes a pretend horrified expression.
Armor’s enjoys himself in gay frolic.
“Nice shot, man,” Tyger says.
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Armors hands Tyger a couple of poppers. Pop pop pop singe the Chinese fireworks.
The parade ends as the last float creaks by rocking to and fro
on squeaky wooden wheels. It is a satirical salute to Pope
John Paul II’s summer 1987 visit to the Crescent City where he
blessed the multitudes on the Lakefront
and the you-know-WhoDats at the Superdome.
The float shows the Pope with a Saints banner,
inscription reading “Bless You Boys–A Winning Season.”
But after all, even the Pope is capable of only so many miracles.
A playoff win probably will have to wait until his next visit.
That is football and this is Carnival. The crowd vanishes
instantly as the sirens and NOPSI wire clearing truck immediately
follow the parade. Funny how that works.
Tyger and Armor’s check out at the Polish Dog stand.
Tyger gets a dog to go which Roy wraps carefully.
“O.K. buddy,” Roy says. “See ya tomorrow.”
Tomorrow indeed. That would be Saturday preceding Mardi Gras
Day. The celebration is now picking up steam about to hit full tilt throttle.
“Bring it on baby,” Armor’s concludes. “I can handle it. Ready for anything.”
He better be.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Carnival begins as New Orleans descends
into the grips of Mardi Gras madness. Numerous
observations are made about the festival. Tyger
returns to the familiar spot at the Polish Dog stand
showing tourists how to eat the fabled dog. Early
parades are attended and explained.
CHAPTER 13
“Mardi Gras Mambo”
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Carnival is in the air. Can’t you just feel it? Warning signals
of the coming conflagration have mambo’d across town
for about week. Stray oddballs and odd stray cats have begun
showing up uninvited along the Crescent City fire line.
One can distinguish the visitors quite easily by a general
confused demeanor. That is to say they are wandering about lost
in a haze far different from the native malaise.
Even a road map can’t help them out much.
Carnival crowds represents easy pickings for the local
criminal element. They differ not from the regular tourists in that regard.
The difference between the adult Disneyland and Carnival
tourist crowd is a matter of simple economics. The former tours
on gold American Express Cards while the latter resembles
survivors from a war zone with tattered clothes and empty bank books.
In other words, the Carnival crowd is either a step above or
a step below dereliction. You figure it out.
They arrive like an army of wandering pilgrims, headed not
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for Canterbury, but for the sacred site that encompasses Mardi —
pronounced “Mahdi” by locals — Gras. Some come every year.
Others have heard the word in far-off lands from returning advance scouts.
Either way, they start taking up physical and psychic space
reserved the rest of the year for local yokels. That mandates a
bittersweet welcome from the likes of Tyger Williams and his
crowd who have nothing to gain from the touristas presence.
True, it can be interesting to commune with those from other
cultures, places like Los Angeles or the Portlands, being Oregon
and Maine. On the other hand, they are a gigantic moronic hassle.
Firstly, they know nothing. They don’t know where to go,
how to act, or what to say.
They clog up the sewage lines waiting impatiently at the K&B
Drugstore. These are insanely long anyway due to genetically
inherited local brain damage. Any small unusual request
like a travelers check or one from an out-of-state bank might
occupy a clerk’s short attention span in perpetuity.
The newly washed up on these hallowed shores evince
additional negative aspects. They don’t care much about where
they at, not their native land nor problem.
They think nothing of tossing litter in the
already horribly dirty streets, or exhibiting the most
outrageously lewd and lascivious behavior.
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New Orleans, thy name is partyville to them.
The leisurely visiting class is interested in partying only,
leaving their piggy mess for locals to clean.
This squalid little piece of Third World insanity called
N’awlins might seem like a minor cesspool, like a small thing,
but it’s thine New Orleanians own. Locals adopt an ambivalent
attitude being generally helpful but always on guard.
Not much sport is involved zapping stupid Carnival
travelers. Sort of like clubbing baby seals in the north country.
One false move and blammo, a deadly dose of disinformation slambangs
the tourist cabbage head. Ouch.
One objectionable object might be told
to check out the tombs at St. Louis Cemetery at night.
It doesn’t realize the danger of such an outing.
Or a happy fake helpful this way to the Desire Projects,
nice friendly place to crash turning a tourist trick. Happy
traveler happily out of a local’s face. Carnival spook forever banished.
Fuck em. Most of them are not going to be around after
Mardi Gras anyway so fuck em.
(Of course, a few particularly lost souls somehow manage to
be left behind permanently. They account for the third most
popular excuse for living in the Crescent City. Number one is the
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unfortunate fact of being born in New Orleans. Number two is
some job related piece of bad luck.)
Yes comrades, it is coming on Carnival time. The mass
hysteria of the “Mardi Gras Mambo,” endless parades of costumed
clowns, worthless beads, doubloons, trinkets, and, of course,
Polish Dogs looming inevitably on the horizon.
Mardi Gras, the celebration that made New Orleans
infamous has become a major economic event
worth hundreds of millions of dollars to the local economy.
Mardi Gras Mambo, baby. Get one in a King Cake, those
frosted purple, green, and gold sugar monsters that appear on
Martin Luther King Cake Day as required by psychic law.
Find the baby, buy the next year’s cheese stuffed version for the party.
Each cake contains 10 zillion calories. However,
those calories are rendered harmless by decree of Comus.
The season has turned chilly as Mardi Gras Day falls on a
relatively early Feb. 16. It can fall anytime between early
February and early March depending on the lunar calendar.
Carnival has like a cat burglar snuck up on the uncaring
Tyger Williams, about to steal his concentration. He has
hardly paid attention to the coming Mardi Gras explosion due to
working out of town on the LeBeouf and Pickle cases, among
others; following the usual routine of reefer and television madness at home.
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Signals are now far too clear that soon there will be no avoiding the
poop party, Perhaps that’s the historical charm of the festival that
began with a dozen guys from Mobile saluting Camus along St.
Charles Avenue in 1857. No ducking the big parade. Mardi Gras quacks
everywhere. Eventually, even the most active anti-Mardi Gras
fanatic is forced to surrender and join the fun. Like the
damn out-of-town traffic clogging New Orleans· avenues royale,
no getting around it.
Tyger fastens his psychic seat belt, driving headlong
straight into the waiting arms of Carnival, always a season to dismember.
First parades roll two-and-half weeks before Carnival Day, otherwise
known as Fat Tuesday. Key to following the special season is
keeping in mind it is all designed to build up into a
tremendous frenzy on that fabulous day. (Only to be followed, of
course, by the equally inevitable crash of Ash Wednesday.)
First parades of the season are relatively small affairs
with maybe 15 or 16 floats accompanied by somewhat cheesy throws.
They are available mainly for Mardi Gras practice, sort of the
equivalent of baseball spring training.
Here and there to catch if you dare with a child’s disregard
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of care are silly made in China beads and plastic cups.
Doubloons, gold more valuable and silver too, rain also from the
passing floats thrown out by maskers dressed in motley costume.
These plastic and tin baubles take on a meaning far exceeding actual retail value.
“Throw me something mister” crowds merge into one primal scream.
A masker on the salute to cosmos float holds up a sign illustrating
an essential Mardi Gras bead retrieval tactic.
“Show us your tits,” the sign says referring to a valuable
feminine attracting device for worthless throw collection.
Mardi Gras is really for the children in all of us,
not just mere sexual perversion. That is unless you·re
one of the brave souls who venture down to the French Quarter
where it is every mother’s son and daughter for themselves,
damned be the consequences. Oh joy.
The next two weeks bring on a considerable slowdown in the proverbial
work pace. Insurance adjustors adjust their personal schedules
to include partying partying par-tying, to hell with any business.
Similarly, attorneys are a’turning their limited attention
spans to more serious social skills like dressing up like women,
if they are men; and dressing up like men if they are women.
So it goes folks, a charming N’awlins traditional institution.
Everyone is committed.
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Tyger is pretty much on his own concerning personal loafing
lifestyle preferences aside from a few routine records checks for
IRS Inc. He logs the usual space travel at MacLand and over
at Armor’s cat petting zoo.
There is the pro forma New Neanderthals gig with the usual
lame bullshit. “You’re the prettiest girl here, ” Heave Broward
tells some innocent young chick. Roots Badburns sits in a corner
self-coma, pulls on a drum set, saying what a good boy am I
before beating drums semi-consciously, then
passing out in a heap on the bar floor.
All eyes turning to an endless Carnival parade noisily
approaching. More Mardi Gras revelers each and every day
accumulate on Crescent City doorsteps ready to party hardy until
they drop. And unlike the Haitian boat people, no sending them back.
They soon discover to their chagrin that it is impossible to out party
New Orleanians because the locals have the invaluable experience of
annual practice. Tourists, too late as usual, will have realized
that by Ash Wednesday when it is time to leave and don ‘t let the
door slam your backs on the way out of here.
A racing engine motoring beyond control, Carnival picks up
considerable steam. Two weekends before Carnival Day begins
the onslaught of dozens of Carnival balls to which
only the select few are invited.
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These balls are for the privileged upper society classes of
New Orleans and their associates. A few are for the upper
crust of Creoles of color, that is African-American, society.
None of them are for the vast majority of everyday in your
face New Orleanians or the flood of lost and losing it tourists.
Again, the beauty of Carnival is only fleetingly revealed.
Everyone goes to the party, yet only a few attend the real
party or mask on floats above the crowds, throwing their
worthless trinkets to multitudes below. lt is the ultimate in
trickle down partying. How apropos for the Age of Ray-Gun.
Tyger misses the first parades of the week before Mardi
Gras. They are neither interesting nor important. A thin crowd
lines the traditional Uptown parade route that starts at Napoleon
Avenue and Camp Street, cascading down St. Charles Avenue around
Lee Circle, and on to Municipal Auditorium.
Such is the focus ot our attention, comrades. Parades are
breaking out like teenage acne all over town.
They cover the area like overflowing water spilling from the
boat floats along the Tchefuncte River , and Slidell to the north,
down to the Metairie family parades that roll along Veterans
Boulevard; West Bank, and Algiers parades; and the East Bank New
Orleans alternative routes in Gentilly and along
Boulevard. Hum baby, as one might recognize, there is simply no
avoiding the, shall we say, fun.
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By Thursday Feb. 11, Tyger decides he has to abandon the
anti-Mardi Gras ghost and hunker down to the gang’s traditional
hang-out spot by the YWCA one block down from Lee Circle.
Mardi Gras, after all, represents tradition. Like it or not,
New Orleanians are bound by the rules of engagement.
Tyger drives downtown to the spot, a miserable masker on an
invisible float. He girds himself for a scenic cruise to the annual disaster.
It is time for satirical Momus, one of the main-line krewes
with cowardly covered faces disguising society dolts. The parade
has some charm as nuts and bolts deride on old wooden wheeled
floats, and each year thematically the ridiculous world decry.
They mainly toss thin strands of chintzy beads and the
usual emblem doubloons. The joke, therefore, is these chintzy
throws are being tossed by the wealthiest white men of New
Orleans hidden behind wryly smiling masks. Most of them are drunk
as skunks by the time they reach the end of the line.
Tyger pulls into the YWCA parking lot, unattended
for now. Soon, some unknown power will begin charging
progressively higher prices for parking until the toll reaches
$20, or more, for recreational vehicles on Fat Tuesday.
There is more to this lot than meets the naked eye for
beside the Y’s fence looms the greatest of all Mardi Gras
traditions for Tyger and his friends. This is the beyond reproach
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Polish Dog Stand run operated by the Dascenzo family for as long
as there has been Carnival or at least since the early 20th Century.
What else is new? A quick check of the area reveals that
nothing beyond cosmetics has changed. The half-derelict knick knack
vendors hawk the usual array of silly string, wig-heads,
fake handcuffs, plastic toys, dolls, and the most integral part
of their inventory, snap-and-pops.
Crack crack crack sparkle light explodes. Hahaha. Another
snap pops while Mardi Gras rabbles roar loving approval.
All systems go. Tyger floats to the famed Polish Dog Stand
where he is immediately greeted like the return of a
victorious army. Mardi Gras officially has begun.
“Hey hey hey. There he is. How you doing buddy?” asks Roy,
the Polish dog scion, now king of the P.D. jungle.
“Let me know when you want one.”
Yes! Grand slam, baby, and slugger Roy always hits the sweet
spot. “I better take one right now,” Tyger answers,
“The works?” Roy asks. “Ya know it.” “Ya got it buddy. How
has it been going?” “The usual scandals.” “I hear that.”
Roy follows the ancient Polish Dog preparation ritual. He
takes the incredibly tasty andouille sausage — native to
Louisiana — and loads a sea of green pepper, tomato, onions,
chopped vegetables, spices, and condiments before applying the
coup de grace, a fistful of jalapeno peppers.
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Weisman
Youch! Welcome uninitiated comrades to one of the wonders of
Carnival. Tyger pays the early parade bird special $3 price
which rises to $5 on Mardi Gras Day; rumbling, bumbling,
stumbling negotiating his way to the St. Charles Avenue curbside.
Kerplunk. Tyger plops his butt on the dirty curb, and sits;
staring at the dog with appreciative wonder. (It stares back and
winks.) Some traditions are much tastier than others.
Man oh Manna, there is a hell of a party going on in Tyger’s
mouth. He savors each delightful bite as a group of fatass
tourists from Ohio stare in amazement. They do it every Mardi Gras.
At long last, one of the tourists decides to broach the
flavorful subject. “Ahhh, what is that?” it asks tentatively.
“Polish dog,” Tyger replies. “Tasty treats,”
Tourists huddle up. A large lady with shocking pink
wig-head takes the plunge, purchasing one with “the works.” Roy
exhibits his P.(h.)D. artistry making the sandwich in about a New York minute.
Another perfect P.D. rolls off the Mardi Gras assembly line.
Likewise takes a bit of artistry to finish off the mass caloric
product. The tourist drops as much P.D. tilling as she consumes,
nonetheless smiling broadly when she mission accomplishes.
“We simply must tell everyone in Columbus about this,” she
concludes before fairly keeling over from the weight of internal
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jalapeno pressure. “This is really something.”
Tell Tyger about it. Tyger, fulfilling his traditional role of Carnival
historian, fills the group in on the enormity of their discovery.
The P.D. family lives in Slidell. They have operated on this spot
since at least World War One, or so the legend goes. Hell, they
might even have invented the Polish Dog for all we know.
They own a number of stands along the Avenue, but this is
the flagship station where Roy, his wife, teenage son, and other
more anonymous family members supervise operations like
skilled surgeons at a teaching hospital.
Mardi Gras begins the P.D. busy season as the family travels
around the nation during spring, summer, and fall working various
carnivals, fairs, and celebrations until retiring for winter back
home in Slidell. And our national taste buds are the better for it.
Indigestion and stomach rumbles be damned, beat that Japan.
Expert parade viewer that he is, Tyger times his visit
the Polish Dog stand to maximize the parade experience,
minimizing the amount of time he must wait before whatever
given parade rolls by the sacred spot. Speaking of which,
Momus rolls down the avenue mere minutes after
conclusion of P.D. dinner number one million and one. The ancient
monarch is followed by his legions as flambeaus light the
darkness and various military bands march between the strange and
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beautiful floats. The crowd is relatively thin as the air is a bit on the nippy side.
They stand one or two persons deep along the street.
Tourists and locals alike clap and tap their toes
to the bands playing parade and cheesy pop music.
They shout to the gods for throws when one of the 21 magnificent floats rolls by.
A good time, as always, is had by all. Tyger succumbs to the Carnival spirit.
He might step on a throw if he likes it, or nonchalantly allow the thin
chintzy beads to bounce off his broad shoulders.
He always defers if a child wants a certain throw, no matter how “valuable.”
That is th golden rule of Karnival Karma.
Kids get anything their dear hearts desire.
That always has made Mardi Gras special, among other charms.
Finally, the 45 minute parade rolls down the avenue and out of view.
The crowd quickly disperses. Tyger checks out with the P.D. bunch.
“O.K ., guy, see you tomorrow,” he says.
“I’ll have a dog waiting for you buddy,” Roy replies. “Thi
has been a good one so far. See ya tomorrow.”
Friday, as it has for 50 years, brings Hermes
Flying down the traditional parade route.
Armor’s always jokingly refers to the parade as Herpes.
He is joking, right? Adding for good measure,
“This parade should be Roots Badburns’ favorite,
since he has such a monster case. Hahaha…”
Armor’s has had it in for Roots ever since
the brain dead drummer ripped him off in a pot deal.
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Tyger and Armor’s do the Mardi Gras Mambo thing, parking at
the YWCA and scarfing down Polish Dogs. Armor’s wears a home-made
button that reads “POLISH DOGS–YES!!!”
Armor’s has become a vegetarian in the off-season, so Roy
prepares a special veggy Polish Dog with all the fixings sans
sausage. Dear boy is a particular favorite to the Polish Dog gods.
He usually gets his fill at a $3 preferred customer price
throughout the Carnival season, even on Fat Tuesday, which is
quite impressive to all observers. Crowds are now
appreciably larger at the stand and throughout the Mardi Gras region .
Even though Herpes isn’t much of a parade — although it has been growing in
recent years and now has 27 floats and 15 bands — the party
partly hardy crowd is out in droves. Many tourists
come for the weekend parades not realizing
that the whole point of the exercise
is Fat Tuesday, which is the
wildest by far day of all.
They have left the Crescent City long before then back to
their nowhere jobs while New Orleanians enjoy the fruits of their
laborious celebration which is to say a unique day off from the
worries of the world.
Herpes flows and goes a puss here, a hive there, down the
streetcar tracks and narrow Downtown portion of St. Charles Avenue
approaching Gallier Hall, and the various state and
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federal courts and office buildings.
Armor’s is at the front of the human wave yelling,
“Bead riot!” singling out maskers for particularly close scrutiny.
“Hey asshole, your float stinks,” he shouts, and other endearing remarks.
Riders can’t hear much more than a nitrous type roar of affirmation
anyway. The key to grab that cherished cup or special throw is to
attract their attention. It doesn’t matter how you go about it
although showing tits always works.
That is not really an option in Armor’s case. He must
resort to the less obvious tactic of verbal abuse.
Armor’s goes crazy out there, but merely blends with the
various groups of tourists who have found the spot by accident
and locals who return there on an annual basis.
Ker-plunk. A cup hits Armor’s on the side of his head,
bounces, and a quick black youth scoops it up, continuing to
run down the street not even missing, like Roots Badburns often
does, a beat. Who dat, baby? Whom do you love ?
Next the parade strikes up the St. Augustine Marching Purple
Knights Band followed in a parallel fashion by their camp
followers, those endearing Purple Knight wannabees like an army
of black ants knocking over anyone in their path.
Ah, the simple joys of Carnival. Pound pound pound the
pavement black their military marching sounds in close lock-step,
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rising trumpets and falling trombones,
drums a’beating, purple and gold banners waving.
Foreign fatasses shake their booties.
“Here sir, you’re great,” approves an Ohio tourist handing a cold drink
to one of the escorts who walk with the band on the street
separating players from its legion of admirers in the crowd.
“Thanks man,” replies the tall black escort as he stops for a second,
then resumes a mission traditional calling over his shoulder,
“Happy Mardi Gras.”
A group of New York college students — hey, Spring Break is that way — echo
the sentiment. They start screaming “Happy Mardi· Gras'” in unison,
careening wildly, beers in hand, near the Polish Dog stand.
Other homogeneous parties coalesce around the corner, crossing St. Joseph Street.
Here, a fat white Yat lady with her daughter. There, an elderly couple.
A few derelicts wander about with no obvious goal in mind.
After all, this is ther home the rest of the year.
And of course (a horse is a horse) Armor’s, Tyger, and burly bears;
beret heads, Tulane junkies and simply curious onlookers
interacting strangely. Another float as the crowd noise
rises to the occasion. Tourists, watching the locals scramble for beads,
seem a bit hesitant at first. Now, they join the melee
with the vengeance of the converted, fairly diving in the gutter,
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reaching down wildly with their hands to retrieve — what is that? —
strands of plastic blue beads made in China.
They have one more lesson to learn, however, before they can become Mardi Gras experts.
Tyger inflicts it on a moronic middle-aged lady whom
he finds totally obnoxious in her personal uncultured bead frenzy.
She has already grabbed a cup away from a very sweet young girl and is diving into
the fray like there is no tomorrow, which there probably isn’t in her specific worthless instance.
Tyger positions himself directly behind her. Armor’s comes over for the show.
“Watch this,” Tyger tells him. “I’m going to show this bitch something.”
Sure enough, as it must, a worthless strand of pink beads falls from the sky at the woman’s feet.
She is about to reach for them when boom blasto ker-blump…
Tyger takes his heavy right shoe foot and stomps it on the ground.
She withdraws her hand a few inches in shock.
Then, she tries to tug the beads from beneath his feet.
Sorry bitcharoo. Tyger’s foot will not budge.
She is left grabbing at air while grumbling.
She withdraws her grubby paw angrily complaining.
“Hey those are mine. Get off them.”
“That ain’t the way it works, ma’am,” Tyger says.
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“You don’t know shit.
The fastest way to get at a throw is to step on it. You’ll find out.”
“Oh yeah,” she replies in a hard tone.
“Hey, don’t believe me. You’ll find out,”
Tyger concludes, casually bending down to conquer.
He picks up the beads, examines them, and then nonchalantly
passes the worthless junk down the line to a small sweet black girl
standing nearby who politely thanks him tor such munificence.
Bead stomping is a Mardi Gras tradition fostered like many out of practicality.
That woman will soon find out it is totally valid. She is not.
“Hahaha,” Armor continues laughing, “Gotcha. It happens every Carnival.”
A group of flambeau carriers troop behind the next float holding aloft their burning lights.
Kerosene odor tills the air. Audience members toss the flambeaus spare change for which they tip
their torches and like treasure divers recover shiny coins.
Flambeaus near the sidewalks hold out their spare hands as onlookers hand them small
tokens of affection. Armor’s takes a snap-and-pop, throwing it after some change.
The explosion startles the flambeau, who takes it good- naturedly,
laughs and makes a pretend horrified expression.
Armor’s enjoys himself in gay frolic.
“Nice shot, man,” Tyger says.
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Armors hands Tyger a couple of poppers. Pop pop pop singe the Chinese fireworks.
The parade ends as the last float creaks by rocking to and fro
on squeaky wooden wheels. It is a satirical salute to Pope
John Paul II’s summer 1987 visit to the Crescent City where he
blessed the multitudes on the Lakefront
and the you-know-WhoDats at the Superdome.
The float shows the Pope with a Saints banner,
inscription reading “Bless You Boys–A Winning Season.”
But after all, even the Pope is capable of only so many miracles.
A playoff win probably will have to wait until his next visit.
That is football and this is Carnival. The crowd vanishes
instantly as the sirens and NOPSI wire clearing truck immediately
follow the parade. Funny how that works.
Tyger and Armor’s check out at the Polish Dog stand.
Tyger gets a dog to go which Roy wraps carefully.
“O.K. buddy,” Roy says. “See ya tomorrow.”
Tomorrow indeed. That would be Saturday preceding Mardi Gras
Day. The celebration is now picking up steam about to hit full tilt throttle.
“Bring it on baby,” Armor’s concludes. “I can handle it. Ready for anything.”
He better be.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mardi Gras heats up considerably. Mac, Armor’s, Tyger and Sandy prepare
for the Tucks Parade at Mr. Milty’s House of Horrors and Pain. Milty’s
girlfriend Victoria and cat Blubber are confronted. Larry Bud Melman’s
appearance at the Tucks Parade is a big bummer. Other parades
are attended and explained. Many Carnival related events and freakouts take place.
The chapter ends with Tyger making final preparations for Fat Tuesday.
CHAPTER 14
“In a House,in a Square, in a Quadrant”
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A fine day for a parade, and what day isn’t, as the sun
rises as an optical illusion in the west if one stands Uptown on
the snake curve crescent riverbend. That is a trick trivia
question for tourists to ponder.
Pre-parade preparations have begun in earnest at Mr. Milty’s
Magazine Street upper loft. Mr . Milty — the artist, himself —
is strewn among the hanging awful face paintings, scattered audio
cassettes, and papers. Tyger, Sandy Alexander, and big Mac enter stage left.
Blubber, the always irascible and sometimes highly toxic
orange tomcat who responds only to Mr. Milty’s touch, and then
just if it strikes his feline fancy, also “greets” the boys.
Blubber’s favorite tactic is to pretend to be friendly as he
cuddles up to some unsuspecting stranger. Then, the cuckold
boom, screech, ouch, clawing paws strike, scratching the shit out of that
sucker’s arm. Mr. Milty greatly enjoys this recurring nightmare.
“I think he must train the beast to act that way,” Sandy sotto voce
mentions to Tyger as they enter. “I hate that cat.”
Victoria, one of Mr. Milty’s interchangeable girlfriend
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parts, has been showering. Naked, she at the precise moment Armor’s enters the
apartment, opens the bathroom door. A look of shock
then, as the tall thin blonde immediately slams the door.
“Is it something I said?” Armor’s mock seriously asks.
Mr. Milty, too, finds this amusing, cracking a smile soleil.
“Hey what is the matter girl? Put on some clothes. We have company.”
“Milton. Ahhh … ” returns the voice of exquisite exasperation.
Her sexy lithe body wrapped in a small towel darts from the
bathroom a nanosecond later escaping into the bedroom followed by
another slamming door. Blubber scurries for cover.
“I hate you Milton,” her voice trails.
“Relax darling,” he coo coos. “We’re going to the Tucks Parade,”
turning to Sandy. “She is a bit high strung. I’m breaking her in gradually.
Believe she’ll come around by Jazz Fest.”
Blubber leads a procession to the kitchen where Mr. Milty
busies himself making Bloody Mary drinks for the crowd. Armor’s
and Mac fool around with a pair of African drums hanging around
near a half destroyed cloth covered couch.
Boom boom boom boom, embarking on a quickie jam session.
Sandy and Tyger find a couple of chairs in which to plop,
tapping the sides in polite accompaniment.
A pitcher of tomato red Bloody Mary’s emerges from the
kitchen followed by Mr. Milty and Blubber. Each participant has
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an old Mardi Gras cup from past parades.
Tyger with Baachus; Sandy and Armor’s, Endymion;
Mac has what is that? Nephartiti? Do what?
“Where did you get this thing?” Mac asks.
Mr. Milty looks hard. “Must have been a truck parade.”
“Nephartiti,” Armor’s guffaws, accent on the last syllable.
“Gimme that next.” A loud slurping sound rises from the floor
where Tyger places his cup. “What the fuck,” Tyger says with startled
agitation, noticing the orange flaked culprit, He waves his hand to shoo
away you know who jumping in sly recognition followed
by a loud. hiss. “That damn Blubber. He was in my Bloody Mary,
man, I want another.” Such fun to be had at Mr. Milty’s house.
He enjoys this, obviously, mock asking crouching Tyger,
“What? You gonna let a few cat hairs spoil a great drink?
Come on, Tygs, you can handle it.”
“No, I can’t. Excuse me. I’d like another.”
“No way haha,” Mr. Milty says going to the kitchen as Blubber starts
purring. Yeah, sure, Blubs. Er, way, please. Ever the gracious host,
despite the bluster, Mr. Milty resuscitates another morning potion as Blubber
sidles up to Sandy who rudely pushes him away. “I’m not going to
fall for that one, assshole,” says the Sandman as Blubber
skulks in a what have I done mannerism.
“Miiiilton,” implores a whining voice from behind the
bedroom door. “Please come in here.”
“In a moment girl. Can’t you hear we’re partying.” Boom boom boom…
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Mac and Armor’s jamming accelerates. Mr. Milty moves over
to the audio cabinet, flicking on a four-track tape recorder.
The man of a thousand (scary) faces picks up a large conga
drum, joining the jam. This continues for a few minutes. A
three-man main roller derby type jam while Sandy and Tyger take forks,
lightly tapping bottles for bad company.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Mac yells as he concludes a final beat then
raises both arms skyward with a bongomania flourish. “Alright,
man,” Mr. Milty says approaching and about to flick off the tape
deck. He pauses for a moment. A little girl’s voice now pleads
from behind the closed door: “Milton. P-uhh-lease come in here this instant.”
He dramatically flicks off the tape recorder.
“lt’s a take,” he says. “Coming dear.” He turns to the gang.
“Excuse me for a moment. Got to take care of risky business.”
Muffled voices emanate from the bedroom as the group
finishes off cocktails. There is the usual milling about waiting
for Mr. Milty to emerge so they can head down to the Polish Dog stand.
Finally, Mr. Milty sees the light of day. “Otay. Everything’s cool. Let’s scram.”
Victoria follows dressed in a tasteful white blouse and blue jeans.
“You boys have a good time. Milton. I’ll talk to you later.”
“See you gal,” Mr. Milty says, kissing Victoria square flat on
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those baby apple red cheeks.
“Come on guys. Let’s disappear before she changes her mind,”
Mr . Milty’s residence is a few blocks past the parade
staging crowds. “Thank goodness we got past the gridlock,” notes
Armor’s, who lives a block away from Camp and Prytania Streets.
“You can be stuck there for hours.”
The hardy quintette load into Mac’s maroon minivan and
follow lower Magazine Street to Polish Dog paradise. It’s still there.
The usual salutations and purchases. Mac and Armor’s obtain
snap-and-pop ammunition from a nearby vendor, then proceed on
undercover search and explode missions. Pop pops popping at each
other’s toes and at unsuspecting neighboring spectators.
Venus, that lame old women’s parade, is about to make it
down the Avenue. First floats the NOPSI truck making sure the
overhead streetcar wires are clear .
The Krewe of Krowd Kontrol’s KKK signature float follows as
it must. Cops are encased in a two-decker glass window drinking coffee,
eating donuts and, oh by the way, monitoring communications
“Krewe of Krowd Kontrol,” yells Mac as he tosses the minifirecrackers
at the glass laughing hysterically as one explodes, shocking a female cop.
But, she gets it, and laughs good-naturedly.
Thanks goodness.
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Aw man, I hate this parade,” Tyger says. “Those old
bitches can’t throw anything right. You have to stand
right up on the curb to catch anything besides a cold.
Venus maskers, therefore, negate some of the Mardi Gras sport
of making that Say Hey Willie Mays catch of a hard throw as the crowd
oohs and ahhs with “Nice catch. How do they do it? Hey-ho!” and so forth.
Sandy cranes his neck searching fo the swimming panoply of floats.
“I hear Larry Bud Melman is going to be king of Tucks,” he informs
the masses, “That should be outrageous as always.”
Temps have risen to a pleasant 65 degrees. Crowds are the largest yet of the season.
The usual mixture of humanity and humidity stand along the avenue participating
in various stages of celebration, depending on Mardi Gras experience, party origins, and belief.
Mr. Milty has brought along a thermos of Blood Mary’s from which he pours a stiff drinky poo.
Everybody waits for the usual unusual bead riot behavior to begin.
A short gap gasps between the initial pre-floats and Venus Parade.
Potential spectators crane said necks, trying to peer past Lee Circle, which,
of course, is impossible. Carnival sounds
drift along, warning of the coming procession.
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“What is that?” Sandy asks. “Theme from ‘Flashdance?'”
“Oh boy,” Tyger replies. “For the one millionth time. Flash-shaft.”
“Hey, the theme from ‘Shaft,·” notes Sandy, “would be a lot better. ”
It’s either “Flashdance” disco, military moron
music or similarly insipid pop rap flash tarts. Must be against
the law to play something good during a Carnival parade.
(Funny thing, worse the song, more excitedly responds
the crowd. Yet another reflection on Carnival culture.)
Venus goes, Venus blows; dukes, maids and flower
painted floats. Throws, as predicted, are lame. Tyger yells at one
grand dame, “Come on . Let’ s see your arm. How far can you
throw it up. Hey babe, throw it up’ ”
Mac and Armor ‘s run up to floats in order to bombard them broadside.
A number of successful snap-and-pop-mom missions ensue .
Sandy calmly smokes a cigarette a few feet back with other non-combatants.
Couple of cops stand with their arms folded, appearing bored
as they survey the crowd for the billionth time.
Float inevitably follows float. Marching band follows marching band
high-stepping along until they merge into one long vision of
Carnivals past, Carnival presented, and Carnivals yet to come.
The final fire truck following the long 23-float parade is
in turn stalked by the NOPSI truck. The crowd disperses rapidly.
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“Who sounded the fire alarm?” Tyger asks. “Where are they
all going? The best is yet to come.”
Mac and Sandy walk across the street to the Seaman’s Lounge.
It is a hangout for semi-derelicts and their fellow travelers
most of the year, becoming a more cosmopolitan venue catering
to the Mardi Gras walk-in trade during Al Johnson Carnival time.
The boys eject themselves from the vaguely stinking of piss
building, returning to the sacred spot with an armful of beers
which they pass all around. A party wouldn’t be a party without
Armor’s grabbing a beer, shouting, “Let the good times roll.”
Indeed. Time for Tucks about 20 minutes later than usual
this year. College students first formed Tucks in the 1950’s as a
smaller satirical expression. It has become the unusual usual 25
float extravaganza. Dukes, and other royalty, flash by on lettered mini-floats.
As do some daring lady’s tits. “Hey Duke. Hey Duke. Throw me
something mister,” Mac shouts before exploding a final
snap-and-pop spontaneous commentary. The crowd merges as one with
the celebration at hand.
A group of Jefferson Parish deputies on horseback trudge by
nonchalantly handing out silver doubloons and prized long glass
beads. Cars containing Tucks officials follow.
Then, the always popular shriners dressed in motley driving
funny cars. Armor’s belabors the obvious.
“You clowns, ” he shouts. “Get a real job.”
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WYLD boom-box truck spews out “Love ya
baby. Love ya baby,” as it graces the scene.
Fatass tourists and stupid college
students dance disJointedly along with the commercial beat.
“I just can’t understand how anyone listens to that shit,” Sandy says.
Mr. Milty, who has been in absentia for some time, has
apparently left the scene entirely. “Where is that asshole?”
Tyger asks. “He is going to miss Larry Bud Melman.”
Sure enough. Larry Bud’s float zooms around Lee Circle
heading downtown on the traditional parade route.
“Hey hey,” Mac shouts. “I see a celebrity.”
The crowd raises its collective game a notch. Soon,
everyone is shouting, “How is David Letterman?” and the usual,
“Larry Bud. Throw me something.”
The red-faced — comic? –is a lollapalooza alright
crowning the “Tribute to Banana Republics” theme float.
Larry Bud waves awkwardly to the crowd below.
“I hope he doesn’t fall down,” Sandy says. “He could hurt himself.”
“And others too,” Tyger adds.
Everyone is excited as the float approaches the immediate
vicinity of the P.D. stand. It might be, it could be, it…isn’t.
Larry Bud disappears at that precise moment, going inside
the float toilet to take care of personal business. Therefore,
the bucolic alleged comic is nowhere to be seen as his float
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passes the gang s immediate vicinity.
This lack of celestial presence greatly displeases the
group. “Hey what is this shit,” Tyger bemoans. “That fucker
doesn’t know who his real audience is.”
“What else is new,” replies Sandy, not truly a Larry Bud fan.
“Get a real job,” Mac yells at the passing float for good
measure. He turns to Armor’s. “I saw a celebrity,” he announces proudly
as Armor’s bombards his feet with mini-explosions.
“Hahaha.” Mac like a bunny hops. “Hahaha. Gotcha, silly
rabbit. Larry Bud Melman sucks.”
And, oh by the way, where is Mr . Milty when you need him?
“He’s going to have to find his own way home I guess,” Mac concludes.
Comrades who have followed Carnival to date, may guess the
rest of this parade. The boys frolic in beautiful sunlight as
float begets fabulous float, high school bands march or rest
depending on exigencies of the moment .
(Perhaps a float has broken down, or just as likely, some
drunken fool has fallen from the sky to ground.)
By the way comrades, this note of passing political
“Hey you commies,” Armor’s yells at one of the shiny red made in Belarus
tractors driven by a bored looking equally shiny red faced
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driver. “Don’t you know the revolution is over .”
The party must continue ever onward for that night
brings the first mega-parade, the outrageous Endymion
pronounced End-em-ion,short “e” — with monster floats ridden by
dozens of maskers. The Superdome Endymion Extravaganza perforce
follows that evening.This year the gluttons of bad taste have invited the
fabulous Wayne Newton, all the way from the other sin city,
Las Vegas. Oh joy.
Tyger is definitely no fan of Endymion. He prefers the old line
krewes with their old-timey floats and strict code of silence.
Yeah, they are racist motherfuckers, sure, but that is
part of what Carnival is all about. One might not like it,
but sometimes life sucks.
Tourists frolic blissfully ignorant of local politics. That
is their job as window dressing extras.
The immutable fact that Mardi Gras exists for the social elite to
thumb upper crust noses at curious supplicants below is quite
beyond the limited ken of tourista filters.
Tourists think it’s their prviliged by passport party.
That’s part of their fucking problem.
Tyger is not into the more democratic, but no less
ridiculous, Endymion because he hates huge crowds, among
other reasons. Fortunately, this being N’awlins, the parade is
televised so the stay at home crowd won’t miss any of the
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shall we say — excitement
Therefore our intrepid investigator watches the giant floats
cascade like a waterfall down the fabled avenue. Each float is
preceded and trailed by a merciless mega-band.
Crowds are from 10-to-12 persons thick by the Polish Dog Stand.
A throng tens of thousands strong straddles along Canal
Street, which tourist guides tout to be the widest boulevard in
America. This evening, one might as well add, wildest boulevard, too.
Let it pass friends. Let Endymion ride you by. Tyger has
smaller fish to fry. Later that night, the New Neanderthals
perform at a semi-prestigious Tulane students ball. Tyger
outside watches through a glass pane window.
They charge $15 admission. As Heave Broward notes, “I really
wish we could get you in Tyger, good buddy, but they won’t allow
us to put anyone on the guest list.” Sure, “friend.”
(Heave fears any superior social competition.)
Tyger doesn’t have the entrance fee. Even if he did, who
wants to waste money on something one can usually ignore for free.
Armor’s and Tyger stand about for the first set waiting for
the break to see if any hot babes break stride outside. Of course
they do. Heave Broward follows one stunning co-ed with his
small tail wagging and the usual lame line. You know the drill by now.
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“You’re the pettiest girl here,” the simpleton simply
simp. Armor’s shakes his head.
“A walking, talking asshole,” he observes.
That bit of slimy business concluded, the boys night-cap at
Armor’s house. His cats are growing by leaps and bound, which
they execute like Olympic gymnasts over each other.
“I give that flip a 9.5,” Tyger scores, “on a scale of 1-to-7.”
Come 11, Tyger departs for bed, perchance to dream.
Sunday is coming, although the enveloping madness renders
such designations irrelevant. Every day now might as well rhyme with
fun day. From here on out there is no rest for the wicked and
their fellow travelers until Ash Wednesday when all bets are off and they
must repent. Hey babies blue, the party’s just starting.
Funday Sunday holiday, no way, way; time for
the Thoth Parade, one of Tyger’s favorites. He catches it at the
Rehabilitation Center on Henry C. Clay Avenue, just offAudubon Park.
A bit of nostalgia wraps itself in this annual rite of
passage. This was the first parade Tyger attended after moving
to the Big Uneasy. He lives within walking distance Uptown.
A surprising touch of class is exhibited in this
exercise too. The parade route is designed to pass by the various
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Uptown hospitals and clinics.
They refer to themselves as “The Krewe of Shut-Ins.” Thoth’s
riders are very generous with throws, paying special attention to
the sick and infirm, youngsters, and the eldest of elders. Often,
Thoth is a moving affair with more than a few dear tears
shed in grateful thanks.
All hail Thoth! May you continue until time stops
and the universe through entropy refolds.
Or barring that, roll ever onwards forever and a day.
Tyger stations himself next to a couple of nuns who, very un-nunlike,
join the forces of cosmic disorder, scrambling like the
rest of the pagans bowling each other over for doubloons and
dubious throws. A good time passes.
Thoth and Iris, another lame female krewe, follow the
traditional parade route downtown. Later, bright night-time
lights for Baachus, the second mega-parade, larger even than
Endymion. Baachus, god of wine, is generally ruled by a dipsy
Hollywood idol, or so the theory goes.
Who is it this time? Richard Dreyfus? “I didn’t think he was
gay,” Mac’s friend Sarah notes upon hearing the announcement. “Is he?”
“Why don’t you try to fuck him and find out ask him,” Mac replies.
Tyger bows out of the celebration for reasons similar to Endymion.
He has extra incentive since the last time he attended Baachus a drunken sailor
dumped a ton of beer on his freshly laundered jacket.
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Who needs that shit? Let Mac and the gang enjoy the not-so-subtle
pleasures of Baachigator and the other immense mega-floats
swooning with colored lights and drunken maskers.
Tyger catches the flack on television instead.
Parades are fun to watch in absentia.
Revelers flop like mops all over town that night.
A veritable flood of tourists consume the Crescent City connection .
Mardi Gras minions are rumbling, bumbling, stumbling in
one’s face anywhere one looks.
They are out of fucking control– OOFC for the uninitiated.
It is still possible to ignore the inhuman wave, but only
just barely. A local hero has to plan his every move carefully,
like going to the Winn Dixie or the K&B nightmare.
Driving around town is next to impossible. No use
trying unless one simply must go somewhere. Even then, it takes a
lot of fortitude fortissimo. Hey babe, you have to flow limbo low
with the go. And just as abruptly stop for that’s Carnival rules.
Partying subsumes every street corner. An amazing array of
music and night-time diversion follows Baachus as required by
city psychic ordinance. Of course, the Baachus Extravaganza engulfs the Superhome.
And the French Quarter? Hahaha. You have to ask.
Better bring a life preserver if through those wild waters one traverses.
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Monday arrives, barely. The rest of the world is working as
usual and many in New Orleans are forced by their superiors
headquartered in distant and regular places
like your Houston or Denver to show a similar pretense.
However, nothing gets done. No way, Jose. The unfortunately
working rat class mainly parties at the office,
plotting ways to abandon ship early.
Iceberg chunks clink in Baachus cups mixing with titanic
high octane self-pollutants. Lundi Gras, as they say,
is the calm before the storm.
Which is not to say that Proteus, who rules this day, can be
ignored safely. In fact, it is a great parade, another old-line
krewe with ancient floats backed by mystical lore.
They are throwing cups this time, the first of the old-line
krewes to adopt that recent innovation of actually throwing an
object useful throughout they year. Many N’awlins households use
these cups exclusively for lifestyle enhancino entertainment.
Arthur Hardy, designated Carnival historian for NewsBotch
Eyewitless NewsFake, describes these newfangled throws on the
Monday parade wrap-up:
“Proteus is throwing silver and gold doubloons, beads
and for the first time ever, red with a white design of a horse
Proteus cups. Good luck and happy Carnival.”
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Tyger arrives at the P.D. stand a few minutes before Proteus
dives into the deep blue waters of Downtown night. A shiny red
cup drops at his feet from the first numbered float. He calmly
picks it up while a thin red-facedtourist — of course — dives
frenetically at his feet.
Our dear boy turns the cup over looking at it with
considerable faux admiration. “Not bad,” he reflects as the tourist
stares longingly. “Sorry.· Certain throws are meant for certain persons.”
The tourist seems perplexed by that comment, like a cat,
immediately short attention spanning back to the frenzied fray,
immersing itself in continuing Mardi Gras madness.
Proteus wobbles downtown on wood spoke wheels. Tyger grabs
another Polish Dog to go. “Ready for the big one tomorrow?”
asks Roy. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Tyger notes.
“Haven’t we had a great Mardi Gras so far?” “Nah,” pause
“Only the greatest ever.” “I hope the weather holds. This makes or breaks
it for us.” “I’m sure it won’t, haha.” Mardi Gras like toilet bowl humor.
One of the recreational vehicle nomads who have descended
into the celebration stands guard nearby. A mini-village of such
vehicles has assembled at the YWCA parking lot.
“Hey buddy,” Roy says to the nomadic white haired man. “This
guy has been coming here forever ,” as he introduces Tyger.
“Yeah this guy came all way from Oklahoma. He visits with us
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at the Oklahoma State Fair .”
“OK cool,” Tyger responds impressed. He has never met an
out-of-Carnival patron of the Polish Dog stand. Turning to the
R.V. man he asks: “Are Polish Dogs the same taste sensation up there?”
“Exactly the same,” the man replies smiling, satisfying
Tyger ‘s investigative curiosity. Always wondered ’bout dat.
Great is the truth and it prevails.
Rest is now the top priority for Mardi Gras veterans.
Tourists and selected localsare going wild all over town by this time.
Many of them will party all night.
Those savvy in the ways of Carnival already have staked out
prime spots along the St. Charles Avenue neutral ground as the
streetcars have stopped running. Some party in place as they will
all night and all the next day. Smart sheep grab needed sleep.
Tyger fits in category latter. Very foolish not to be well
rested. Fat Tuesday is the ultimate party endurance test.
Most partying like there is no tomorrow will
shortly discover their folly as they pass out in heaps along the
street sometime between the start of the truck parades and Comus.
Tyger spends time on the telephone firming up plans.
Everyone has assigned themselves time-honored tasks
preparing for the coming storm.
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Tyger usually is first on scene at the P.D. stand psychically staking
out real estate location for location is all. Just another Mardi
Gras tradition so time honored in application that few remember how it began.
Tyger decided to rise late one Mardi Gras past. Big mistake.
Surprise, no surprise. That year was a disaster. As we digress.
Tygermeister was rudely awakened at 7 a.m. by the loud
Uptown revelry of local marching clubs fortifying themselves
with vast quantities of hooch, serenaded by incredibly loud
traditional Carnival music courtesy of Professor Longhair-
and Neville Brothers recordings. Simply no avoiding the fun.
Tyger gave up the ghost after that, always rising to greet the dawn head on
and then some as early as inhumanly impossible.
Coming on 7:30 a.m., this year of the Tyger, of political note, an
influential Louisiana state senator is hanging around Norby’s
bar with the rest of the marching club already drunk on his butt.
That’s Louisiana politics for you. Someone is always looking
out for the party’s interest
The few, if any, who somehow don’t make the massive passing
day of parades can watch the show on television anyway, since all
local stations pre-empt programming for Mardi Gras coverage.
That leaves those who are physically unable and a few losers
like Roots Badburns who can’t be bothered by such a celebration .
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Roots is too lazy and has important business
like picking his nose hairs to attend to.
Never mind. One can count the stay-at-home crowd by handfuls
while a million, or more, throng to every conceivable vantage
point and ocular angle in, and around, the Crescent City.
Business as usual everywhere else, but magic enveloping the
Big F’in Easy. That’s the way New Orleanians roll. Who can
blame them, valid criticism of Carnival aside.
That is what makes New Orleans special.
Up up and away Tyger polishes off preparations at 8:15 a.m.
Just as well as it is a difficult journey downtown
on which he soon will embark .
Tyger fills the Altoid box with joints, checks on the so-called
“archives” in the freezer carefully removing from the
aluminum foil a select handful of LSD — extremely essential in
relating to the coming insanity — generally bracing himself
for whatever strange events will come. Ready, steady, eddy, and
Dennis Miller style, he is out of there.
Precise navigation is essential the trip downtown.
Firstly, Tyger must make it past the previously noted marching
clubs. Then, he must avoid the usually reliable Tchopitoulas
corridor since hundreds of truck floats are lining up
for their afternoon moment of immortality. A massive traffic jam clogs
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nearby Uptown roads . Wise travelers, however, know the direct
route, skirting such obstacles, and across Napoleon Avenue
where the regular krewes form.
Which is how it happens this 1988 Mardi Gras Day; Tuesday
Feb. 16 for the rest of the free world. Maybe it takes 10 minutes
longer than usual, which seems a a small price to pay all things considered
Strap yourselves in dear comrades in the celebratory arts
and sciences. You are about to graduate into Carnival Day,
what promises to be the time of your lives.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mardi Gras heats up considerably.
All heaven and hell break out on Fat Tuesday.
Everyone parties their butts off at the Polish Dog stand.
All aspects of Carnival from the walking clubs through Zulu,
Rex, the truck parades, and his most majestic Mystick Krewe of Comus are
observed and explained. It’s a wild world. Everything concerning
the actual story and celebration of Mardi Gras is revealed
for all who don’t know. [It takes a native to explain these events.
The Krewe of Krowd Kontrol, Krewe of Sanitation, Meeting of the Courts,
and Tyger’s visions wrap up the significant day.
CHAPTER 15
“If Ever I Cease to Love”
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“Well, I’m going to New Orleans. I want to see the Mardi Gras.
Yes, I’m going to New Orleans. I want to see the Mardi Gras.
When I see the Mardi Gras, I want to know what Carnival’s for…”
Henry Byrd, Professor Longhair to the uninitiated
if they exist, belts Mardi Gras cadenzas like a heavyweight boxer on the
music station which spans the radio waves with
continuous Carnival sounds from top to bottom.
“A city under siege,” the WWOZ announcer cutting in,
“if you’re not already up, get out of bed
sleepy heads. It’s Maaaaardi Gras in New Orleans,”
pronounced with limy English accent and long “eeens.”
The announcer, as he is genetically programmed to do,
continues his Mardi Gras wake-up call.
“Ready or not fiends, this is New Orleans
and this is Carnival, the greatest free party of earth.
No avoiding it, so get your buns out of the oven,
get your Fat Tuesday buns into the fryer. Paaaaarty!”
Tyger breaks through traffic like Saints scat-back Ruben Mayes
through the hated Falcons line, flies past Mr. Milty’s house o’ pain —
he will make his Polish Dog stand at some point most assuredly —
betting the nag with a clear path over and under
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Magazine Street spilling down onto curiously circuitous lower Camp Street.
Derelicts move slowly like a defeated army away from the impending confrontation.
They have seen this kind of before and are leery of it like so many beaten dogs.
Traffic laws mean nothing now.Tyger takes advantage of this special dispensation
turning the wrong way up one-way St. Joseph Street. He stops mid-way down the block
from the YWCA parking lot Mac moved his van there the previous night
as did Nick Bowers his car, leaving a space perfectomundo between
for Tyger’s dharma bum wreck. It fits nicely — thanks so much —
in front of the “no parking” sign confident this special day will yield no ticket.
Only a person who has the misfortune or utter stupidity
to park in a special parade towing zone will get nabbed.
They will be in for a rude awakening sometime before Comus in that case.
Nazi cum scum meter maids — if that is not too
insulting to Nazis — don’t mess with cars on streets like St. Joseph.
Couldn’t get a tow-truck in there if they wanted.
Parking time. Tyger completes maneuvers while the continuous flood
of Mardi Gras music rolls tide rolls. A final radio send-off by Al “Carnival Time” Johnson
who is singing, d’uh, “All because It’s Carnival time. Oh, it’s Carnival time,
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Oh well, it’s Carnival time and everybody’s having tun.”
Click. Already. Check the clock.
Off with “Carnival Time” — who, incidentally, drives a cab in
the Carnival off-season — and on with the big shoe. Tyger cuts a
small sliver from a Mickey Mouse acid hit, lovingly sliding
it onto his eagerly salivating tongue. He holds it in place for
just a moment before fully ingesting.
Hey comrades, it’s Carnival time which makes a lot more
sense if you are tripping the light fantastic. Just ask Peter
Fonda and Dennis Hopper as they “Easy Rider” through 1969.
Tyger surveys the crowd walking down wide St. Joseph Street
proud. Huge rented trucks assume their traditional places
on party bent street corners.
Truck people already are busy beavers barbecuing on
grills and hibachis along the street. Women sit on chairs inside
the vehicular parties.
Recreational Vehicle central has likewise graced the scene
with all inhabitants early birds risen. Maybe it’s 7:30 a.m.
(No use bringing a watch as Greenwich Mean Time is rendered meaningless.)
The Polish Dog stand party is in full-swing mode.
Tyger catches the infectious disease. He grins at a fatass
woman dressed as ballerina whom he recognizes from every Mardi
Gras past, presented, and perhaps to be.
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“Whoa, no hot tub this year?” Tyger facetiously asks the
prima ballerina as she pirouettes uproariously. “What a great
idea,” she replies as if she gets it. ”Maybe next year.”
“Maybe never, babe.”
A quick surveillance of the scene reveals the usual unusual
behavior. Families dressed as strange fish swim back and forth in
endless aimless streams along St. Charles Avenue. Or is that
simply Tyger’s acid test imagination?
Come on comrades, what do you think?
Of course, that man is not really a crawfish.
His companion isn’t truly an oyster.
It’s Just, drive the point home one last note Al Johnson,
CARNIVAL TIME! O.K.? Everybody having fun?
The flood of outrageous costumes and behavior continues by
levees and sea walls unabated. “Bitch, bitch, bitch,” a man
dressed as a motley clown says as he laughs, pointing the fickle
finger of fate at an equally colorful companion.
They hold squeeze bottles filled with mysterious purple
liquid. Radish juice maybe, or an exotic fruit flavored
concoction. Whatever it is friends, it is doubtlessly highly toxic.
Welcome, then, to the street parade, the first conscious
moments of Fat Tuesday. The police, dark chicory coffee and
attitudes in hand, start setting up barricades along St. Charles Avenue.
Barricades are optional, only used for the largest of
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Carnival day crowds. The temporal authorities must be expecting a
huge throng, weather being pleasant for Feb. 16.
“Hey buddy, how’s it going,” Roy greets Tyger checking in
at the Polish Dog stand. “You ready to party?”
His teenage son dances to disco music
emanating loudly from a nearby recreational vehicle.
Where else in the world at — 7:45 a.m.? — are so many
drunk, stoned, and tripping people partying their asses off like
this assisted, and yes, even encouraged, by the authorities?
Perhaps the Socratic method answers that question.
Tyger cuts through the heavy pedestrian traffic making his
way to the Seaman’s Lounge. It is the same old Zeno’s Paradox of
regular semi-derelicts and Mardi Gras extras. There are always
more approaching the bar no matter how many have departed.
No queue to the bathroom yet formed, Tyger enters, ignoring
an outstretched hand extended by a rather ragged looking
scarecrow. He seems under an impression that he might be the
official bathroom attendant for the day.
Hey dude, buy a vowel, get a clue. Whatever he is, sorry
Charlie, no tips available from Tyger who has seen it all
before and takes a precautionary piss. Maybe next year, old sot.
After taking care of business, Tyger goes to the long wood
bar inhabited by refugees from a Charles Bukowski lifestyle and
orders the usual, man, Bloody Mary. It costs $3 and because it’s
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Al Johnson Carnival time tastes like the greatest mixed drink on earth.
Tyger strolls a few blocks down St. Charles surveying the
harbingers of impending brain damage. Chairs, ladders, coolers,
and all the accoutrements of this costumed army of revelers are
scattered everywhere, and beyond the horizon .
Lee Circle now is surrounded by spectator
bleachers and party patrons. Batter up friends, and that’s not just the fries.
Tyger struts beneath General Robert E. Lee’s stony visage
and around to a clear view of the expressway on-ramp — out of
commission obviously — broad vista containing an amazing
multicolored tableau stretching as far as visibility laws. Or
is that just the Mickey Mouse acid coming around. Speaking of which,
What is that snap snap popping at Tyger’s heels? He half-
jumps startled amidst the mini-explosions. Hahaha in his face,
who could it be, could it be … Armor’s? Who else.
“Have you slivved yet?” Armor’s inquires as Tyger regains
his senses. “Thanks for sharing that pal,” Tyger says. “Sliv to live.”
“I’m going to take a full hit,” Armor’s informs Tyger and
all who are happening nearby after which he carefully unwraps
a small square of paper disguised artfully as Bugs Bunny. “What’s up doc?”
“Whoo-wee, baby,” Tyger- watches approvingly. “You still have
some of the Bugs Bunnies? Those were massive.”
.
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Armor ‘s cranes back his head and tilt, drops the acid.
“I need a drink,” he grandly announces to the oblivious multitude,
setting off for the well chartered waters of ye olde Seaman’s Lounge.
Colors, oh those bleeding tie-dyed colors … as Tyger spins
like a crazy top appreciating the pure fluidity of motion. His
brain purees, quickly liquifies. He chases liquid sky again .
How appropriate that the master of the secret passage and
guru of the sudden exit would as if by magic, disco presto reappear
at such a propitious moment. Besides, it’s the psychic law.
An exchange of information transpires.
“Ahh, hey, hey. Mr. Milty, I presume.”
“In the flesh dear Tyger- person. Have you slivved yet’?”
“A horse is a horse of course of course. Ya got to sliv to live. How about you?”
“Need you ask, dear boy?”
To the about to be initiated into what follows as Carnival
lore, here is how Mr. Milty is — shall we say — dressed.
He sports a giant self-painted face mask. This is not the sort of
vision one would in a dark alley want to face.
Kids seems to like it. And psychopaths.
The rest of his wiry frame from no-neck to toe is draped
with a bright bright orange jump suit. A 32-ounce squeeze bottle
filled with a highly inflammable mixology experiment dangles from
a money belt/utility holder. Chernobyl has got nothing on this
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radioactive concoction. Mr. Milty raises his highly toxic mixture
to the heavens above, uttering a small Mardi Gras invocation,
as he must assuming the role of shaman of the moment.
“Let’s get bent,” he says in ever so slightly muffled tones,
squirting a light green liquid through a disjointed hole in the
face mask where his real mouth is located.
“What the Sam Mills is that?” Tyger asks.
“Try some and find out,” Milty teases.
“Oh Lord, not again,” Tyger says, shaking his Seattle
Mariners baseball cap covered head.
“You remember what happened last time.”
Carnival crazies demand that Tyger sample a stream from
the scary black and gold Saints squirt bottle.
“Whoa. Seriously, Milty. What the hell is in this? ”
“Eth cocktail with Berry Berry Blue Kool-aid,” states the awful face.
“Oh Lawd, not ethanol again. This is what happened last time.”
Armor’s returns like a good penny. The three whoop it up
along the St. Charles curbside. It is a little past very early in
the morning. Multitudes throng to chosen spots all over the city of New Orleans.
Zulu gathers apostles on Claiborne and Jackson Avenues.
Rex, fitted with his royal train, proceeds to greet
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fawning subjects near Napoleon Avenue at Camp Street as is
annual habit. All is right with the weird world of Carnival.
The crowd becomes thicker, reveling in disorderly, mindlessly
passing in every conceivable direction. Gaggles of vendors
gather. They waddle downtown apparently to brave the mass of
humanity stretched along the Avenue and filling Canal Street to
inhuman capacity. And the French Quarter?
Don’t even ask, comrades. Some Mardi Gras moments
are best left for personal on-site investigation, if one dares.
The Vieux Carre is only for the hardiest or most inebriated, of souls.
Suffice it to say the deep blue sea bobs with outrageous
big boobs costumes, on men; women most scantily clad,
or cross-sex dressed; drag queens playing kissee, kissee; bankers
dressed as pirates, lions and, over there an Oscar Meyer wiener ,
half-bitten, accompanying a hard boiled egg; a large green potato
person; a family of frolickers all dressed the same as playing
cards in a deck; clowns, of course; and every possible fantasy
that has ever existed in the human mind or reflected human or
inhuman condition.
“Whooaaa,” Armor’s calls. “Here comes the nuclear family.”
They irradiate the spot every year.
The pater familia apparently works at Waterford III Nuclear
plant in Northeast Louisiana and shares the gang’s Polish Dog
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stand pre-programming. (It is actually one of the best spots from
which to view the parade because the crowds are manageable. Of
course, convenient logistics and Polish Dog heaven also are present.)
Nuclear family dad wears a blue cap adorned with white atom
symbol, as well as beet red face. “Better stay away hey hey,” he
jokes. “I’m radioactive.” He is joking, right?
“Now, that I can believe,” remarks Tyger as Armor’s walks
over to schmooze with Mr . Nuclear catastrophe.
It happens every year.
Armor’s and bestest buddy for the day begin their annual
tete-a-tete. The confab always lasts for hours.
What do you suppose they possibly could be discussing?”
Tyger asks Milty. “I don’t think you want to know,” Mr . Milty replies laughing.
“You’re right Milty. Don’t know what I was thinking.”
A larger than ever commotion and sudden quick movement on
the street precedes the intoxicating sound of the “Mardi Gras
Mambo” blasting over a portable loudspeaker.
”Is that the parade?” an ignorant tourist inquires. Tyger is
embalmed in happiness, willing to be patient.
“By my calculations,” he notes, looking at his watch
merely for show, “that is Pete Fountain’s Half-Fast Marching
Club,” which of course confirms his opinion almost instantly.
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The club belies it’s moniker as members walk
less than half fast, slowly careening from side
to side of the avenue passing out flowers, silver club doubloons, and kisses,
each of which are bestowed in overly generous fashion.
Their sacred mission is to stop at every tavern along the
route until gracing the French Quarter with their good times
rolling presence. Pete Fountain, clarinetist and originator
of the club, is pulled on a small float by a few of his close friends.
Club members dock for a moment at the Seaman’s Lounge. Tyger
takes the opportunity to approach the clarinetist who hands him
a doubloon with his likeness. “I saw a celebrity,” Tyger exults,
returning to the surging crowd.
The club dissipates, swallowed by the massive crowd in its
wake. Dragons, sea creatures; a trio in Nina, Pinta, and
Santa Maria uniform boat costumes; a myriad of painted faces and
swirling colors swallow the celebration whole.
One guy marches as the hole in the donut accompanied bv a
friend dressed as a giant question mark.
“Huh?” Tyger asks Milty.
“Huh,” Milty replies. Silly question.
Mermaids, representations of Louisiana edible foodstuffs and
inanimate objects, a man dressed as heaving barf, are spewed
out into the swirling eddies of Mardi Gras madness. The sliv to
live crowd, as well, seems highly affected.
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The Jefferson City Buzzards, an ancient and cherished
walking club, follow Pete Fountain. They are dressed as clowns,
returning traditional favors when members of the crowd,
preferably big-tit women, bestow upon their flushed red cheeks
the appropriate shirts to the wind responses.
Some supplicants seem more eager than others. One used-up
looking hag tackles a walker. “Can she do that?” Tyger wonders.
” I think she cari do anything she wants,” Milty replies.
“Ooooh. That is one ugly woman.”
Mac, Sarah, Milty’s girlfriend d’jour, the Nick Bowers clan
and Sandy Alexander with his new bride Mary Ann drop into this
haze, barely noticed at first. So, the complement is complete.
Fortunately, as always, they have arrived just in the Bowers
of time for the sun has flown across the cloudless deep blue
sea of sky. Snap your fingers, poof, past 10 a.m., here comes
the blessed Big Shot leading the mostly black Zulu Parade.
Get ready for the funny black faced maskers tossing to the
crowd one of the most intensely prestigious of throws, the
decorated Zulu coconut. Everyone wants one. The crowd launches a
collective wail: “Throw me a coconut, mister! Coconuts!”
Zulu after Zulu, spears and African warrior outfits straight
out of Tarzan movies; riders tease the crowd with coconuts,
spears, cups and beads, holding them aloft, waiting for the
nitrous peak of noise and emotion, then pulling them back.
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A few wave signs proclaiming the sentiment of the moment.
“Show us your tits.” Carnival currency has a value all its own.
Tits indeed are being shown. The cutest possible babies — youthful
children, and the other kind — are being presented to Zulus for
approval and possible coconut coronation as the massive;
wonderfully painted parade floats whizzing like wasps by.
A zillion cups, doubloons and Zulu beads strike the ground
in an unison of desire. Normally respectable people scramble like
eggs along the frying pan ground everywhere the mind’s eye wanders.
The masses stomp, wildly wave hands, shout, in any way
possible attempting to attract rider attention. Mass hysteria,
the awful beauty of complete disorder and dramatic tension of
existence coalescing, divides itself in basic genetic patterns,
burrowing to the bottom-line of human endeavor .
Winners shout in triumph holding spears and coconuts to the
golden sun for divine approval. Losers cry by the curbside having
just missed that black and gold cup, that strange miniature
plastic silver crown, or any one of a thousand suddenly all-important
party favors. Life has become its own caricature.
Huge bands from local high schools and places far-away march
double-time between floats, then stop as the parade waits for any
of a thousand possible mishaps to be resolved.
(Zulu holds a marching band contest, always attracting the
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very best. As noted, any parade might stop as a
float, rider –or both — break down, or for a crowd related accident.)
So, boom boom barn barn to the front and throw me something to
the rear in one non-stop sensual explosion. “Yipes!” Milty jumps
ass backwards. Mac has scored a direct snap and pop on his face.
“Get a real job,” Mac shouts. Hahaha.
Oh, wondrous communion of human nature. Nobody even notices
acid tripping scoundrels. That is because tripsters
everywhere tripping on chemicals, or on the natural high
provided by the gathered multitudes turning reality on its head.
“This is a great Mardi Gras. The greatest Mardi Gras ever,”
relates Sandy to Mary Ann as a torrent of beads rain down upon his shoulders.
“Oh my goodness. Thank you. Thank you,” he cries to the
unseen throwers, holding above his head for show an unopened
plastic package of a gross of beads.
Maskers always seem to divine who should get what and why.
That’s Carnival karma, corny comrades.
Snap your fingers then, in a dream-time moment Zulu has
vanished. Gone are the disdainful dukes and maids, magnificently
decorated floats, surreal images, and esoteric Carnival
commentary apparent only to advanced students of the celebration,
and Zulu warriors. The gang retreats from the battleground to Mac’s car
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as is traditional. There they smoke a massive number of joints, and
like the universe explode in a big bang, then mystically reform.
“Whos in charge here?” Nick asks. “You’re not?” Tyger
replies. Hahaha — a round of laughter for everyone on the house.
P.D. gang busters take care of miscellaneous business like
liquid refreshment replenishment, pissing behind the trash
receptacle on the corner. Mrs. Bowers has papered over her car
window for a private lady’s room interior and, in general,
tallying up the loot while accounting for any casualties.
“Where’s Armor’s?” “Still with the nuclear family.”
”Mr. Milty?” “No fucking clue.”
“O.K. Nick is here and Sandy.” “Mary Ann?” “She went with
Sarah to the Polish Dog stand.” So forth and so on.
“Hey then, let’s party.”
Said gang parties for a short while that seems like forever
in a bottle before the arrival of His Majesty’s Bandwagon and
Rex, King of Carnival. All hail the Krewe of Polish Dog
The group returns to a ladder sea behind the closed
barricades that had parted briefly to allow tor passage of
fake Israelites, big ships and toy boats alike seeking smoother
seas, pit-stops, or any of the million, or so, no-doubt demented
functions they must perform.
Mac purchases a can of silly string from a passing vendor,
then hides behind a Cadbury’s chocolate salesman from Chicago,
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or so the man dressed as a gigantic chocolate candy bar claims to
be. Mac spews the horrible pink chemical nightmare on Sarah who
jumps aside laughing in pretend horror. Splat.
Spray sticks to the next nearest target, in this
case a jowly but not particularly jolly looking member of New
Orleans’ shall we seg-way — finest.
“There goes the ozone layer,” Nick observes as Mac tries to
hide between Sandy. “He did it,” a disembodied voice sounding
like Mac claims. Sandy moves stage right. “No I didn’t,” he reclaims.
Fortunately, the policeman allows a slim sly smiles
to break the semi-comic plane as he wipes offending silly string off his face.
No matter who or what you are, dear comrades, it’s tough to
look tough with a face full of silly string. Mac makes himself
scarce for a while, staying on the safe side of the lawman.
As Mac disappears, appears in his wake the first premonition
of the Rex Parade. The Police Communications truck is tailed by
the NOPSI wire clearing floats and various vehicular odds and
ends, including the Blaine Kern Artists Inc. truck referring to
the master float builder of the area. Git along little dogies.
Deputies on horseback, maids and dukes from prominent
families atop grandly decorated mini-floats pulled by the fruits
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of Belarus labor belaboring the throngs with high society.
Lookee, lookee over there . Everybody stands at rapt
attention pointing towards Lee Circle.
His white cape flowing, his long manicured beard, waving the
royal scepter above a crowd of subjects (and potential”subjects”).
There, over yonder, rolls the magnificent King of Carnival
his very self in the multi-colored costumed flesh.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Mac along with thousands roars. “Just say yes.”
His royal majesty salutes his loyal followers, waving in
the time honed and practiced manner.
It is Rex! It is Rex! The crowd cheers their regal approval
to which the King of Carnival grandly acknowledges with a royal
wave. Rex’s theme song “If Ever I Cease to Love,” plays above the
masses in an endless musical loop.
“All hail Rex'” the Bowers family among a million others
shout as almost one. “Get a real job’ Hahaha,” emanates from MacMouth.
The grand procession stops briefly at the Polish Dog Stand
for here Rex’s past momentarily encounters future acknowledgment.
Armor’s looks dispassionately unimpressed by his brush with
royalty. “I do not acknowledge monarchy,” he states and follows with a whoop.
“This is what we fought the Revolutionary War to defeat,”
Armor’s continues. “Down with the monarchy! Let the pigs eat cake.”
“Mixed metaphor,” Tyger cautions.
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Armor’s shouts are drowned out by Rex’s well wishers.
If not for Rex and Carnival most would be slaves
to a far worse fate at the stinking corporate work place.
“Hey everybody,” Mac yells,· “Take the rest of the day off'”
“Get a real job,” Nick echoes.
Rex passes on his inevitable way to toasts at Gallier Hall
where the open-shirt Mayor Sidney Barthelemy hands over, for the
day, all reigns of control to the Big Easy. That’s not a bad deal for the people.
“Here is to you Rex, our majestic monarch,” the mayor
shouts, trying to raise his game a notch. “Your royal day has
been blessed with the greatest of weather.”
“And to you sir,” Rex replies holding aloft his giant cup of wine.
“And to my royal subjects, and all who have graced my celebration
from points near and dear and places afar.
Have a joyous, safe, and happy Mardi Gras. toast you all.
Without further ado, I bid you adieu. Let the party roll on'”
And it is rumbling, bumbling, stumbling the wrong way down
St. Charles Avenue as the masses scramble for purple, green,
gold, and white Rex cups and the emblem Rex beads with a golden
crown dangling from similar colors.
The Polish Dog stand lies fallow now, deserted by a fair
weather army hungry for cheap plastic baubles to feed the soul.
All eyes and attention spans are firmly entrenched upon the
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floating sparrow in this year’s “Salute to Things that Fly.” The
next float greatly resembles the Space Shuttle Challenger. Oy vey.
There moos the Beouf Gras, a perennial participant with
its large white cow. “Hey hum Bingo baby,” Tyger yells in
unappreciated reference to Joe Fine’s favorite insurance claim
scam subject scandal. “Who loves you baby?”
There the Jester, as always, laughing up a storm; and
the aforementioned Majesty’s Bandwagon with the royal orchestra
serenading endless strains of the royal song. “If Ever I Cease To
Love” droning on and on as on the parade rolls into eternity’s waiting arms.
The panoply oi floats divided by military marching bands
pauses for another break. Rex now conducts the real social
business for which he has been appointed.
King of Carnival toasts the social elite on the
reviewing stand at the Boston Club along Canal Street.
Rex salutes his true raison d’etre existential court,
moving towards his final chapter in the Book of Carnival, 1988.
Unfortunately for The Texas A&M University marching band,
this salute stops the parade in front of the P.D. stand.
Milty face is their unforgiving and persistent enemy.
As they stand at attention swords and boot licking
ready for almost nothing, miracle of Mardi Gras, Mr. Milty
materializes, jumping face to watermelon face in front of
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the Aggie band taskmaster.
Mac jumps in front of the chimera that is Mr. Milty
frantically snapping his still shot camera.
“Photo opportunity!” Mac informs.
Tough luck we are the men of A&M. That is Mardi Gras
justice. Smile, you are on candid camera.
Mr . Milty performs a dainty face dance, taunting the Aggies
with his advanced karma. “Nicaragua’s that way, he yells,
pointing the band in the appropriately opposite direction.
“Hey you faggies. Get a life’. And how about that mascot
Reveille. I hear the bitch has rabies. Hahaha.”
The Aggies look as pissed as possible without falling out of
rank and physically attacking Mr . Milty. But then, in a
fortuitous turn — for the Aggies or for Mr. Milty, we’ll never
know — Rex completes his Boston Club toast.
Word passes down the second line.
Crimson clad Aggie bandmaster raises his baton.
Fellow traveler Aggies march off playing the Texas A&M fright song.
Mr . Milty can’t resist the final word. “See you next year,” out he rings.
Approximately 1 p.m. and the sun is hanging a very bright
yellow overhead. The last Rex float vanishes as in a dream.
Many in the crowd disperse.
Just as many remain, however, for the truck parades with
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their fumes and more egalitarian challenges immediately chug
behind majestic Rex. The 250 trucks with long bed trailers roll
one after another for three exhausting hours along the parade
route. Truck floats vary greatly in attention to detail.
Tons of trinkets, beads, doubloons, cups, plastic objects, and
throws of any variety imaginable fill what’s left of the sky.
These floats allow anyone who has $200 and the desire to ride
above the masses to participate in the long parade.
They are a favorite of everyone as the vast quantities of
throws satiate all natural desire for worthless toy objects from
the People’s Republic of China, Guatemala, the Philippines, and
from wherever else such objects spring.
The unusually usual forces of disorder predominate in typically
timeless fashion. Chaos rules the immediate environs of the Polish Dog stand.
The verbal abuse squad heaps insult upon good natured insult
at riders who return such remarks in kind,
after they stop laughing. The drunken official orbital reaches apogee.
Now. it spins rapidly back to planet earth.
The crowd thins considerably with each
passing truck, leaving in its wake, as if by a Merlin’s transmogrification,
a magnificent mystic mountain of discarded trash.
Recreational vehicles and the surrounding mass of cars,
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trucks, and vans depart the immediate P.D. stand vicinity.
Indeed, the wave has reversed itself. All roads now lead out of
New Orleans, back to reality calling.
Mac is off snapping Nick. Sarah is waving her arms at Krewe
of Orleanians Truck Float #135, titled ”And All That Jazz,” with
cheesy musical instruments made of paper mache adorning the flat
bed exterior, most of the rider positions left empty through
parade attrition or rider apathy.
(After all, it is a long journey into comas from
Tchopitoulas Street and Nashville Avenue to the
bittersweet end of the Carnival line.)
Sandy, Mary Ann, and Armor’s have long since departed.
Mr. Milty says goodbye, embarking on his annual pilgrimage to the
fleshed and flushed out French Quarter. Presumably he will meet
his girlfriend, who has watched the parades with her family at the Boston Club.
Enough already. Tyger, too, must go into the tank, leaving
the fracas for a while. He follows a higher calling.
Tyger is the resident expert on the most important
parade of all, unbeknownst to the blissfully ignorant. Tyger
lives for the final parade of Mardi Gras, initiator of New
Orleans Carnival, the most secretive old-line institution of all.
Comrades, in the likely case you are unaware of the
immutable forces of history, we will set the record straight forevermore.
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You have yet to greet the pre-eminent ruler who wields
goblet instead of scepter. The monarch who even Rex
must bow to as the courts at midnight meet to usher out
the Carnival season after separate Municipal Auditorium balls.
In case you haven’t heard, in case it’s news to y’all, Tyger
will be standing proudly at 6 p.m. by the P.O. stand alone —
with the exception of passed out minions and a wide awake Sandman —
awaiting his most secret regal presence.
Yes, the Mystick Krewe of Comus calls. Thankfully, Carnival
shall end with his passage. All those uninvited guests will depart for home.
All hail Comus, epitome of old school Carnival, who follows a riderless
float, never has his identity revealed. (Although a determined
investigator might deduce his identity from the Slimes-Picayune
society pages if it were necessary to know.)
Therefore, a quick pit stop Uptown already much easier to
transverse in the fading Carnival glow. Tyger splashes water on
his face, takes care of related bathroom duties. He verifies
that the VCR recorded the Mardi Gras show, in theory, for later viewing.
About 5:30 p.m., Tyger returns for a Polish Dog last stand.
Once again, he drops into the YWCA parking lot grounds zero. R.V.
world has completely vanished. A few stragglers returning from
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earlier Mardi Gras engagements surround the lot.
Only Robert E. Lee seems unaffected. He continues sitting on
horseback purveying the remnants of yet another losing battle.
Tyger’s special general orders include a final surveillance
of the scene. Crowds once flooding through the streets
have slowed to a sickly burnt out trickle.
“Ahh wahh, dat who,” a semi-derelict soul wobbles downtown. He
used to be an executive vice-president, or a corporate commercial
rip-off scandal. Maybe he will pass as that again tomorrow.
Small groups of losers squirt final wads here and there,
wide and outside; ball ball ball, take a walk, you bums. A pretty
but used up jewelry-making artist whom Tyger knows staggers by
Lee Circle, pulling up her short dress, for a split-second,
exhibiting lace panties to no one in particular.
She appears drunker than a sailor on shore leave.
Tyger hopes the little sapphire survives these final Carnival hours to
make it past the Seaman’s Lounge to another port of call
Shouldn’t she be playing the French Quarter?
A mountain of trash covers every Crescent City street, but
is particularly thick along St. Charles Avenue. This is how the
success of Carnival will be judged for future generations to
beat. The next day an official verdict will be rendered as
garbage is weighed for relative tonnage. The more trash,
the better was the celebration.
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Tyger takes a rough cat’s scan of the pictorial debris.
Looks like a good one, folks. And within hours,
thank you Lord, the party will have ended.
Those who love Carnival and prepare for it year-round might
be sorely disappointed, but that’s their problem. Lovers of Comus
the few, the hardy, the only, remain to rejoice atop
the trash-filled heap. The worst of the mess is past tense.
Whereas the P.D. outskirts once was home to hundreds if not thousands.
Whereas a few have bit the bullet in the nearby vicinity,
holding their heads or staring vacantly into the darkening distance.
Whereas a small thin line of topsy-tipsy post-revelers walk in wobbling misdirection.
Let it be resolved therefore, that Tyger stand alone victorious
over Carnival ready to write its final chapter.
Hallelujah sings the crosswalk between past and future attractions.
Electrical sparks fly from eyes falling on a contented disaster.
History falls to the winners to write.
The biggest winners this day are those like Tyger
who don’t much care for the trappings of Mardi Gras,
but are enticed into becoming fellow travelers.
As such, perhaps a bit guilty of having too much fun
contrary to anti-Carnival karmic beliefs. They pause in that final moment
of reflection, raising their arms in triumph,
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proclaiming through incantations, “Enough is enough!”
The New Orleans Police Department, too, welcomes the end of
Carnival madness. No more triple shifts and overtime. Money
simply isn’t worth the effort after a certain point.
Prices for Mardi Gras related objects have plummeted
like the stock market crashing. Or a store closing sale.
Snap-and-pops are discounted 75 percent.
Silly string sells for below wholesale market value.
Even Polish Dogs have dropped from a $5 high on
the early morning Rex rules exchange to…see what they are now.
“Hey buddy,” Roy yells to Tyger”Come on over and get one on the house.”
And that Polish Dog, dear comrades, assumes a place of pre-eminent
stature compared to all that have passed before and all that hope to follow.
Munching, crunching, swallowing between wide flavorful mouthfuls,
Tyger must to the world proclaim, “This is the greatest Polish Dog ever Yowee wowee”’
Sandy Alexander is also one of the few hardy survivors.
Looking fit and trim as befits his southpaw hurler’s frame,
Sandy appears presto disco magic as Tyger finishes last gulp.
The Sandman satirically crosses his fingers in the form of a cross fending off evil.
“Something bad is going to happen,” he jokes.
“Something bad already happened,” Tyger replies.
They frolic in the refuse of a golden celebration, kicking
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over discarded cartons and containers, gently picking through
garbage with winged feet. Wouldn’t want your hands to touch some
of that crap because you might know where it has been.
That’s about the size of it.
“What is the theme this year?” Sandy asks of coming Comus.
“A salute to deities, I believe, ” Tyger answers. “That must mean us.”
And so it goes. A husband and wife tourist team saunter by,
asking Tyger when the final parade — what is its name? — rolls
by the sacred stand.
A derelictus temalus ignoramus interrupts. “Waaalll, the
parade is supposed to start at 6:15, so that means it won’t be
here tor another hour.”
That type of disinformation passes down the line every
year. Tyger corrects this typical piece of incorrect verbal garbage.
“No. Comus always starts early. They roll as rapidly
Downtown as possible since they hate parading. The entire point
is to squeeze in as much partying as possible before midnight.”
“Naah. They won’t be here for a while,” the old bag who is
carrying an old bag filled to the brim with beads replies as she
searches through the trash heap for any uncollected booty.
(The unclaimed beading is worth a few cents a gross, to
recyclers gearing up for next year’s Mardi Gras. That can add up
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to a few useful dollars for the energetic derelict.)
Tourists look confused, as always. “Believe who you want
to believe, but I am a Comus expert,” Tyger notes for the
permanent record. “I’ve been coming to this parade
forever. Comus is the most significant event of the Mardi Gras
season, the most beautiful, and most mysterious parade.
And the doubloons are totally psychedelic if you stare at them.
There is no comparison to the Mistick Krewe of Comus.”
Sandy nods his head in agreement after returning from the
P.D. stand fully armed, dangerous, and about to be self-loaded
with a Polish Dog. “Alright,” he reports. “The guy only charged
me $3. That’s last week’s price.”
Tyger doesn’t have the heart to tell him of his last dog and
slyly smiles. “What?” Sandy asks. “What?” “Oh, nothing.” “I saw
you smile.” “Nah.”
Coming on to 6:30 p.m. as Tyger looks at his watch.
“I predict Comus will come around the bend in approximately two minutes,” he avers.
Sure enough, the final sounds of Comus cut through an eerie
silence. Comus prefers small out-of-step bizarre musical units to award winning mega-bands.
The first wave of lost players trek downtown in double march step.
Band members look tired and just a little pissed as if they
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thought they were going to march in Rex,
but instead were tricked into falling down a horrible abyss.
Lucky stiffs to march for Comus.
If only they realized their flying feet have been bestowed
the greatest of honors imaginable
“Just as I predicted,” Tyger rubs it in for the tourists.
“Get ready for the true king of Carnival who carries a silver goblet.
You stand at the precipice of history for hither comes
the Mistick Krewe of Comus.”
Olden wood wheels and ancient floats.
The first one, as always, comes riderless further confounding the uninitiated.
Tourists chatter among themselves, walking away from the parade site.
A few savvy Carnival veterans and those others who still can stand, pull their own weight,
or haven’t been satiated by the previous orgy of fun, stare in wonder at the sight.
“Comus. Comus’.” Sandy and Tyger shout together. “Who are you anyway?”
And so, the king of Carnival kings timelessly arrives.
Comus waves his free hand, holding his goblet with the other
in a toast to the few but enthusiastic fans.
A dip of the goblet in Tyger and Sandy’s direction
as all-knowing Comus recognizes them from celebrations past.
The boys are not too difficult to pick out either as no more than
seven or eight others applaud on a sidewalk that once held
hundreds. And the Tyger-Sandy connection is at the same spot every year.
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Quickly, quickly passes the 22 floats of Comus interrupted
briefly by out-of-sync marching units and flambeau carriers.
The first float with riders stops briefly before the boys and tosses
them a complment of gold and silver doubloons as well as the
chintziest of plain blue beads.
This is designed to take the pressure off for Mardi Gras
would be the most abysmal of failures were not a complement of
such doubloons garnered to be cherished and examined throughout
the coming year. Comus riders know this, paying special attention
at the parade headwaters to knowledgeable sailors like the
Tygermeister and dandy Sandy Alexander by Seaman’s Lounge.
Pretty much nothing, snake eyes, shakes after that first
float. Some floats don’t have riders. Some have but a couple,
three or four depending on the whimsy of Comus.
The crowd yells for more. Maskers simply radiate plastic
molded Mona Lisa smiles. A few pull up their tunics
in “show us your tits” fashion but, as required by law, say nothing.
Comus riders do not need to speak since they are the elite
of the elite, allowed to do whatever they want. And that includes during Carnival.
The parade takes its usual New York second and just like —
snap-and-pop exploding between one’s fingers — that, has
vanished. The boys don’t leave yet as the absolute finale of the
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season is about to take place, one of the stranger, yet most
functional, of hassles.
For around Lee Circle, here comes the Krewe of Krowd Kontrol
to be followed immediately by the Krewe of Sanitation. Whoa
Nellie, the KKK is an intimidating by design tradition.
The party’s final remnants are graced by those horrific
police sirens roaring, accompanied by blinding motorcycle lights
flashing. The KKK drive down the street six abreast to be
followed by a hundred cops on horseback.
They blast off for the roistering frolicking French Quarter
where they will clear the streets of unsuspecting revelers at
precisely 12:01 a.m., Ash Wednesday. Absolutely no mercy granted.
Sleazy French Quarter tourists, who at 6:30 p.m. are doing
their thing face-to-in-your-face and wall-to-wall, never quite
grasp the point that Mardi Gras is the pre-Lenten religious
celebration. Lent begins promptly with the first minute of Ash Wednesday.
N.O.P.D. KKK enforces crowd clearing tactics with
extra P.D. relish, gung-ho gusto, and special retributory attention.
Tourists always complain as they scurry for refuge inside
French Quarter drinking establishments where they are allowed to
party as long as they don’t venture into the streets.
They never realize the vast extent of their ignorance.
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They probably wouldn’t care if they did.
In the final analysis, tourists and unconnected locals
alike are simply extras in the Carnival tableau, like it or nuts.
Therefore, take Carnival for what it is worth, not much at this point.
Sanity is regaining strength with each passing hour .
The Krewe of Krowd Kontrol, therefore, continues Downtown on
its modern not yet fully appreciated mission. It roars down the
avenue as fast as Comus.
Then, the related Krewe of Sanitation, consisting of giant
street sweeper machines and sanitation workers supported by
guarded Orleans Parish prisoners, sweep aside the mounds of trash.
Street sweepers wash St. Charles Avenue of all previous sins
with powerful blasts of water pushing even the most righteous
observers like Tyger and Sandy back back back and beyond the
Polish Dog outfield warning track.
Tyger waves to one of the sanitation workers walking in h1gh
rubber boots, carrying a broom. The gap-toothed black man waves back.
“Hey throw me something mister,” Tyger yells. “Oh yeah.
Oh yeah,” Mr . Sanitation acknowledges.
“I bet you like this parade the best,” Tyger adds.
“Oh yeah. Oh yeah. There wouldn’t be no tomorrow if we weren’t here,”
the star of the magic moment says.
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The final meeting of the courts of Rex and Comus,
is the grand finale, a final seasonal ritual
broadcast live on a local television station.
Tyger relaxes at his home alone, observing Rex pay homage to
Comus amidst the stains of “If Ever I Cease to Love” played
ad nauseam. Although the merry tune is a lovely thought.
The courts meet with the usual precise and time practiced
pageantry. Young pages, kings, queens, and other royalty dance
unwavering at the scripted meeting. lt is the same story every
year with only a few small faces trading places.
Tyger watches a bit longer as immediately following that
traditional pageant, comes the clearing of the French Quarter ot
revelers at 12:01, also shown live on television.
So inspiring has the day been that Tyger sits right down and
writes himself a poem. So follows the Comus Parade:
“We are just a face; A subject and a place; A lily and a
rose; Rose again for Carnival.
“Shouts the willow rows; By the setting hyacinths; Looms the
long parade; Brush the final stroke.
“Empty hides the space; Where silence softly rows;
Before the wave applauds; The coming of the float.
“I float and so do you; Beneath a sky of beads; tossed by
maskers out; Nowhere left to go.
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“In your darkest eyes; Shines a mandrake moon; Shooting up
the stars; Howling at the fools.
“Comus come to me; Where the marchers stop; How the garden
grows; I can’t help myself.
“To see and not to see; Hides your colored mask; Behind a
bed of thorns; Blows a stack of facts.
“We ar-e meant to be; An object and a dream; Beyond the great
arcade; Stands nothingness.”
Rubbing his bleary eyes in joy at having survived yet
another Mardi Gras, Tyger finally embarks on the sleep of
truly contented. He dreams of tracking down insurance fraud.
Not. He dreams of graceful ballerina swans dancing. Shhhh.
Don’t disturb him. All too soon, the work-a-day world
resumes again tomorrow.
Shhhh…Sleep tight.
Enough is too much.
Burning head/Ray Bong
https://www.escondidograpevine.com/wp-admin/post-new.php
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back to IRS Inc. business. Tyger swaps out
the car baby seat system for the deus ex machina
black box secret video surveillance system.
Tyger runs the system outside Mildred Baker’s New Orleans East apartment and
makes himself scarce at a local shopping mall, among other places.
Other cases are completed with official reports filed and shown in format.
Also, logs of tapes upon further review are revealed.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
https://www.escondidograpevine.com/wp-admin/post-new.php
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back to IRS Inc. business. Tyger swaps out
the car baby seat system for the deus ex machina
black box secret video surveillance system.
Tyger runs the system outside Mildred Baker’s New Orleans East apartment and
makes himself scarce at a local shopping mall, among other places.
Other cases are completed with official reports filed and shown in format.
Also, logs of tapes upon further review are revealed.
CHAPTERS 16
“IN A BLACK BOX”
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What a relief. Mardi Gras has been defeated.
Tyger is the happiest detective in town.
Now, he must retrieve the baby seat secret surveillance
system he had brought the previous week to Dorothy’s Oz.
Joe’s “man in Mobile” needed to do some extra tinkering
on the cute little critter.
Tyger drives over the river and through the swamp to the
wild wild West Bank of Marrero, pulling up to the modest suburban
one-level house that doubles as the IRS Inc. checkpoint.
He reaches for the front door.
Yip yip yap, Poopsie, doggone it. Sure enough, Dorothy
leads Tyger into the kitchen where they sit and drink coffee.
“I see you survived Mardi Gras,” begins Dorothy with the
traditional post-Carnival greeting. “Good. Joe’s technical guy is
still working on the baby seat, but we have another system for you to try out.
This one should work even better than the baby seat. It’s the black box.”
“Indeed,” Tyger replies curiously.
“Oh yeah. This looks good. I haven’t tried it yet, but Joe
says it works great. Let me show you the ropes.”
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They walk the few steps over to the beige carpeted
living area. Sure enough, a large square black wood box
rests beside the couch. That’s it, period, end of description.
It is a black box mounted by a metal bar with wires.
“You can use this just like the baby seat,” Dorothy continues.
“Mount the camera, operate the same motor control to move the bar.
Cover the camera up with this improved cloth cover.”
She produces said item from behind the couch, displaying it
with a small flourish to an appreciative Tyger.
“It is even more innocuous looking than the baby seat.
Rest of the set-up is standard procedure.”
“Cover looks like a rag doll” Tyger says. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
“Great,” Dorothy continues. “Joe wants you back on
Baker. She has moved to an apartment complex on Morrison Road.
Go there about 11 a.m. Check out the place. Leave the
system running until 2 p.m. and pick it up. We’ll look over
the tape, come up with a plan.
Baker is suing the insurance company for so much money that
expense is no object. You probably will get a whole lot of work
on this case in the coming months, so be ready for some fun.
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“We are also going back on LeBeouf. His wife called Joe the
other day, said she has a better way to catch Bingo. I don’t
know how much we can trust her, but Joe might want you to go up
there, and work on that.
We have a couple of cases locally and something in Houma
that Joe will work with you on, so you should be fairly busy the
next few weeks or so.”
“Hey, I can live with that,” Tyger notes. “Maybe I can make
enough money to buy that video editing system. I can definitely use the work.”
Tyger loads the bad black box into his car along with all the
accompanying video accoutrements. He drives by the conveniently
located Pho Tau Bay, sitting there for a while sipping a soothing
daytime Cafe Da — no sua.
Of course, the real purpose for this activity is to check
out the gorgeous Vietnamese girls who stop by, wisely spending
their social currency. Quite a few beautiful dishes aren’t even
on the Viet Nam map adorned plates;
If only they knew an intrepid detective nearby psychically
projects to them as they laugh and smile sweetly. Ahhh, dream on, y’all.
Oh well, such is life. Is it ever fair? Or only foul?
Tyger seems out of place and out of time.
A pleasant diversion passes too quickly.
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Check, please. Tyger returns home to spend the rest of the
day alone before setting on Baker tomorrow. So it goes.
The next six weeks bring with them as baggage the
aforementioned investigative assignments to which we shall soon
turn our limited attention spans. Tyger is about to join the
black box, catch as catch can, deus ex machina investigating circuit.
Besides belaboring the soon to be obvious, Tyger’s life is
quite devoid of diversions. Sure, he watches the usual amount of
television: various cable movies, soap operas, and the odd ice
hockey match. However, there is nary a football nor
baseball game in sight. Boooring.
Tyger’s life revolves around the usual friendly chit-chat
cycle. He visits occasionally with Armor’s, Mac, and the various
cast of characters whom you have met including Sandy Alexander
and even Nick Bowers.
Mr. Milty, rumored to be in the neighborhood, is nowhere to
be found. Various telephone messages remain unreturned.
Will Milty reappear again some day?
Only the shadow knows. Milty usually turns up when one
least expects it like a demented Candid Camera episode. It has
happened before. Perhaps it will happen again.
Or maybe the estranged post-toasty girl friend who has been
hassling Tyger for Mr. Milty information will hire a detective to
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find the wandering vagabond artist. Tyger is unavailable for the near term.
All that and matters great and small — mainly small —
are beside the immediate discussion of events transpiring in
late February to March 1988.
Tyger is all business these days. He doesn’t know
when the gravy train will end. work is available. However, Joe
Fine has been acting a bit odd lately.
Little things perhaps invisible to the naked eye, but the
strictly observant have been catching a definite drift.
Tyger is not the only interested party who has noticed that the
party might end at any moment.
Joe Fine has been in less frequent contact with Dorothy as
well, so it is not just an overly paranoid imagination, although
that helps. Dorothy mentions on the telephone that she has had to
get on Joe Fine’s case lately to keep the caseload rolling.
“I don’t know what is eating him,” she relates to an anxious Tyger.
“We have a good thing going and he seems very lethargic .
He has been complaining a lot lately about his little
snots.” She laughs. “I’ve met his wife who is a total bitch.
Maybe he is a little distracted right now.
I am certainly trying to keep him focused, because I need
the work too. You are not the only one. Hopefully things will work out.”
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Uh-oh. The gig is a happening for now. How long can it last?
Que lastima not to continue. Such great money. In fact,
recently Dorothy has raised his salary to the princely sum of $12 an hour,
twice as much as one could make in another job dead ended.
It has been…real? Well, it has been fun.
“Hope Joe Fine maintains his mental condition,” Tyger tells Dorothy.
“Been getting into this lately.”
“I know what you mean,” Dorothy replies. “Like I said. We’ve got a good thing going.
Hate for Joe to blow it. Guess he is suffering a little crisis of confidence.
Hopefully, that will blow over soon.”
Fortified by black coffee, straight no chaser,
Tyger sails alongside future ships, tacking east with the black box
until he has navigated to Mildred Baker’s sleazy shores.
Little Miss Muffet is living in a small New Orleans East
apartment complex tuffet. Locked front gate separates
the middle class wheat inside from the criminal chaff
that has overtaken New Orleans in recent years.
(It is beginning to look more like Beirut around here every day.)
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Tyger drives up and down Morrison Road in a holding pattern
checking the area for the best surveillance site. Piece of cake,
actually, which Tyger has no problem digesting. He can set up in
any of two, or three, places for optimal effect; three, or four, others if necessary.
Prime spots squarely face the front gate that is the only
apparent entrance to the Sea Breeze Apartment Complex, so-called.
No problem.
Tyger is about to pull into prime spot number one when,
surprise surprise, a large black truck pulls in ahead of him.
Doesn’t it always go to show — when you want a good spot it blows.
“Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.” Tyger is angrier than a disturbed
hive of bees. “Damned Damned asshole. Damn you motherfucker.”
(Watch that anger bro. He catches himself. It is not the end of the world
yet.)
Tyger must hang a Huey Long across the busy street, try
another spot. He quickly determines that this option is less than optimal.
Simply too much vehicular traffic. The picture is disrupted
each time a car passes through the camera. Damn yahoos.
Lingering like a bad case of flu, blown away like a puff
of wind along the levee, Tyger waits, watches in horror
wondering. “Is that guy going to move it this century?”
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he asks himself in passing.
Tyger leaves the video running. He walks around
the apartment complex to the rear parking lot. He notes
various vehicles, including a 1985 Ford Mustang, red, that comes
back later as registered to Mildred Baker’s ex-husband.
Further surveillance reveals that her teenage son drives it.
The youngest Baker guides his “ailing” mother as she glides
across the gravy train’s gilded tracks. As usual, it is all in the family.
Down the road a block sits a small shopping area where Tyger
buys a diet Mountain Dew at a market. He checks out the local
talent. After all, he will be returning this way again and
again and again or so Dorothy has foretold.
(Unfortunately, the talent wouldn’t even qualify for an
appearance on Ed McMahon’s “Star Search.”)
Tyger re-enters his personal mission control back at the
surveillance scene, and monitors video functions. All systems go,
baby, go — looking good. The secondary primary spot isn’t
half-bad if one ignores passing traffic.
Spot primo still would be best and thank you Lord a red
faced workman re-emerges. He moves his stinking truck. Tyger
immediately jockeys into the vacated place, motor control
focusing a very nice picture that spans from the entrance to the
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adjacent front lawn, then stalks away.
Now, the real challenge of this assignment. What to do for
three-and-a-half hours. Easier said than done. Sure beats working.
The wandering detective heads over to a nearby outdoors
mini-mall. He stops, looks, surveys landscape. Booooring.
Just a few nondescript local type shops, another less than
adequate market, and the Eastside Cinema Showcase, which for some
reason only screens second-run Hollywood movies at night.
Never mind. Lake Forest Shopping Center is a mile down the
road. Tyger knows he will find a slice of consumer paradise over
the wild blue yonder. There, over there, he like a fire flies, like a firefly alights.
Sure enough kiddies. There is a there there. In this case,
it is a lovely all weather under one roof shopping mall. A Sears
where America shops store anchors one end.
Maison Blanche Department Bore encloses the other side.
Another friendly 42 flavors of corporate consumer madness
also await the bah bah sheepskin shoppers. They are joined this
mid-day by Tyger Williams, none other, in the flash.
Tyger walks around for a while checking out prices.
Booooring. How do those cretins manage to buy anything?
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Life is the real real thing, babe, and this the first day of a
perpetual calendar dated for the moment March 1988
march march marching into spring. The top of Jackson Brewery rip-off
development dropped the ball, after all, signifying the end of 1987.
Another ball will drop this year as the shopping mall
stretches along timeless for a while. It is what it is
for this brain dead moment, waiting for the Baker plan to
formulate a mile down the road.
Dum de dum dum. Dum de dum dum. Musak drones along, filling,
shopping drones with money squandering wonder.
Truly, Tyger has chanced upon the ultimate heart of darkness.
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Tyger is the ultimate invisible man,
secret deus ex machina black box video surveillance system
running while he sits and ponders burning styroheads,
based on the theme of “Whatever Happened to the Nuclear Family.”
This should tell you something about his relative state. Here goes nothing.
Burning, burning, churning; styroheads are burning across
Lake Forest Mall. That horrible bio-nondegradable
styrofoam, smell of chemicals burning, their red and orange
faces, white heads melting and elongating
in equally terrible brown gooey pools.
Some of those styroheads had names, buddy.
Some, the panted awful art insignias being
official members of the non-aborted — darn —
nuclear family who sat for a short spell
inside Stinko’s window surrounded by
portraits of 10,000 red-and-orange
faces setting in the copy shop margins with
holocaust screams and barbecue smiles.
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So at the shopping mall, a Saints playoff lighter — you
know how that went — in one hand; a joint in another — dynamite
stuff, by the way straight from Vice-President Shrub’s personal
victory garden — a ceremonial flame leaps this way forward and
jumps back again in horror.
A sickly slick salesclerk looking like Nancy Ray-gun’s
hairdresser’s mother hops, skips, and jumps across the fake plant
walkway and out of her swarthy fatass irradiated skin rumbling,
bumbling, stumbling through the artificial colors … “
“Uhh sir, you o.k.?” a small mall security guard extra taps
Tyger on the shoulders. “Whaaaa?” Tyger replies, so rudely interrupted.
“Just noticed you been sitting here quite a while, and you know,
knocked over your cold drink.”
“Oh, right,” Tyger unleashed. “Sorry. What time do you have?”
“Little after 2 p.m.”
“Damn. I was waiting for my girl friend. Guess she’s late. Got to run.” ”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“O.K.”
A real meeting of the mindless transpiring. Tyger must pick
up the system, leaving the sublime emptiness of bogus commerce
for a more immediate future.
Have no fear Frau Baker. Tyger will be back like entropy
some coming space-time. Goody goody gumshoedrop.
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Back to more visible business for now.
He picks up his feet, stomping across the empty barren weed-filled,
and not in the good way, path back
to Morrison Road and the surveillance scene.
All looks normal. All seems well.
Hippety-hopping in the car, Tyger glances downward to check
the monitor and monitor the VCR. All systems continue to operate
properly. Looking good, mission control. Must blast off now.
Our dear Tyger boy therefore postulates that all subject
activity, if any, has been deliberately, indelibly, irrefutably
recorded. Say good day, Mildred.
‘Tis tape drop off at Dorothy’s home office. She isn’t there
Instead, she is consulting a professional about her
delicate condition. Her husband Jack Splat, some kind of vaguely
public servant, is available for tape delivery.
“Hey dude,” greets Jack, who has long brown hair tied back
in a pony tail. “How is it hanging?”
Tyger laughs at the silly question. “Great. Great. Hanging
like a kite, baby.” Jack jovial agrees to agree.
Something is missing from the scene. Finally it dawns on
Tyger. “Hey Jack. Where’s Poopsie?”
“That dumb bitch. She’s in the backyard. That is Dorothy’s
department. You know how those hormones get. Just keeping the
family peace. Know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah. Got to keep the boss happy.”
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“Definitely, dude. Care for ‘a cold drink?”
Jack is a nice guy in a weird way. Just stoopid.
“Got to run for now,” Tyger replies. “Beat the traffic.”
“I hear that. See you when I see you.” “Later.”
Dorothy calls the next day. “Good going Tyger. Baker and her
son piddled around the front for a while. Then they left in the
red Mustang. So we know she is keeping active. I’ll get with Joe.
We should go back on her later.
For now, we have a couple of cases for you to work next
week. Work Larry Gordon, white male, married, one child, 27 years
old, 1334 Yale Boulevard in Metairie.
He drives a beige Mercury Cougar, Louisiana License Number
213A356. His wife has a late-model red Mazda sports car
Louisiana License Number 65N901. Do that Monday from 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
Then get Reginald Alonzo Jones III, black male, 45 years old,
divorced, two children, 6522 Berkely — guess, that’s
street — Algiers. Work him Wednesday from 7 a.m. until noon .
“That should keep you busy for a while next week. Look over
the tapes when you finish and put everything in your report.
I’ll get back with you later on it.
Hopefully, Joe is O.K., and we can go gung-ho on Baker.
I’ve got another case, too, that I’ll give you. I am sure Joe
wants you back on Bingo LeBeouf.”
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“Like I told you before, he spoke with Mrs. Bingo and is
totally obsessed with that thorn in his side. It is definitely
personal between Joe and Bingo. Good versus evil.”
Just following orders, Tyger sets up on Gordon at the
appointed place and hour. He files the following report after
reviewing videotaped evidence:
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
On Monday March 7, 1988 at 7:15 a.m. the agent departed New
Orleans and proceeded to the Subject’s reported city of
residence. Where upon his arrival at 7:30 a.m. the agent
located the Subject’s residence which is a single family
blue painted wood with white trim dwelling. Parked in the
Subject’s driveway was a beige Mercury Cougar, Louisiana
License Number 213A356. The agent moved a safe distance from
the area and began his surveillance.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of the following activity was made.
At 10:05 a.m. a young white female, about 25 years old,
emerges from the residence with a small child followed by
activity of the child at the door. She leaves the area.
At 11:15 a.m. the young female returns.
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At 11:27 a.m. a young white male arrives.
At 11:31 a.m. a white male fitting the Subject’s description emerges from the residence with the small child, warms up the car and drives away.
At 11:48 a.m. another white female, in dark slacks and with beehive hair arrangement drives up and enters the residence. At 12:06 p.m. the white female in dark slacks speaks with an older white female at the door and leaves.
At 12:28 p.m. the older white female, the white female in slacks, and the white female presumed to be the Subject’s wife engage in activity around the front yard.
At 12:43 p.m. the Subject returns in the Mercury Cougar, emerges from the vehicle, checks the front mailbox, and goes inside.
At 1:43 p.m. and until 2:13 p.m. the Subject wearing a “World’s Greatest Dad” sweater stands in the residence’s doorway and sits on the Mercury Cougar until the tape ends.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 2:30 p.m. the agent returned to the surveillance scene, moved a safe distance from the area, and resumed his active surveillance. At 3:00 p.m. the Subject was observed washing his car. The
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Subject appeared to walk normally and showed no difficulty
while bending over during this activity.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of this activity was made.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 3:30 p.m. the previously noted older white female, young white female in slacks and beehive haircut, and Subject’s wife engaged in activity in and around the residence.
At 4:55 p.m. the Subject emerged from residence and walked around the yard. He appeared to be walking normally.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of this activity was made.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 5:15 p.m. the surveillance continues with negative activity.
At 5:30 p.m. not seeing the Subject again the agent ended his surveillance and returned back to New Orleans where upon his arrival at 5:45 p.m. he reviewed the Video recording and filed this report.
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The Gordon case nets Tyger 10.5 hours of investigative time
worth $126 plus $6 for 30 miles. Not a bad day’s work and some
good shots of Roberts activity.
The Jones case does not proceed quite as smoothly although,
thankfully, Tyger does not realize this until later. He sets up,
per instructions, at 7 a.m.
He sits at a nearby park, walking around the neighborhood
until about 10 a.m. while certain about to be mentioned
activity takes place.
All the while, Tyger lurks nearby behind a tree, next to a
car, or waiting at a bus stop keeping keeping close tabs with the
situation. He was authorized until noon but as Falstaff says,
discretion is the better part of valor.
This is a log he makes from the videotape after reviewing it later:
At 7:37 a.m. a black teenager takes trash can to garage door
and walks back to the front of the residence.
At 8:18 a.m. a black female who appears to be Jones’s
girlfriend emerges from the residence and walks by on the
street.
At 9:19-9:22 a.m. the black female walks by and around the
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surveillance vehicle.
At 9:31-9:35 a.m. the black female and black teenager
and another black person engage in activity around the
surveillance vehicle.
At 9:44 a.m. the Subject emerges from the residence and
walks by the surveillance vehicle on Berkely Street.
At 9:52 a.m. a New Orleans Police Department car drives
up to the surveillance vehicle and stops.
At 9:54 a.m. a male and female police officers walk around
the surveillance vehicle.
At 9:58 a.m. a close-up shot of the Subject as he speaks
with the police officers.
At 10:03 a.m. the Subject leaves the scene and returns to
his residence.
At 10:06 a.m. the police officers leave the scene.
And at 10:10 a.m., not noted on the log, Tyger jumps quickly
into his mother the car, zoom zoom zooming away. He does not even
look over his shoulder fearing the fate of Lot’s wife.
Can’t win ’em all. But Jones did appear to be moving
without any apparent neck pain. So, maybe all is not lost.
One never knows.
That’s shoe business.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
https://www.escondidograpevine.com/wp-admin/post-new.php
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Back to IRS Inc. business. Tyger swaps out
the car baby seat system for the deus ex machina
black box secret video surveillance system.
Tyger runs the system outside Mildred Baker’s New Orleans East apartment and
makes himself scarce at a local shopping mall, among other places.
Other cases are completed with official reports filed and shown in format.
Also, logs of tapes upon further review are revealed.
CHAPTERS 16
“IN A BLACK BOX”
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What a relief. Mardi Gras has been defeated.
Tyger is the happiest detective in town.
Now, he must retrieve the baby seat secret surveillance
system he had brought the previous week to Dorothy’s Oz.
Joe’s “man in Mobile” needed to do some extra tinkering
on the cute little critter.
Tyger drives over the river and through the swamp to the
wild wild West Bank of Marrero, pulling up to the modest suburban
one-level house that doubles as the IRS Inc. checkpoint.
He reaches for the front door.
Yip yip yap, Poopsie, doggone it. Sure enough, Dorothy
leads Tyger into the kitchen where they sit and drink coffee.
“I see you survived Mardi Gras,” begins Dorothy with the
traditional post-Carnival greeting. “Good. Joe’s technical guy is
still working on the baby seat, but we have another system for you to try out.
This one should work even better than the baby seat. It’s the black box.”
“Indeed,” Tyger replies curiously.
“Oh yeah. This looks good. I haven’t tried it yet, but Joe
says it works great. Let me show you the ropes.”
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They walk the few steps over to the beige carpeted
living area. Sure enough, a large square black wood box
rests beside the couch. That’s it, period, end of description.
It is a black box mounted by a metal bar with wires.
“You can use this just like the baby seat,” Dorothy continues.
“Mount the camera, operate the same motor control to move the bar.
Cover the camera up with this improved cloth cover.”
She produces said item from behind the couch, displaying it
with a small flourish to an appreciative Tyger.
“It is even more innocuous looking than the baby seat.
Rest of the set-up is standard procedure.”
“Cover looks like a rag doll” Tyger says. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
“Great,” Dorothy continues. “Joe wants you back on
Baker. She has moved to an apartment complex on Morrison Road.
Go there about 11 a.m. Check out the place. Leave the
system running until 2 p.m. and pick it up. We’ll look over
the tape, come up with a plan.
Baker is suing the insurance company for so much money that
expense is no object. You probably will get a whole lot of work
on this case in the coming months, so be ready for some fun.
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“We are also going back on LeBeouf. His wife called Joe the
other day, said she has a better way to catch Bingo. I don’t
know how much we can trust her, but Joe might want you to go up
there, and work on that.
We have a couple of cases locally and something in Houma
that Joe will work with you on, so you should be fairly busy the
next few weeks or so.”
“Hey, I can live with that,” Tyger notes. “Maybe I can make
enough money to buy that video editing system. I can definitely use the work.”
Tyger loads the bad black box into his car along with all the
accompanying video accoutrements. He drives by the conveniently
located Pho Tau Bay, sitting there for a while sipping a soothing
daytime Cafe Da — no sua.
Of course, the real purpose for this activity is to check
out the gorgeous Vietnamese girls who stop by, wisely spending
their social currency. Quite a few beautiful dishes aren’t even
on the Viet Nam map adorned plates;
If only they knew an intrepid detective nearby psychically
projects to them as they laugh and smile sweetly. Ahhh, dream on, y’all.
Oh well, such is life. Is it ever fair? Or only foul?
Tyger seems out of place and out of time.
A pleasant diversion passes too quickly.
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Check, please. Tyger returns home to spend the rest of the
day alone before setting on Baker tomorrow. So it goes.
The next six weeks bring with them as baggage the
aforementioned investigative assignments to which we shall soon
turn our limited attention spans. Tyger is about to join the
black box, catch as catch can, deus ex machina investigating circuit.
Besides belaboring the soon to be obvious, Tyger’s life is
quite devoid of diversions. Sure, he watches the usual amount of
television: various cable movies, soap operas, and the odd ice
hockey match. However, there is nary a football nor
baseball game in sight. Boooring.
Tyger’s life revolves around the usual friendly chit-chat
cycle. He visits occasionally with Armor’s, Mac, and the various
cast of characters whom you have met including Sandy Alexander
and even Nick Bowers.
Mr. Milty, rumored to be in the neighborhood, is nowhere to
be found. Various telephone messages remain unreturned.
Will Milty reappear again some day?
Only the shadow knows. Milty usually turns up when one
least expects it like a demented Candid Camera episode. It has
happened before. Perhaps it will happen again.
Or maybe the estranged post-toasty girl friend who has been
hassling Tyger for Mr. Milty information will hire a detective to
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find the wandering vagabond artist. Tyger is unavailable for the near term.
All that and matters great and small — mainly small —
are beside the immediate discussion of events transpiring in
late February to March 1988.
Tyger is all business these days. He doesn’t know
when the gravy train will end. work is available. However, Joe
Fine has been acting a bit odd lately.
Little things perhaps invisible to the naked eye, but the
strictly observant have been catching a definite drift.
Tyger is not the only interested party who has noticed that the
party might end at any moment.
Joe Fine has been in less frequent contact with Dorothy as
well, so it is not just an overly paranoid imagination, although
that helps. Dorothy mentions on the telephone that she has had to
get on Joe Fine’s case lately to keep the caseload rolling.
“I don’t know what is eating him,” she relates to an anxious Tyger.
“We have a good thing going and he seems very lethargic .
He has been complaining a lot lately about his little
snots.” She laughs. “I’ve met his wife who is a total bitch.
Maybe he is a little distracted right now.
I am certainly trying to keep him focused, because I need
the work too. You are not the only one. Hopefully things will work out.”
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Uh-oh. The gig is a happening for now. How long can it last?
Que lastima not to continue. Such great money. In fact,
recently Dorothy has raised his salary to the princely sum of $12 an hour,
twice as much as one could make in another job dead ended.
It has been…real? Well, it has been fun.
“Hope Joe Fine maintains his mental condition,” Tyger tells Dorothy.
“Been getting into this lately.”
“I know what you mean,” Dorothy replies. “Like I said. We’ve got a good thing going.
Hate for Joe to blow it. Guess he is suffering a little crisis of confidence.
Hopefully, that will blow over soon.”
Fortified by black coffee, straight no chaser,
Tyger sails alongside future ships, tacking east with the black box
until he has navigated to Mildred Baker’s sleazy shores.
Little Miss Muffet is living in a small New Orleans East
apartment complex tuffet. Locked front gate separates
the middle class wheat inside from the criminal chaff
that has overtaken New Orleans in recent years.
(It is beginning to look more like Beirut around here every day.)
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Tyger drives up and down Morrison Road in a holding pattern
checking the area for the best surveillance site. Piece of cake,
actually, which Tyger has no problem digesting. He can set up in
any of two, or three, places for optimal effect; three, or four, others if necessary.
Prime spots squarely face the front gate that is the only
apparent entrance to the Sea Breeze Apartment Complex, so-called.
No problem.
Tyger is about to pull into prime spot number one when,
surprise surprise, a large black truck pulls in ahead of him.
Doesn’t it always go to show — when you want a good spot it blows.
“Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.” Tyger is angrier than a disturbed
hive of bees. “Damned Damned asshole. Damn you motherfucker.”
(Watch that anger bro. He catches himself. It is not the end of the world
yet.)
Tyger must hang a Huey Long across the busy street, try
another spot. He quickly determines that this option is less than optimal.
Simply too much vehicular traffic. The picture is disrupted
each time a car passes through the camera. Damn yahoos.
Lingering like a bad case of flu, blown away like a puff
of wind along the levee, Tyger waits, watches in horror
wondering. “Is that guy going to move it this century?”
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he asks himself in passing.
Tyger leaves the video running. He walks around
the apartment complex to the rear parking lot. He notes
various vehicles, including a 1985 Ford Mustang, red, that comes
back later as registered to Mildred Baker’s ex-husband.
Further surveillance reveals that her teenage son drives it.
The youngest Baker guides his “ailing” mother as she glides
across the gravy train’s gilded tracks. As usual, it is all in the family.
Down the road a block sits a small shopping area where Tyger
buys a diet Mountain Dew at a market. He checks out the local
talent. After all, he will be returning this way again and
again and again or so Dorothy has foretold.
(Unfortunately, the talent wouldn’t even qualify for an
appearance on Ed McMahon’s “Star Search.”)
Tyger re-enters his personal mission control back at the
surveillance scene, and monitors video functions. All systems go,
baby, go — looking good. The secondary primary spot isn’t
half-bad if one ignores passing traffic.
Spot primo still would be best and thank you Lord a red
faced workman re-emerges. He moves his stinking truck. Tyger
immediately jockeys into the vacated place, motor control
focusing a very nice picture that spans from the entrance to the
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adjacent front lawn, then stalks away.
Now, the real challenge of this assignment. What to do for
three-and-a-half hours. Easier said than done. Sure beats working.
The wandering detective heads over to a nearby outdoors
mini-mall. He stops, looks, surveys landscape. Booooring.
Just a few nondescript local type shops, another less than
adequate market, and the Eastside Cinema Showcase, which for some
reason only screens second-run Hollywood movies at night.
Never mind. Lake Forest Shopping Center is a mile down the
road. Tyger knows he will find a slice of consumer paradise over
the wild blue yonder. There, over there, he like a fire flies, like a firefly alights.
Sure enough kiddies. There is a there there. In this case,
it is a lovely all weather under one roof shopping mall. A Sears
where America shops store anchors one end.
Maison Blanche Department Bore encloses the other side.
Another friendly 42 flavors of corporate consumer madness
also await the bah bah sheepskin shoppers. They are joined this
mid-day by Tyger Williams, none other, in the flash.
Tyger walks around for a while checking out prices.
Booooring. How do those cretins manage to buy anything?
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Life is the real real thing, babe, and this the first day of a
perpetual calendar dated for the moment March 1988
march march marching into spring. The top of Jackson Brewery rip-off
development dropped the ball, after all, signifying the end of 1987.
Another ball will drop this year as the shopping mall
stretches along timeless for a while. It is what it is
for this brain dead moment, waiting for the Baker plan to
formulate a mile down the road.
Dum de dum dum. Dum de dum dum. Musak drones along, filling,
shopping drones with money squandering wonder.
Truly, Tyger has chanced upon the ultimate heart of darkness.
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Tyger is the ultimate invisible man,
secret deus ex machina black box video surveillance system
running while he sits and ponders burning styroheads,
based on the theme of “Whatever Happened to the Nuclear Family.”
This should tell you something about his relative state. Here goes nothing.
Burning, burning, churning; styroheads are burning across
Lake Forest Mall. That horrible bio-nondegradable
styrofoam, smell of chemicals burning, their red and orange
faces, white heads melting and elongating
in equally terrible brown gooey pools.
Some of those styroheads had names, buddy.
Some, the panted awful art insignias being
official members of the non-aborted — darn —
nuclear family who sat for a short spell
inside Stinko’s window surrounded by
portraits of 10,000 red-and-orange
faces setting in the copy shop margins with
holocaust screams and barbecue smiles.
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So at the shopping mall, a Saints playoff lighter — you
know how that went — in one hand; a joint in another — dynamite
stuff, by the way straight from Vice-President Shrub’s personal
victory garden — a ceremonial flame leaps this way forward and
jumps back again in horror.
A sickly slick salesclerk looking like Nancy Ray-gun’s
hairdresser’s mother hops, skips, and jumps across the fake plant
walkway and out of her swarthy fatass irradiated skin rumbling,
bumbling, stumbling through the artificial colors … “
“Uhh sir, you o.k.?” a small mall security guard extra taps
Tyger on the shoulders. “Whaaaa?” Tyger replies, so rudely interrupted.
“Just noticed you been sitting here quite a while, and you know,
knocked over your cold drink.”
“Oh, right,” Tyger unleashed. “Sorry. What time do you have?”
“Little after 2 p.m.”
“Damn. I was waiting for my girl friend. Guess she’s late. Got to run.” ”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
“O.K.”
A real meeting of the mindless transpiring. Tyger must pick
up the system, leaving the sublime emptiness of bogus commerce
for a more immediate future.
Have no fear Frau Baker. Tyger will be back like entropy
some coming space-time. Goody goody gumshoedrop.
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Back to more visible business for now.
He picks up his feet, stomping across the empty barren weed-filled,
and not in the good way, path back
to Morrison Road and the surveillance scene.
All looks normal. All seems well.
Hippety-hopping in the car, Tyger glances downward to check
the monitor and monitor the VCR. All systems continue to operate
properly. Looking good, mission control. Must blast off now.
Our dear Tyger boy therefore postulates that all subject
activity, if any, has been deliberately, indelibly, irrefutably
recorded. Say good day, Mildred.
‘Tis tape drop off at Dorothy’s home office. She isn’t there
Instead, she is consulting a professional about her
delicate condition. Her husband Jack Splat, some kind of vaguely
public servant, is available for tape delivery.
“Hey dude,” greets Jack, who has long brown hair tied back
in a pony tail. “How is it hanging?”
Tyger laughs at the silly question. “Great. Great. Hanging
like a kite, baby.” Jack jovial agrees to agree.
Something is missing from the scene. Finally it dawns on
Tyger. “Hey Jack. Where’s Poopsie?”
“That dumb bitch. She’s in the backyard. That is Dorothy’s
department. You know how those hormones get. Just keeping the
family peace. Know what I mean?”
“Oh, yeah. Got to keep the boss happy.”
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“Definitely, dude. Care for ‘a cold drink?”
Jack is a nice guy in a weird way. Just stoopid.
“Got to run for now,” Tyger replies. “Beat the traffic.”
“I hear that. See you when I see you.” “Later.”
Dorothy calls the next day. “Good going Tyger. Baker and her
son piddled around the front for a while. Then they left in the
red Mustang. So we know she is keeping active. I’ll get with Joe.
We should go back on her later.
For now, we have a couple of cases for you to work next
week. Work Larry Gordon, white male, married, one child, 27 years
old, 1334 Yale Boulevard in Metairie.
He drives a beige Mercury Cougar, Louisiana License Number
213A356. His wife has a late-model red Mazda sports car
Louisiana License Number 65N901. Do that Monday from 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m.
Then get Reginald Alonzo Jones III, black male, 45 years old,
divorced, two children, 6522 Berkely — guess, that’s
street — Algiers. Work him Wednesday from 7 a.m. until noon .
“That should keep you busy for a while next week. Look over
the tapes when you finish and put everything in your report.
I’ll get back with you later on it.
Hopefully, Joe is O.K., and we can go gung-ho on Baker.
I’ve got another case, too, that I’ll give you. I am sure Joe
wants you back on Bingo LeBeouf.”
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“Like I told you before, he spoke with Mrs. Bingo and is
totally obsessed with that thorn in his side. It is definitely
personal between Joe and Bingo. Good versus evil.”
Just following orders, Tyger sets up on Gordon at the
appointed place and hour. He files the following report after
reviewing videotaped evidence:
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
On Monday March 7, 1988 at 7:15 a.m. the agent departed New
Orleans and proceeded to the Subject’s reported city of
residence. Where upon his arrival at 7:30 a.m. the agent
located the Subject’s residence which is a single family
blue painted wood with white trim dwelling. Parked in the
Subject’s driveway was a beige Mercury Cougar, Louisiana
License Number 213A356. The agent moved a safe distance from
the area and began his surveillance.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of the following activity was made.
At 10:05 a.m. a young white female, about 25 years old,
emerges from the residence with a small child followed by
activity of the child at the door. She leaves the area.
At 11:15 a.m. the young female returns.
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At 11:27 a.m. a young white male arrives.
At 11:31 a.m. a white male fitting the Subject’s description emerges from the residence with the small child, warms up the car and drives away.
At 11:48 a.m. another white female, in dark slacks and with beehive hair arrangement drives up and enters the residence. At 12:06 p.m. the white female in dark slacks speaks with an older white female at the door and leaves.
At 12:28 p.m. the older white female, the white female in slacks, and the white female presumed to be the Subject’s wife engage in activity around the front yard.
At 12:43 p.m. the Subject returns in the Mercury Cougar, emerges from the vehicle, checks the front mailbox, and goes inside.
At 1:43 p.m. and until 2:13 p.m. the Subject wearing a “World’s Greatest Dad” sweater stands in the residence’s doorway and sits on the Mercury Cougar until the tape ends.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 2:30 p.m. the agent returned to the surveillance scene, moved a safe distance from the area, and resumed his active surveillance. At 3:00 p.m. the Subject was observed washing his car. The
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Subject appeared to walk normally and showed no difficulty
while bending over during this activity.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of this activity was made.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 3:30 p.m. the previously noted older white female, young white female in slacks and beehive haircut, and Subject’s wife engaged in activity in and around the residence.
At 4:55 p.m. the Subject emerged from residence and walked around the yard. He appeared to be walking normally.
INVESTIGATORS NOTE:
A Video recording of this activity was made.
DETAILS OF INVESTIGATION:
At 5:15 p.m. the surveillance continues with negative activity.
At 5:30 p.m. not seeing the Subject again the agent ended his surveillance and returned back to New Orleans where upon his arrival at 5:45 p.m. he reviewed the Video recording and filed this report.
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The Gordon case nets Tyger 10.5 hours of investigative time
worth $126 plus $6 for 30 miles. Not a bad day’s work and some
good shots of Roberts activity.
The Jones case does not proceed quite as smoothly although,
thankfully, Tyger does not realize this until later. He sets up,
per instructions, at 7 a.m.
He sits at a nearby park, walking around the neighborhood
until about 10 a.m. while certain about to be mentioned
activity takes place.
All the while, Tyger lurks nearby behind a tree, next to a
car, or waiting at a bus stop keeping keeping close tabs with the
situation. He was authorized until noon but as Falstaff says,
discretion is the better part of valor.
This is a log he makes from the videotape after reviewing it later:
At 7:37 a.m. a black teenager takes trash can to garage door
and walks back to the front of the residence.
At 8:18 a.m. a black female who appears to be Jones’s
girlfriend emerges from the residence and walks by on the
street.
At 9:19-9:22 a.m. the black female walks by and around the
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surveillance vehicle.
At 9:31-9:35 a.m. the black female and black teenager
and another black person engage in activity around the
surveillance vehicle.
At 9:44 a.m. the Subject emerges from the residence and
walks by the surveillance vehicle on Berkely Street.
At 9:52 a.m. a New Orleans Police Department car drives
up to the surveillance vehicle and stops.
At 9:54 a.m. a male and female police officers walk around
the surveillance vehicle.
At 9:58 a.m. a close-up shot of the Subject as he speaks
with the police officers.
At 10:03 a.m. the Subject leaves the scene and returns to
his residence.
At 10:06 a.m. the police officers leave the scene.
And at 10:10 a.m., not noted on the log, Tyger jumps quickly
into his mother the car, zoom zoom zooming away. He does not even
look over his shoulder fearing the fate of Lot’s wife.
Can’t win ’em all. But Jones did appear to be moving
without any apparent neck pain. So, maybe all is not lost.
One never knows.
That’s shoe business.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tyger proceeds on a perilous assignment
in the urban ghetto that results
in a series of strange and surprising events.
CHAPTER 17
“Through a Glass Darkly”
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Dark, dark, dark as night are Tyger’s true love’s eyes.
Long black hair flowing over soft white shoulders
as a long white dress falls to his lover’s ankles.
“I feel shitty. I feel shitty. I feel shitty, not witty and gay, I feel shitty … ”
Smack, clack, back to reality calling.
Why does Mr. Milty play that stuff?
Some obscenely obscure pseudo comedian
upsets his WTUL morning wake-up show apple cart.
Just what the 5:45 a.m. get-out of-bed-you-fucking-dead-head
crowd needs to get it in the mood for another stand grand.
Let’s hear it: Yaaay–Blubber!
A minor morning mission has been relayed down
the chain chain chain gang of command.
Tyger pursues the matter as he spins
The wheel of misfortune, i.e. his social life.
Ah, that dark haired girl in the virginal white outfit
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otherwise known as Elena Godchaux, a buxom and
darkly beautiful daughter of the Vermillion Parish District Attorney.
She prepped at private schools in Switzerland
Before a turn at Swarthmore College.
“You can’t always get what you want,”
blares the singing stones on Mr. Milty’s radio aberration,
“but if you try sometimes you get what you…”
Hahaha. Maybe if you are Mick Jagger.
Not this boy. Certainly not this time of day.
“It’s 6 o’clock in the what is it,” says Mr. Milty,
“A.M., I guess, been up all night, so what does it matter.”
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And then, there is the case of bird-like Mitzy Maharis from
Gulfport, Mississippi with shocking red locks falling to her
small thin waist. She suffers Tyger sadly, paying all her tribute
to a simp of a musician with an I.Q. lower than his shoe size.
Oh well, what the hell Tyger must fly across town to an
all African-American section nearby in Uptown.
Suffice it to note for the purposes of breakfast recreation
that it doesn’t matter what Tyger does or says because nothing
always comes of nothing.
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Hope, as the saying goes, springs eternal.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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planet longing.
Somewhere in a frozen glare; Floats a vision, winter airs;
Opining how lithe blue birds sing; Dark brown eyes, lovely things;
Bump, glide lightly through the night.
“Fly, fly my dove this way; Thoughts of family, funny faces;
Verandas where children rise or fall; By longing lakes with
sparkling shores; Memory heavenly days recall.
“Somewhere as I stand to gaze; Dreaming in a golden haze;
Blueing seas of white clouds face; Second Law of Thermodynamics;
You are flying home, I care.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Lingering somewhat too long on such a beautiful series of insights,
Tyger scurries to get his act together,
quickly loading the black box system in his car,
setting up, and heading for a world mundane
to finish off a more earthly mission and grab some
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fraudulent claimant evidentiary.
Dreams are nice as long as they last.
However, even dreamers need to earn a living
thereby to sanctify the time spent in dream state contemplation.
Catch the drift, comrades?
Were the world but a series of philosophical allusions
it would be a better place. Alas, we must vamoose after targets
more concrete lying strewn among urban ruins and
massively pot-holed streets of N’awlins Uptown.
Somewhere the sun is shining.
Somewhere philosopher kings squat by cracker barrels
solving Boethian equations.
Elders speak as children laugh and play.
Every passing object in such a lasting plain
exhibits pastel color and enticing shade.
Beauty flows from such sweet moments
Possibly, you have visited such a magical land.
You then, better than Tyger Willams, can describe
the velocity and mass of this conception.
Tyger now drives along Annunciation Street
careful not to announce his sneaky, yet sanctified by law intentions.
Grover McMillan is the momentary subject oblivious
to the looming rain clouds threatening his pathetic parade.
No doubt Grover is sleeping and dreaming, too,
although his dreams are possibly more mundane;
listening to bad rap music, screwing some black bimbo
behind the Ernst Cafe.
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Grover squats in the on-deck circle awaiting his last turn
at bat. Tyger brings to bear the proper black box sub rosa
surveillance system with which to umpire Grover’s insurance claim.
Tyger drifts as the cloud state these final moments covered
by darkness before dawn where ghosts walk disguised as men.
He drives through progressively worsening neighborhoods, past
Nashville Avenue and its wharves, past the sea wall.
He sees beyond each intersection, Napoleon Avenue and
Tipitina’s, pulling up lame within a few blocks of Washington Avenue.
Abandoned buildings to the left and smashed glass strewn vacant lots to the right.
Onward rides the Tyger brigade.
Horrible excuses for the passage of streets apologize half in jest.
The joke is on those who must daily trek past this slice of Soweto apartheid in enlightened Lousyiana.
It is not quite 6:30 in the a.m. as Mr. Milty continues to taunt his audience of one,
which resembles Tyger in this case.
Who the hell else could be listening to Mr. Milty’s drivel at the break of dawn?
“Hey there, Ho there, I’m as happy as can be…”
Blah blah blah, just keep it up baby. Tyger has your telephone number.
Milty crazy-quilt spins his favorite Robyn Hitchcock diatribe:
“My Wife and My Dead Wife.” The classical music for zombies show
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doesn’t begin until 7 a.m. so, until that time, get used to it folks,
Mr. Milty’s insanity rules, running wild with the yawning dawn.
Those darn Miltyriffic musical and rhetorical selections
have jogged Tyger’s brainless waves quite enough this caustic morning
causing him to lose his sense of purpose and concentration.
“Am I still in New Orleans,” he asks the invisible face radio station Milty,
“or is this hell?” Hmmm.
Tyger has risen this dawn on the proverbial wrong side of
the tracks. He takes an early morning zombie stumble down a brightening path.
A shadow follows his unsteady gait, suspended in that fifth force some mistake for wind.
A beautiful dancer with long black hair tied in a pony tail,
Spanish surname to boot, gallops around his heels
snapping her fingers flamenco style,
like a moth fluttering to out damned spot along a wasted avenue.
A cloudy day emerges.
Tyger looks around the immediate vicinity,
noticing a scene unusual. It is the crack of dawn.
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Speaking of crack, this place is crawling with scary looking
subjects both potential and actual. What the say hey?
They all fit the description of Grover Mcmuffin McMillan.
Shit on toast. What is a detective to do? Where does that motherfucker live?
Tyger checks his legal pad notes. 1674 Annunciation. Check. O.K. There it is.
Unfortunately, being of a minority, for here, color, Tyger sticks out like a strange beast.
Tyger focuses on the subject’s reported residence and runs the camera.
Then, he pops open the front hood and embarks on good old Plan “A.”
Which is to say Tyger embraces that dear friend of the uneasy investigator,
bogus car trouble. It seems a very plausible cover to maintain with the beat to a pulp
beyond disbelief muffler-dead wreck as visual back-up.
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The entire hood — and by this we mean nay-bore, not car borne —
seems over-run by lost and lonely souls
escaping ramshackle shotgun houses,
engaging in all varieties of exotic activity
while Tyger tries to do his job.
This baby is a bitch already,
about to be thrown out with the bath water.
Standing by the car hood going the full measure of
shaking his head and looking faux confused,
Tyger realizes that he is the object of intense scrutiny.
He can hear the black block surmise.
“Who, or what, is that ofay guy?
What the fuck is he doing here? He a pig?
Hey man, you in the wrong neighborhood.
What you say. Where you think you at.”
So forth and so on.
Tyger has seen “Taxi Driver” a dozen times.
He strikes the “You talking to me?” attitude.
“Hey boy. A nice white boy like you should not be around a place like this,” a black voice states.
“What you think you doing, boy? You a cop?”
“No, no, no,” Tyger goes Nancy Ray-Gun on psychotropic drugs.
“This damn car always gives me the heebie jeebies.
Maybe, the plugs have popped or something.
Don’t know much about geometry, and automobile mechanics.”
Thin black dude with gold tooth reflecting the sun
Darting between clouds on a semi-cloudy day, says,
“Well, boy, I don’t know.
This might not be the place to be checking that out.”
Looking around the corner for back-up that never will come,
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Tyger must exit the playing field.
“Yeah, you right,” he says.
Suddenly, Tyger broaches a bright idea
breaking through angry clouds.
“Look man, I’m going to have to call a tow truck.
Will you make sure nothing happens to my car if I give you a couple of bucks?”
“Hey, I can handle that,” the gold-tooth guy notes, grinning slyly.
“Forget about the money, boy.
I can watch it for a little while.
But, I strongly urge you to get it out of here as soon as possible.”
He points with a grand sweeping gesture at the two heaps,
abandoned and stripped heaps down at the end of the corner.
“Know what I mean?”
“No kidding. Believe I do,” Tyger replies. “Back in a few.”
“Don’t tarry now, my fine white friend.
I have to go to the food stamp office at 9 a.m.
Can’t vouch for after that.”
“No problem, back long before then.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Good news-bad news, then.
Tyger has bought some time for the system to operate.
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On the other hand, everybody fits the description of subject McMuffin.
No getting to the bottom of this barrel.
Just a matter of running the system as long as possible.
Dorothy can look at the replay later,
maybe make some sense of it.
For now, Tyger is concerned about his car’s safety,
more than his own.
It might be a beat-up horrible wreck, but it is also all he has.
He never could afford another one.
Probably, the vehicle is saved
from the ultimate humiliation of final dismantlement
by the irrefutable fact
that it is in only slightly better exterior shape
than the other urban blights
littering this beatific neighborhood.
Fortuna smiles. This dude is a Saints fan.
Buying overtime, and a vowel Vanna,
Tyger engages in 15 minutes of Saints talk.
“Who Dat?” “Who Dat” “Who Dat say
dey gonna beat dem Saints.”.
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“Crummy playoff game,” Tyger rap-plies, “Wish the Pope
had blessed them all the way to at least one playoff win.
The guy appreciates such biting wit, and ·laughs in an uproar,
“Yeah yeah yeah man. Dem damn Saints. Always get you in the end.
We get ’em next time.”
Tyger, however, does have a tow truck to call.
He takes his leave, walks through the mean long streets
over to a telephone at the curb of Tchopitoulas Street and Washington Avenue
to check in with Dorothy control.
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“I was afraid of that,” Dorothy concludes after
being apprised of the situation.
” I wasn’t quite sure what the
neighborhood was like, but was hoping for the best.
Are you sure your car is alright.”
“Pretty sure,” Tyger says. “I believe that guy is
good to go. Seems quite respectable. I feel like I can
leave it there for another half-hour or so, then pick it up,”
“Sounds good, but don’t take any unnecessary chances,”
Dorothy continues. “Whenever you feel too uncomfortable don’t
hesitate to get the car out of there, Probably McKinley, er McMillan,
all his peeps live there. We’ll have to assign a black investigator to this case
another time.I’ve worked the projects before. Know exactly what you
are going through. Do the best you can. Drop off the videotape
when you’re finished. We’re going to get you back on LeBeouf,
and Joe Fine has something he wants you to work on with him in Houma.”
That same old hard to shake cold, Tyger bacteria lingers
outside the recreational center waiting for his medication to
work. He takes a few dozen deep breaths, returning to the scene
of the grime about 8:30 a.m.
Strange how that neighborhood’s dynamics work.
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Nobody is around. Les place is a deserted ghost town.
The proverbial light bulb appears as in a cartoon caricature
above dear Tyger’s head.
Party people persons were up (to no good) all night.
The urban street sprawl funfest was just winding down
when Tyger made his uninvited entrance.
Ahhh. That’s the ticket.
It would have gone much smoother
had he known which potholes to avoid.
Tyger files this point away for future reference.
Then, the dinky detective walks the ofay walk,
talks the ofay talk, and dances a final waltz.
He whistles an itty bitty ibby ditty song of relief, pops the hood,
checking for a good last measure.
No car problems here.
Finally, terrible Tyger spirits away the mere two miles
back to the relative comfort and safety of white man’s paradise
set like an island in the overflowing ocean
of two-thirds black New Orleans.
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tyger proceeds on a perilous assignment
in the urban ghetto that results
in a series of strange and surprising events.
CHAPTER 17
“Through a Glass Darkly”
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Dark, dark, dark as night are Tyger’s true love’s eyes.
Long black hair flowing over soft white shoulders
as a long white dress falls to his lover’s ankles.
“I feel shitty. I feel shitty. I feel shitty, not witty and gay, I feel shitty … ”
Smack, clack, back to reality calling.
Why does Mr. Milty play that stuff?
Some obscenely obscure pseudo comedian
upsets his WTUL morning wake-up show apple cart.
Just what the 5:45 a.m. get-out of-bed-you-fucking-dead-head
crowd needs to get it in the mood for another stand grand.
Let’s hear it: Yaaay–Blubber!
A minor morning mission has been relayed down
the chain chain chain gang of command.
Tyger pursues the matter as he spins
The wheel of misfortune, i.e. his social life.
Ah, that dark haired girl in the virginal white outfit
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otherwise known as Elena Godchaux, a buxom and
darkly beautiful daughter of the Vermillion Parish District Attorney.
She prepped at private schools in Switzerland
Before a turn at Swarthmore College.
“You can’t always get what you want,”
blares the singing stones on Mr. Milty’s radio aberration,
“but if you try sometimes you get what you…”
Hahaha. Maybe if you are Mick Jagger.
Not this boy. Certainly not this time of day.
“It’s 6 o’clock in the what is it,” says Mr. Milty,
“A.M., I guess, been up all night, so what does it matter.”
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And then, there is the case of bird-like Mitzy Maharis from
Gulfport, Mississippi with shocking red locks falling to her
small thin waist. She suffers Tyger sadly, paying all her tribute
to a simp of a musician with an I.Q. lower than his shoe size.
Oh well, what the hell Tyger must fly across town to an
all African-American section nearby in Uptown.
Suffice it to note for the purposes of breakfast recreation
that it doesn’t matter what Tyger does or says because nothing
always comes of nothing.
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Hope, as the saying goes, springs eternal.
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planet longing.
Somewhere in a frozen glare; Floats a vision, winter airs;
Opining how lithe blue birds sing; Dark brown eyes, lovely things;
Bump, glide lightly through the night.
“Fly, fly my dove this way; Thoughts of family, funny faces;
Verandas where children rise or fall; By longing lakes with
sparkling shores; Memory heavenly days recall.
“Somewhere as I stand to gaze; Dreaming in a golden haze;
Blueing seas of white clouds face; Second Law of Thermodynamics;
You are flying home, I care.
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Lingering somewhat too long on such a beautiful series of insights,
Tyger scurries to get his act together,
quickly loading the black box system in his car,
setting up, and heading for a world mundane
to finish off a more earthly mission and grab some
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fraudulent claimant evidentiary.
Dreams are nice as long as they last.
However, even dreamers need to earn a living
thereby to sanctify the time spent in dream state contemplation.
Catch the drift, comrades?
Were the world but a series of philosophical allusions
it would be a better place. Alas, we must vamoose after targets
more concrete lying strewn among urban ruins and
massively pot-holed streets of N’awlins Uptown.
Somewhere the sun is shining.
Somewhere philosopher kings squat by cracker barrels
solving Boethian equations.
Elders speak as children laugh and play.
Every passing object in such a lasting plain
exhibits pastel color and enticing shade.
Beauty flows from such sweet moments
Possibly, you have visited such a magical land.
You then, better than Tyger Willams, can describe
the velocity and mass of this conception.
Tyger now drives along Annunciation Street
careful not to announce his sneaky, yet sanctified by law intentions.
Grover McMillan is the momentary subject oblivious
to the looming rain clouds threatening his pathetic parade.
No doubt Grover is sleeping and dreaming, too,
although his dreams are possibly more mundane;
listening to bad rap music, screwing some black bimbo
behind the Ernst Cafe.
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Grover squats in the on-deck circle awaiting his last turn
at bat. Tyger brings to bear the proper black box sub rosa
surveillance system with which to umpire Grover’s insurance claim.
Tyger drifts as the cloud state these final moments covered
by darkness before dawn where ghosts walk disguised as men.
He drives through progressively worsening neighborhoods, past
Nashville Avenue and its wharves, past the sea wall.
He sees beyond each intersection, Napoleon Avenue and
Tipitina’s, pulling up lame within a few blocks of Washington Avenue.
Abandoned buildings to the left and smashed glass strewn vacant lots to the right.
Onward rides the Tyger brigade.
Horrible excuses for the passage of streets apologize half in jest.
The joke is on those who must daily trek past this slice of Soweto apartheid in enlightened Lousyiana.
It is not quite 6:30 in the a.m. as Mr. Milty continues to taunt his audience of one,
which resembles Tyger in this case.
Who the hell else could be listening to Mr. Milty’s drivel at the break of dawn?
“Hey there, Ho there, I’m as happy as can be…”
Blah blah blah, just keep it up baby. Tyger has your telephone number.
Milty crazy-quilt spins his favorite Robyn Hitchcock diatribe:
“My Wife and My Dead Wife.” The classical music for zombies show
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doesn’t begin until 7 a.m. so, until that time, get used to it folks,
Mr. Milty’s insanity rules, running wild with the yawning dawn.
Those darn Miltyriffic musical and rhetorical selections
have jogged Tyger’s brainless waves quite enough this caustic morning
causing him to lose his sense of purpose and concentration.
“Am I still in New Orleans,” he asks the invisible face radio station Milty,
“or is this hell?” Hmmm.
Tyger has risen this dawn on the proverbial wrong side of
the tracks. He takes an early morning zombie stumble down a brightening path.
A shadow follows his unsteady gait, suspended in that fifth force some mistake for wind.
A beautiful dancer with long black hair tied in a pony tail,
Spanish surname to boot, gallops around his heels
snapping her fingers flamenco style,
like a moth fluttering to out damned spot along a wasted avenue.
A cloudy day emerges.
Tyger looks around the immediate vicinity,
noticing a scene unusual. It is the crack of dawn.
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Speaking of crack, this place is crawling with scary looking
subjects both potential and actual. What the say hey?
They all fit the description of Grover Mcmuffin McMillan.
Shit on toast. What is a detective to do? Where does that motherfucker live?
Tyger checks his legal pad notes. 1674 Annunciation. Check. O.K. There it is.
Unfortunately, being of a minority, for here, color, Tyger sticks out like a strange beast.
Tyger focuses on the subject’s reported residence and runs the camera.
Then, he pops open the front hood and embarks on good old Plan “A.”
Which is to say Tyger embraces that dear friend of the uneasy investigator,
bogus car trouble. It seems a very plausible cover to maintain with the beat to a pulp
beyond disbelief muffler-dead wreck as visual back-up.
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The entire hood — and by this we mean nay-bore, not car borne —
seems over-run by lost and lonely souls
escaping ramshackle shotgun houses,
engaging in all varieties of exotic activity
while Tyger tries to do his job.
This baby is a bitch already,
about to be thrown out with the bath water.
Standing by the car hood going the full measure of
shaking his head and looking faux confused,
Tyger realizes that he is the object of intense scrutiny.
He can hear the black block surmise.
“Who, or what, is that ofay guy?
What the fuck is he doing here? He a pig?
Hey man, you in the wrong neighborhood.
What you say. Where you think you at.”
So forth and so on.
Tyger has seen “Taxi Driver” a dozen times.
He strikes the “You talking to me?” attitude.
“Hey boy. A nice white boy like you should not be around a place like this,” a black voice states.
“What you think you doing, boy? You a cop?”
“No, no, no,” Tyger goes Nancy Ray-Gun on psychotropic drugs.
“This damn car always gives me the heebie jeebies.
Maybe, the plugs have popped or something.
Don’t know much about geometry, and automobile mechanics.”
Thin black dude with gold tooth reflecting the sun
Darting between clouds on a semi-cloudy day, says,
“Well, boy, I don’t know.
This might not be the place to be checking that out.”
Looking around the corner for back-up that never will come,
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Tyger must exit the playing field.
“Yeah, you right,” he says.
Suddenly, Tyger broaches a bright idea
breaking through angry clouds.
“Look man, I’m going to have to call a tow truck.
Will you make sure nothing happens to my car if I give you a couple of bucks?”
“Hey, I can handle that,” the gold-tooth guy notes, grinning slyly.
“Forget about the money, boy.
I can watch it for a little while.
But, I strongly urge you to get it out of here as soon as possible.”
He points with a grand sweeping gesture at the two heaps,
abandoned and stripped heaps down at the end of the corner.
“Know what I mean?”
“No kidding. Believe I do,” Tyger replies. “Back in a few.”
“Don’t tarry now, my fine white friend.
I have to go to the food stamp office at 9 a.m.
Can’t vouch for after that.”
“No problem, back long before then.”
No shit, Sherlock.
Good news-bad news, then.
Tyger has bought some time for the system to operate.
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On the other hand, everybody fits the description of subject McMuffin.
No getting to the bottom of this barrel.
Just a matter of running the system as long as possible.
Dorothy can look at the replay later,
maybe make some sense of it.
For now, Tyger is concerned about his car’s safety,
more than his own.
It might be a beat-up horrible wreck, but it is also all he has.
He never could afford another one.
Probably, the vehicle is saved
from the ultimate humiliation of final dismantlement
by the irrefutable fact
that it is in only slightly better exterior shape
than the other urban blights
littering this beatific neighborhood.
Fortuna smiles. This dude is a Saints fan.
Buying overtime, and a vowel Vanna,
Tyger engages in 15 minutes of Saints talk.
“Who Dat?” “Who Dat” “Who Dat say
dey gonna beat dem Saints.”.
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“Crummy playoff game,” Tyger rap-plies, “Wish the Pope
had blessed them all the way to at least one playoff win.
The guy appreciates such biting wit, and ·laughs in an uproar,
“Yeah yeah yeah man. Dem damn Saints. Always get you in the end.
We get ’em next time.”
Tyger, however, does have a tow truck to call.
He takes his leave, walks through the mean long streets
over to a telephone at the curb of Tchopitoulas Street and Washington Avenue
to check in with Dorothy control.
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“I was afraid of that,” Dorothy concludes after
being apprised of the situation.
” I wasn’t quite sure what the
neighborhood was like, but was hoping for the best.
Are you sure your car is alright.”
“Pretty sure,” Tyger says. “I believe that guy is
good to go. Seems quite respectable. I feel like I can
leave it there for another half-hour or so, then pick it up,”
“Sounds good, but don’t take any unnecessary chances,”
Dorothy continues. “Whenever you feel too uncomfortable don’t
hesitate to get the car out of there, Probably McKinley, er McMillan,
all his peeps live there. We’ll have to assign a black investigator to this case
another time.I’ve worked the projects before. Know exactly what you
are going through. Do the best you can. Drop off the videotape
when you’re finished. We’re going to get you back on LeBeouf,
and Joe Fine has something he wants you to work on with him in Houma.”
That same old hard to shake cold, Tyger bacteria lingers
outside the recreational center waiting for his medication to
work. He takes a few dozen deep breaths, returning to the scene
of the grime about 8:30 a.m.
Strange how that neighborhood’s dynamics work.
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Nobody is around. Les place is a deserted ghost town.
The proverbial light bulb appears as in a cartoon caricature
above dear Tyger’s head.
Party people persons were up (to no good) all night.
The urban street sprawl funfest was just winding down
when Tyger made his uninvited entrance.
Ahhh. That’s the ticket.
It would have gone much smoother
had he known which potholes to avoid.
Tyger files this point away for future reference.
Then, the dinky detective walks the ofay walk,
talks the ofay talk, and dances a final waltz.
He whistles an itty bitty ibby ditty song of relief, pops the hood,
checking for a good last measure.
No car problems here.
Finally, terrible Tyger spirits away the mere two miles
back to the relative comfort and safety of white man’s paradise
set like an island in the overflowing ocean
of two-thirds black New Orleans.
C
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It is April. Tyger meets Joe in Houma where
Joe shares some insights into the world.
Then, Lana meets them and they go off on various cases in the Houma area.
Tyger kills time along the bayou as the system runs. Joe shows off
some of his electronic gadgetry.
CHAPTER 18
“SUPER SLEUTH AND COMPANY HOME IN ON HOUMA”
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Tyger has made it all the way to April in his new position.
That just about sets a new indoor-out door-any door
Williams Book of world records milestone for employment longevity.
Hallelujah and hosannah y’all, sigh the bluebirds in Tyger’s backyard signifying good luck.
April the most benign of Southeastern Louisiana months,
contrary to some poet’s emotions,
has blossomed throughout the eager land.
Weather perfect; air clear and awesome,,
uplifting everyones once tired spirits.
What’s more, another miraculous stroke of good fortune stands poised
to strike the rabid baseball fan forced all winter to lie fallow.
The Major Leagues are about to play ball.
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Therefore, let it be resolved dear comrades
of the longing heart and short attention span,
seekers of truth and lovers of fiction,
that Tyger Williams salutes you and you only
on his way to Houma to meet and greet Joe Fine,
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He composes two poems driving through wetlands, bayous,
and finally widening green fields of rising sugar cane.
What time would tell you sitting on a porch in old New Orleans.
Stop whatever you are doing comrades .
Listen now you starlings:
Golden meadows, deep brown shadows
grazing in a sea of yellow-green alongside Highway 1.
Curves this silver thread from place to lonely post
stands a stucco laundromat, winds around
A faceless ghost, blowing through an open door,
breezy dreamer, thoughts of home.
Listen love, my precious dove,
I saw a turtle on the road,
Backing into Paradis,
poor frail neck with rock hard shell.
Stubborn to the lonely end,
no turning back for noble men,
Who choose a path and die,
they are noble for their try.
Never does a day half pass,
never does a cuckoo cry,
Never does a hopeless heart,
never does a bayou sigh.
Without my saying thus,
your eyes immortalize.
The flip side of this coin comes up heads, heads; heads up again.
Always comes up heads for it is a trick coin with two heads
Tyger sometimes flips to impress his friends,
sometimes flips to depress a fool.
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He is on a roll like the time he flipped the coin and it landed on neither side,
instead lodging upright next to a book on the floor. Hahaha.
Armor’s fell out of his chair he laughed so hard at that
Gravity is such an awesome force to behold.
What the hey, otay, Tyger also composes this poem on the way
to the Houma Holiday Inn where Joe Fine is already waiting with
a cup of coffee,
flirting with yet another waitress.
Rain falling by Bayou L’ourse,
rain falling by Bayou Delight,
falling falling falling — slowly — in love again.
Recalling golden days while tearing,
feeling all those desperate failings,
while drinking in dark green waters, algae, spanish moss.
Hardly flowing, blocked backwaters, pirogues,
lonely rowing orders; always coming, always going, home
where hearts were made to break, and comrades slowly dissipate.
Days will pass and rain stop time,
but love of love a dulcet vine, always lingers,
always falling, please be mine,”
Enough of the poet for now
a duly inspired Tyger pulls into downtown Houma,
named after the Native American tribe, and over to the Holiday Inn.
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Joe Fine’s traditional baseball cap has been removed to
reveal his impressive chrome dome. He has come out of the closet
apparently since his last confab with Tyger, and now proudly
displays the Telly Savalas-Yul Brynner bald penis head look.
Heck, some women think the look is very sexy.
Super Sleuth wears a blue open neck alligator shirt and
tan slacks. A pair of sunglasses, notebook, and a — what is
that? Tyger is almost afraid to find out — a small device that
looks like a pager, rest on the Holiday Inn Houma Cafe table.
Joe mercilessly flirts with a 30-something semi-attractive
redhead waitress as Tyger enters the near empty restaurant.
Couple of geologists dig in the corner.
Joe Fine probes for something more unfathomable. Or maybe,
that is just how he passes the time while waiting. Who knows.
Without missing a beat then, “Hey beautiful, how about
another cup of coffee. There’s my guy Tyger. Grab a seat son. Hey
beautiful, looking good this morning. Thanks a lot. ”
Whooo. Tyger feels as though his whole life has passed
before his eyes. He must raise his game a notch because Joe is
the boss and Tyger wants to get along.
“Everything going O.K.?” Tyger asks. “We have some good ones
out here in Yahooland today,” Joe replies. “Love these redneck
cases. Are you ready to play the game?”
“Batter up baby.”
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Joe explains current missions. He has one lowlife in
the Azalea Camellia Gaspergou Trailer Park at nearby Bayou Cane.
The head honcho has another case at the opposite end of town
along Bayou Black. A third case is Downtown off Bayou
Terrebonne, which straddles Houma, dividing the small city on
either side of the larger Intracoastal Canal.
Apparently the demise of Joe Fine, contrary to previous
reports, has been greatly exaggerated. Or maybe this is the storm
before the calm. Who knows?
Tyger has a lot of experience with manic depressive personalities.
Just check out MacLandia. He is highly suspicious of Joe’s behavior.
He seems almost too enthusiastic to be true.
The all — monkey business? — meeting continues with another pot
of coffee and another. Joe eats only lightly buttered toast,
spinning a few yarns about his time in military service.
“The U.S. Army is a bunch of losers,” he says. “The Israeli
Defense Forces — now that, dear Tyger, is an organization that
does not fool around. No wonder these guys lost Vietnam. We would have
blown them to Kingdom Come like we did the Syrians on the Golan Heights.
Those pussies thought they could surprise us in the Yom
Kippur War, 1973. When we got our shit together we beat their
asses, but it was a bloody battle.
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Have to admit, felt sorry for some of their young guys.
You know, the tank gunners and poor motherfuckers they
slapped uniforms on to die. Those guys are like you or me
in a lot of ways. They just got a rotten government.
Who wants to fight? We should just try to get along as best
we can. I know we could if we tried.
Fucking politicians are the same the world over. They got
to make other people die so they can rip off everyone else and
get away with it. I am out of that shit forever. I’m an American citizen.
God bless the good old U.S.A. Know what I mean, son?”
“Yes sir,” Tyger replies at attention. “We have to do what
we have to do sometimes, not question orders.”
“You got that right,” agrees Joe grinning, turning back
to the previous encounter. “Hey good looking,
what ya got cooking. Can we have just one more cup of java. I
don’t know how you do it, babe.”
“Yes sir, coming right up,” the brown uniformed name-tagged
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waitress replies as she scurries, retreating to higher ground.
The geologists have come and gone like the Pleistocene Epoch.
A husband and wife team who are straying at the motel begin brunch.
“Oh man, I tell you Tyger, you are one lucky son of a gun,”
Joe continues, scratching his chrome dome. “You’re single without a
care in the world.” “Well, I don’t know about that,” Tyger laughs.
“Nah, true dat,” Joe says. “You might think you have some
problems, or whatever, but they’re really nothing. You’re young,
single, and fancy free. You got a lot of life ahead of you.
Me? I got the little snot-noses at home. Don’t get me
wrong. I love the little bastards. But, noisy, shitting, in the shit,
constantly demanding this, that, andthe other thing. Man oh
manna, that stuff can really get to you.
Take my wife. Please. She can be a total bitch. All I hear
is fix this. This is crap. What’s wrong with you. Goddamn. I
mean, sometimes I just look forward to getting the hell out of
Dodge. You feel me, son?”
“Oh,” Tyger says as Dorothy’s recent appraisal of Joe’s
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delicate mental condition his condition is in is on
his mind. “Don’t worry Joe. Everything will work out.”
Tyger understands totally the need to re-assure his — after
all — meal ticket. And Joe Fine is a nice guy, too.
It is tough seeing Joe dissatisfied, considering the hell of
a job he has been doing. That black box/baby seat video
surveillance system is unique in the business, a great leap
forward for sub rosa secret agents everywhere.
“Don’t worry, man,” Tyger reassures his boss. “You’re a
survivor. You’ll get by. “Yah yah yah. I know. Just sometimes … ”
Who should saunter into the restaurant at this low moment,
thoroughbred ankles upturned, long black hair and devil may care
green eyes, but the lovely Lana whom last we met at Baton
Rouge. That entrance perks up Joe Fine’s countenance.
“Lana. What am I going to do with you?” Joe asks. “You’re
an hour late. Where the hell have you been?
We have a lot of work to do today.”
“Sorry Joe,” Lana grins with girlish grace.
Thought you said 11 a.m.” “Wrong.” “Sorry.”
“Never mind. No coffee for you. Let’s go back to my
motel room. I want to show you guys something.”
Joe leaves money for the bill and tip on the table, scoops
up his bell book and candle belongings, leading his two
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associates into the light of a new day. He relishes the role of
mother ducky to a new breed of superior sleuths-in-training.
(Acronym, SIT–how appropriate for many of the missions.)
“Thanks a million, darling,” Joe calls over his
shoulder to the waitress clearing away the sneaky business
meeting’s debris. “See you when I see you.”
“Thank you sir,” she replies, Hill Street Blues style.
“Be careful out there.”
Out into the weirdly colored hallway — they have not
invented names for those hues yet —
into the gathering sunlight near noon. The three walkie talkie
a few more feet to a lower motel room.
“Always get a room on the bottom floor away from the main
office,” Joe advises his captive platoon members. “That way you
don’t have to carry heavy equipment upstairs. Less
noisy. Something to keep in mind when you go on the road.”
An open suitcase lies on a plastic table. Various changes of
clothes and baseball caps rest on the extra bed.
“Damn maid. Hasn’t made the room yet,” Joe complains.
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“I tell you. The people around here are slow slower slowest,”
Joe continues before washing his face and sitting on the
overly colorful bed cover.
“Let me show you something,” Joe tells Tyger and Lana as
they watch intently. He holds up a plain black contraption that
contrasts strangely with a painted clown portrait on the wall. A
cool sea breeze scene, by the way, adorns the other wall.
Those darn “starving” artists.
“Check this out,” Joe says. “It’s a homing device. You put this in a
safe place under someone’s car and then you take this thing,”
He pulls out a Swiss army knife, removes
the sea breeze motel art painting from
the wall with the Phillip’s screwdriver head.
“Just a little trick I learned in the Promised Land,”
he says, grinning, as he removes a shiny silver object from
behind the pseudo-art object.
“You activate it like this.” He flips a small lever on the
silver companion contraption, “and there you have it. It beeps loudly
loudly, loudest when you are near the vehicle you’re following,
and keeps you going in the right direction without the subject
having a clue in the world. Ahhh, I love technology
Joe sets off by hand an annoying buzzing noise, “just so you
can hear what it sounds like. We might have to use it today.
Haven’t decided. But I wanted you to see some of the tools
of the trade for future reference.
“Tell you what though. This is a bitch to put under
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someone’s car. You really have to do it late at night because if
someone notices. Believe nobody wants that.”
Joe looks at his diver’s watch. “Tell you what. I’ll
activate the homer in the motel room and we’ll drive around the
area so you can get some idea of how it works. How about that?”
“Sounds bad ass,” says Lana ever so cooly cooly hot.
“You sure about this?” Tyger asks.
Lana in the suicide seat. Tyger in the tank. Joe drives a hard bargain around
the Houma Holiday Inn parking lot and a few blocks away north, then west towards
the bayou. Beep beep beep beep. Sure enough, the device trolls as
predicted. Following about 15 minutes of such frolicking fun, the
terribly terrific trio returns to the motel room to plot the day’s fantastic
journey to the center of the insurance fraud conundrum.
Back at base, Joe divvies up assignments. He has the
baby seat system, which he trades to Tyger for the big bad black box.
“My man in Mobile has some ideas for improving the box
design, making it smaller with an improved remote control,” Joe
says. “Use the baby seat for now. We’ll swap back in a week, or so.”
It’s like the time Harry Chiti was traded from the Cleveland
Indians to the New York Mets for a player to be named later.
The player to be named later was himself.
Tyger has no problem with that. What’s the diff.
They both work. Right?
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“O.K. kiddos,” Joe says after he and Tyger fix up their
respective surveillance systems in the appropriate vehicles,
“Now, Tyger. I want you to set up your system on Dixon over at
Bayou Cane. Leave the system there. Lana and I will pick you up
outside the trailer park on Grand Caillou Road.
Stake out the Thibodaux residence just off
Bayou Terrebonne after that. Stay back with the still camera,”
which Joe produces from a locked suitcase under the bed,
“Note any activity, getting some photographs if possible.
Lana and I will take care of other,” Joe flashes fake quote
marks with his fingers, “‘business’ around town. We also have to meet
for a while with a client, let him know we are an unstoppable
army on the move with all guns blazing.
Stick with the Thibodaux case until we come and get you. It
should be about three hours. If you have any problem or have to
move to another location, call Dorothy collect. She is at home
all day today as back-up in case we fall out of commos.
Okee Dokee.? Let’s get it on. Let the games begin,” Joe
concludes as Tyger and the beautiful Lana nod their heads in
fired-up agreement. “We are going to have some fun today.”
Good plan, maybe. Tyger sets the baby seat system up on a
gravel patch directly facing a mid-sized white with green trim trailer.
A few probably innocent bystanders stand down the road.
Tyger doesn’t care. He is going to follow orders no matter what.
Set up takes about a minute anyway.
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After standard weapons check determines all systems rolling,
Tyger walks away where Joe and Lana retrieve him like a lost
penny, a poor pup wandering along a packed dirt road.
Back to town and the major avenue that straddles Bayou
Terrebonne. Joe lets Tyger roam near a two-story blue wood duplex
apartment with fire escape stairs in the back, the bayou just beyond that.
Tyger finds a nice restful spot about 50 yards away along
the pleasant waters just behind a fish shop.
Boats are docked nearby as well.
Fishermen come and go from the waterway to the north.
Seafood buyers drive in from East Main Street to the south.
Tyger hunkers in his foxhole for the wary wait. “See you in
a few hours,” Joe says as he drives away. Beautiful Lana-doon
looks ever so appealingly vague on the shotgun side.
Tyger maintains his position waiting like a rock to roll. He
is determined that it will take no less than an act of God to
move him from this zen-like state. Ho-hum–another day,
another shady surveillance spot.
Not much subject activity to report. A middle aged woman
comes and goes, as do a couple of black apartment tenants.
(The complex has four units.)
Tyger whiles away the day throwing dredged sea shells into
the still waters. He speaks briefly to some old bugger of a dude
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drifting along on a girl’s bicycle.
S-I-T (and wait) first class Williams checks into the seafood store
where they are selling that Cajun delicacy, alligator meat, as well as
hot boudin. Tyger is just there for the diet Mountain Dew, however.
“Alligator meat any good?” he asks innocently. “Aw man,
it’s the greatest,” a pot bellied Cajun critter at the counter
calls. “Where you from anyway?”
Tyger gives him the waiting for a girl friend story,
pleasantly inquiring about the man’s Saintly desires. No dice.
“I don’t go for dat football stuff,” he replies, “aldough
dat Bobby Hebert. Coonass boy from over in Cut Off, Loosiana. I
hear he pretty good. I like to see dem Cajuns make de grade.
Show ’em what we made of.”
Tick tick tick, tock tick cock, F-me Woodstock. Finally,
Tyger calls up the Thibodaux residence. Darn rude subject
refuses to answer. Sub probably sank in some mud earlier in the day.
Thibodaux kicking back along some bayou somewhere fishing, no doubt.
Who ain’t down there?
Tyger gives Dorothy a ring, informing her of the lackluster
situation. “Haven’t heard back from Joe yet,” she responds.
“You are where Joe left you, right? Just stick with it. I’ll let Joe know
when he checks in. Be patient. Maybe something will happen yet.”
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Phat chance, but no matter. Hurry up and wait.
Hurry up and wait to escape.
Even the slightest hint of activity at the apartment complex
sparks a flurry of Tygerian activity as he scrambles into
position, snap snap snaps a few pictures, that kind of thing
Keeping active for the hell of it.
Might as well look like you’re doing something. One never
knows who might be watching the detective watching the scene.
But truly, no one even resembles the sub or his pity parade.
To be perfectly frank, hardly matters what Tyger does this
lazy afternoon by the still waters of Babylon.
Finally, he sits back, settling like soft rain on a nice
grassy spot along Bayou Terrebonne, and relaxes. Not a bad way to
spend a day, after all is said and not done.
Day starts to forsake its grace, so Tyger checks in again
with Dorothy at Oz. “Joe called right after you did,” Dorothy says.
“He is still working the other cases and will be along … ”
she pauses, “about any time now actually. Sit tight. You are down
by the bayou, right? Relax down there. Joe will get you soon.”
Er, later? Thankfully, as officially predicted, Joe, Lana-less,
drives along. He wears a Chicago White Sox baseball cap,
nonchalantly sliding open the door for Tyger to enter crouching.
“That seafood place any good?” Joe asks as Tyger sits
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inside. “Dunno. They got alligator meat, though.”
“Alligator meat? Well. I’ll be dammed. Always wondered what
that tastes like. Probably chicken, huh?” “Dunno.”
“No time to taste test now. That stuff needs to be fresh
anyway, or so I’ve heard.
Let’s go get your car. By the way, Pud Hegwood he’s a
local attorney, just gave us some more cases. He loved the
Bubbicide you pulled down at Cocodrie.”
“Lana coming back?” Tyger asks.
“Nah, that bitch is what we call a ghost.
Know what that means?” Joe replies in
his best Socratic method.
“No.”
“That is someone you bring down to do a specific job and
then, they vanish forever. Like Casper, a ghost. She is well on her
way back to Alexandria now. I’ve only been using her lately for
assignments like that because she is too unreliable.
I can not believe that bitch made us sit around all day at
the Holiday Inn spinning our wheels when we should have been
haunting subjects. I don’t know. She is such a knock-out though,
guess I’ll give her another shot. She’s a quick study when
she puts her, more finger quotes, “‘mind’ to it.
Good looking girl like that is great for some of
these sleazoids. She pops open her hood, tells them she has car
trouble, and they are falling all over themselves like white on
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rice to give her a handle; a love handle, if you know what I mean.
Great set-up. Bang bang, maybe we get a guy with a bad back
changing a tire for her. These subjects are all alike.
When will they ever learn.”
Tyger retrieves his vehicle from the Azalea Camellia
Gaspergou Trailer Park with a minimum of effort. No one seems to
notice, or care. He follows Joe Fine to a nearby rural
drinking establishment where the Super Sleuth checks in with
Dorothy behind the curtain at Oz •
That piece of commos taken care of, neither big city
detective is interested in joining the insider country bumpkin
draft beer drinking crowd. They conduct official IRS Inc.
miscellaneous business on the gravel and sea shell parking lot.
Time to call the roll.
Joe leaves the citizens band radios with Tyger.
“Don’t have room. You take this. We’ll hook up later.”
Tyger hands over a stack of reports he forgot to leave with Dorothy.
“You might as well have these. They’re for you anyway.”
“Oh, here. Check this out,” Joe says, retrieving an oddly
elongated pair of — what? Binoculars? Tank commander
goggles? Opera glasses? — handing them to Tyger.
“Do you know what this is?” “Nope.” “These are night
vision goggles. Take it inside and check it out.” Okey.
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Tyger re-enters the dimly lit establishment for only a
momentary gaze, yet long enough to alarm the redneck apparitions.
See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya.
Apparently, the goggles differentiate light. Tyger can see
quite clearly through the darkened bar interior.
“What do you think?” Joe asks as Tyger returns,
squinting some and handing back the night vision goggles.
“Pretty impressive, eh? Thinking of using them on Bingo LeBeouf. I
swear I will get that Moriarty bastard yet.”
A parting of the ways with a handshake and final
salutation. Joe heads north to Shreveport or about as far away
from the “snot-noses” as possible. Tyger blasts off for home to
grand dame N’awlins.
Just another day at the office, comrades. Until we meet
again. For the precious momentary record, however, Joe seems,
well, fine.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tyger, Sandy, Milty, and Armor’s spend the day
at the New Orleans Fairgrounds, the third oldest horse racing
track in America. Many insightful observations are made about the
racing environment and the day ends with an amazing and
unexpected turn of events.
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A gathering of — shall we say — eagles flock to Sandy
Alexander’s modest two bedroom house just beyond the lions on
Pritchard Place. Those stately monuments to living in the jungle pause across
the street from the Notre Dame Seminary where Pope John II slept
before blessing our dear who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints
before da Vikings beat them like a Saxon drum.
Next time, Poopsie, get it right.
Eagles — make me laugh, hahaha — more like a squatting of
pigeons ready to be fried for the Jolie Green Giant’s dinner.
They have a bad plan in mind.
Sandy, Tyger, Armor’s, and the puff as by David
Copperfield magically reappearing Mr. Milty are fixing to be
fleeced, about to be taken to the proverbial cleaners.
Yes comrades, the final day of the 1988 racing season is
about to commence at the New Orleans Unfair Grounds, the
third oldest horse racing track in America.
And you are there. Now, Church Lady fanatics, isnt that
special? On your marks, ready steady, prepare to be ripped off.
You expected differently in Lousyiana?
Sandy’s wife Mary Ann, ever the proper Southern young lady,
offers sweet iced tea and sympathy to the about to be iced quartet.
“Day at the Races”
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Tanks, but no tanks” replies Mr. Milty, “I’ve already
consumed my body weight in margaritas. ” Ohhhh-Key.
“And you Armor’s. Come on. Have some sweet tea,” Mary
Ann coaxes the burly bear. “It will be good for you”
“Better not,” Armor’s replies. “I have to concentrate on the
horses. No distractions.”
Armor’s, as one can see, is a serious ass bettor. He dont
fool around when it comes to losing his — hard? — earned money.
Sandy finishes up chores in the couple’s backyard as Tyger
stumbles outside to say howdy. “You aren’t going to do that
dream exacta thing again?” inquires the, ever sensible Sandy, a
printing executive who is also a writer.
“Of course. It’s in my contract,” replies Tyger Williams,
psychic handicapper extraordinary.
Armor’s and Mr. Milty sit in the bright front airy
parlor pouring over the Daily Racing Form. “Who do you like in
the Fifth?” Mr. Milty asks. “It’s a $10,000 claimer.”
The cheap price is about right, the usual fare at the Fair
Grounds. It seems an almost beautiful race track, but like the
city of New Orleans, has seen better times.
“Bayou Reality ran real well last time out, moving
down in class,” Armor’s notes as he scans the printed field.
“Looks as good as anyone in that field. I like the connections.”
Mr. Milty scribbles the information down in his pull-out
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racing section. “Odds are nice at 5-1,” the man of a thousand
faces adds. “It’s a keeper.”
“Hmmm. I like Classy Boat in that race, too. What about
Dangerous Bid?” Mr. Milty continues scouring through the small
print of the racing paper that looks like hieroglyphics to the
uninitiated, but is quite simple to decipher for those with some experience.
“Dangerous Bid? Nah. Big fake rip-off,” according to
Armor’s considered opinion. “They put the Bid in there to make
everybody think it’s a Spectacular Bid kid like Risen Star.
It’s really sired by this other shit horse. Steer like the Titanic clear.”
“You like Bayou Reality over Classy Boat?” Milty continues.
“I’m going to bet them over and under, maybe put
five bucks on Bayou Reality’s nose.”
“Sounds good. I might play that,” Armor’s says.
Sandy and Tyger discuss variations on a theme amongst
the rose bushes and green green grass of home.
“You dreamed about which race last night?” Sandy tentatively probes.
“Focused in on the feature,” Tyger replies. “I visualized
the race track, watching the race from start to finish. Even
heard the track announcer. Saw the winning colors,
purple with a green star. Romero was the jockey
Any of that sound right?”
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“Could be,” Sandy confirms. “Randy has Reason’s Boy in that
race. Reason’s Boy is a great runner. I think he’s going off at
10-1 or 12-1. That’s worth considering. But I like Marfa’s
Missile. That’s a real nice colt.”
The outdoor garden party returns to commingle with its
indoor compatriots. Sandy kisses Mary Ann a fond farewell.
“Y’all have good luck at the track today,” Mary Ann wishes.
“Here. Take some cookies for the road. They should fill you up,
honey before you win all that money.”
Mary Ann is the greatest pastry chef in the free world .
The chain gang, especially Armor’s, scarf up a plate of
chocolate chip giants before cascading like the flooding Pearl
River over the Alexander home’s banks, into Sandy’s Volkswagen Jetta.
The gang is off to play the ponies. Look out, N’awlins’
fellow space jockeys. They’re about to blast off like the Space Shuttle Challenger.
A 10-minute drive down South Carrolton Avenue around City
Park, over to Esplanade Avenue and the boys have reached the
final gates of doom. Mr. Milty and Armor’s spend some quality
quiet time concentrating on the Racing Form.
The art touts make critical marks with respective pencils,
contemplating the immediate future with hopes of victory and some
trepidation borne of past regrets. At least, it keeps them occupied.
Such is part of horse racing·s attraction. Youse make a pick,
.-
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·
youse takes your chances.
Tyger rides along confident in his knowledge of the dream
exacta. To him, the race has already run. It has happened before.
In fact, Tyger picked Fair Grounds winners solely based on
premonition long before he knew how to handicap properly.
His success was unparalleled.
Mr. Milty refused to go with Tyger for a time because
it seemed that every time Tyger won, on the longest of shots, Mr.
Milty lost on favorites. “Hey man, you are stealing my fun,”
concluded Mr. Milty. Fair grounds enough.
Horse racing isn’t about horses at all. It is rather a
reflection of human nature.
We see human foibles and personifications take flight as
airy addenda to the actual situation on the ground. Not to
mention the usual human greed attached to all forms of gambling.
Be that as it may…
Strangely, too, the more expert Tyger became in
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handicapping, the less successful were his dream exacta
selections. Therefore, he saves the method only for special occasions.
As Tyger’s losers conformed more precisely with racing odds
and attitudes, Mr. Milty dropped his objections to attending
races with the post-psychic master. They were playing on a more level surface.
Tyger won far less often, but had more confidence in the
scientific method. So, he continued with the method rather than the madness.
Ahh, Gentilly Boulevard, where Sandy pulls up to the gate,
hands the parking attendant $2, moving along little doggies to
a “lucky” parking place. The boys pile out of the car, floating
through the $1 general admission turnstile over to the Paddock
area where they all buy 75 cent programs.
It is very important for each player to have his own
program, so that he can concentrate better on the action.
That’s just the law of the land, folks.
What a sight the Unfair Grounds are as the last day
of the season with an accumulated Pick Six pool of $95,000 to be
divided that day entices 7,500 “fans” of the “sport of
kings”about2,000 more than usual. No need for LSD here as the
joint trips the light fanatic with colors and bizarre behavior.
“Reminds me of ugly night at the Galleria,” moans Tyger,
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recalling a massive overdose of acid that accompanied the
incredible accumulation of the scariest persons on the planet
later that same evening at the Houston Galleria.
But these ugly patrons are New Orleans’ finest, and by
definition more colorful, interesting and bizarre than any group
of ugly citizens everywhere. Take that, Space City Houston.
Such is another distinguishing mark that makes the Big Easy
special. Besides, language, food, and culture; New Orleanians
are inundated by a phenomenon that even has a moniker.
These rare bird strange unfathomable rara avis souls
are known as “characters.” Better believe it comrades,
they don’t need to be acting to fulfill that role.
The characters are out of their cages inundating the ticky
tacky tracky. They line and ride the rails. They flow in eddy
pools around the Paddock where the horses are being
prepared for battle half-aware.
Some sidle up to the Oak Grill ordering hamburgers and
gumbo. Others camp outside the grandstand heaping the usual
amount of verbal abuse on the poor young jocks.
“Hey there Bruce Poyadou,” screams one gap toothed black man
a mere decibel below the sound barrier. “When ya ever going
to win one? I am sick of losing money on you, babe.”
Poyadou on top of a maiden claimer parading before the
second race — the bottom half of the daily double — rides
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along, shaking his head, laughing. He utters an inaudible
remark to the accompanying hot-walker.
“Hey dere Randy Romero. How’s it hanging,” elderly
thin white man with greasy grey hair and semi-tattered clothing
yells at the meet’s elite leading rider. “Got a winner for me?”
Romero mutters a passing equally unintelligible remark to
the jockey in front of him. Rail birds shake their heads like
cuckoo clocks gone wild.
“What? What? What you say?” the elderly spectator continues
as a chestnut horse stops a moment, seeming to wink at him.
“That’s good enough for me,” he remarks, rushing to the
doors presumably placing a wager inside at the betting terminals .
Meanwhile, the usual practiced behavior takes place in
spades in every possible direction. Patrons spit gigantic gobs of
brown goo anywhere. (Step lively, try to avoid that piece of sickening reality.)
A great looking woman in a short black dress attracts an
inordinate amount of attention. “Whoo-whee, baby,” one sensitive
soul shouts after her ass as she walks briskly shaking her
booty. Da wag wags his tail behind her not sorry butt in subtle mimicry.
Armor’s and Milty have flown the coop to engage in light
wagering on the Pick Six before laying a couple of dollars on
some loser in the Second. This is merely a diversion as they seem
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hell bent on the Fifth, Seventh and Feature race, which is the Tenth.
They bet a few dollars here and there on the others just to
maintain a passing interest. But the big money in their case,
maybe $15 or $20. is reserved for races of maximum interest.
Tyger and Sandy stare down their respective forms. They
perch near the rail by the officials box at the top of the second
longest stretch in America.
Or so the program claims. No one can figure out
where the longest stretch is nor how long it could possibly be.
This one must suffice and seems to stretch near forever.
The long stretch makes for some intriguing picking. The
serious handicapping crowd must keep in mind that principles are
turned on their heads here. One looks for the top closers who can
negotiate the stretch after front runners have burned themselves
out in their dumb-ass equestrian blaze for glory.
“And they are off,” track announcer Tony Bentley calls the
start of the race. “Silent Glory takes the lead followed by
Insignificant Poppism, Fernwood Tonight, Alybaba’s Dada, and six
lengths back along the rail…”
The outside crowd has increased in numbers and intensity, as
the horses round the first turn of a six furlong outing, heading
towards the stretch. Milty and Armor’s are back for the fray.
“Oh man, where is that Salad and Dressing,” Armor’s is
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already complaining. Milty stands in a personal circle merely
shaking his head with an ever souring expression.
“Around the first turn, Alybaba’s Dada, Key to the Locker,”
etc. etc., “and back ten lengths is Fernwood Tonight, bringing up
the rear,” of course, a horse is a horse, Salad and Dressing.
“Armor’s this is all your fault,” Mr. Milty mutters. “I knew
we should have bet on Alybaba’s Dada.” “Hey man, no one twisted
your arm.” “I know but … ”
The crowd blurs as shouting minions rise in a nitrous type
solution of heavy white noise accompanying air thick with grey
cigarette and cigar smoke. They yell as one shaking fist
thrusting through the air. They urge their particular favorites
to victory in every way, shape, and form possible as if horses
and riders could hear them or their plaintiff cries could affect the outcome.
“At the top of the stretch, Alybaba’s Dada; Dr. No No has
gotten in and charging along the rail, here comes Aura of Fire.
There will be no catching him today. Aura of Fire, Alybaba’s
Dada, and a photo for third place.”
Whoosh. Some higher power has let all the nitrous out of the
balloon. It crashes to the ground. The crowd immediately dissipates.
Curious sporting types stand in place watching the tote
board flash official results. Tired losers tear up those evil
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offending tickets, flinging them with disgust to the spit-riddled concrete floor.
A couple of guys dance in the distance with fists
raised in a salute to the winner and their apparent good fortune.
“That a way Aura of Fire,” a redneck yells. “I knew it.”
That redneck mother lucky stiffs it inside to the betting
window for his temporary reward. Horses double back to the
winners circle and officials box while being simultaneously undressed
by Latin inspired attendants. The redneck mother’s karmic slip is
showing. Whaaa …The winning jockey waves his baton in salute.
A well dressed gaggle of dotty looking persons, the owner and his family, walk
to the circle ready to be awarded the proper recognition as a
track photographer snaps their picture with horse and jockey.
Another guy tears up his ticket. “Damned be it,” he mutters.
“I covered every pick but that one. Shit. Had Alybaba’s Dada on
top of Fire.” So it goes. Tons of yelling as usual
as Alybaba’s Dada is posted as second favorite at 7-2.
The blessed winner was an 8-1 long shot.
Payout on a $3 exacta wager is about $100.
“That’s decent,” a just crawled out of the bayou bengal
comments. “We’ll get ’em next time.”
Don’t even ask about Milty and Armor’s. They are busy
looking at the Racing Form plotting their next disaster.
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“Who do you like in the Third?” Armor’s eggs on Milty, The
dismal tenth place finish out of ten horses perpetrated by Salad
and Dressing quickly has been forgotten. “It’s an allowance race
for $25,000 three-year old filly claimers.”
“Hmmmm. Marry Me Mary A. might be a good one,” Milty jokes.
“You like that one, eh Sandy?”
Sandy laughs. “I think I already bet on that one in real life,” he notes.
“Ran at Louisiana Downs last year,” Armor’s adds, not
missing a hoofbeat, “That’s a good sign.”
“How about Cindy’s Candy?” Milty inquires scratching his
slight beard stubble. (He lost that among other items, during
Mardi Gras.) He never shaves on race day mindful of
the Herculean myth.
“That nag. No way,” Armor’s replies. “Big loser at Delta
Downs last month. She sucks.” “Just like you,” Milty taunts.
“Randy is on her,” continues Armor’s referring to the
meet’s leading jock. “Don’t care,” Milty responds. “Don’t care.
Got no chance no how no way, Jose’.”
Sandy stands nearby checking out the program and laughing.
“Dream about this one any?” he asks Tyger.
“Nah,” Tyger answers. “I think I’m going to bet $5 on
MyMindlsOutahere. I always liked that filly. She’s a good closer.
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So it goes through races three through seven.
A few wagers here, a few losers there.
The crowd grows as the feature looms nearer. Some leave,
some arrive, creating an interchangeable mixture of imagery.
Armor’s and Milty — believe it or nuts — are doing
Nicely-Nicely Johnson this day.
They head into late afternoon a bit above even.
Quite satisfied and looking to cement their immediate future
with a killing in the next race.
“We are going to be partying tonight,” Armor’s boldly
predicts. “What else is new?” asks a skeptical Sandy.
Tyger walks into the cavernous black hole that lies just
beneath the $2 grandstand seat surface, into the waiting jaws
of surreal beef jerky. Color television monitors dot the
landscape as do food booths and bars.
A veritable cross-section of persons who seem to have fallen
to earth from other planets careen, bouncing off each other
like crazed self-motivated bumper cars at an amusement park gone
wild. “Where do these people come from?” asks a perplexed Tyger
walking to the betting window.
Smoke hangs in a sickly cloud resembling Los Angeles on the
smoggiest day of a summer inversion representing yet another bit
of awfulness with a small “a”. Tough to understand the
self-immolation styrohead set.
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“What the hell is wrong with them?” Tyger asks himself while
coughing loudly. Right there is the main reason he prefers to stand outside.
Tyger picks a betting window with a short line. He places $5
to win, $3 to show on Number Seven, “Where’s the Bleep,” and $3
over and under on “Where’s the Bleep,” with Two, Five, Eight, and Nine.
Ahhh, and give the dear boy $2 to win on Number Two,
“Hate Yo Mama.” That is a hunch bet.
Tyger walks up the stairs to the facility’s second floor.
More of the same, and kind of depressing.
Horseplayers and their fellow travelers walk around in
respective haze like zombies oblivious to surroundings.
They stare blank pages at the ever unfolding story hoping
for a flood of good fortune to wash away those earthly troubles.
An entire gamut of human emotion washes across the linoleum
checkered floor sweeping away more mundane thoughts of current
conditions. Poor saps will have more than enough time to cope
with their daily routines between now and the opening of
Jefferson Downs in Kenner. That occurs the following Wednesday.
For the eternal moment, this huge pack of rats and a few
artistic mice are frozen like figures on a Grecian urn turning
ever yearning towards the Eighth Race post parade as they
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silently watch second floor monitors for wagering clues.
The future for these poor huddled masses is now. Like Raider
owner Al Davis said, just win baby. It doesn’t matter what it takes.
How fortunate for the fatass cigar smoking touts, and
nice guys finishing last that they aren’t actually running
themselves. At least this way. vicariously betting on dumb
beasts of burden, they have a mathematical chance,
no matter how slim, of victory.
How easy it is to forget the many humiliating defeats
preceding, doubtless following in that moment of pure ecstasy
of complete victory. Winning for a moment suspends that
moment in space-time forever.
Tyger cites the words of John Keats to a nearby lout. “John
Keats?” the short in stature long in snout nose answers.
“Doesn’t he jock at Pimlico Park?”
“Never mind.”
Such powerful intoxication over-rides all other
considerations and sensibilities. Authorities encourage this
activity while banning substances that are good for the soul like sweet marijuana.
Who is in charge here anyway? Like the black soldier answers
in Oliver Stone’s Platoon, “You’re not?”
Solly Cholly. No one seems to know what is going down or what
they are doing. Communal amnesia blankets the horse and bugger set.
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Everyone sets aside those earthly cares and heavenly goals
to concentrate instead on more pressing matters like the Daily
Racing Form, figuring out bets, mining strangers for
misinformation, losing their heads as some gelding grabs the
brass ring, or finding their souls swept along on a magic carpet
ride of universal desire. Fools and buffoons,
jerks and great artists they might be, God bless them every one.
It is difficult in the final analysis to hate the beast who
knows not what he does. In this way comrades, we must pity the
poor horse playing gambling addicts and wish them Bonne Chance on
this the last day of blissful ignorance at the UnFair Grounds until
the season traditionally re-opens later that year on Thanksgiving Day.
Enough of the upstairs-downstairs shit for Tyger Williams.
He rejoins the in-crowd near the finish line ready to be
appraised of the latest statistical updates of fate.
“Sandy won the last race. Milty and I blew it. Big bummer,”
Armor’s recapitulates. “I haven’t a clue what happened to Mr.
Milty after that. He said he had to go away for a minute,
never returned. I guess that means he won’t be coming back.
“Yeah,” Sandy adds, “Mr. Milty is the master of the tasteful exit.
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Couldn’t get out of the Superdome fast enough when we
went to the Saints playoff game. I think he lasted a quarter.”
“Guess he’ll find his way home alright,” Tyger replies.
“He always seems to anyway.”
“That Mr. Milty,” Sandy adds. “I stopped trying to
understand him years ago. He is as inscrutable as one of those
damn faces he paints. I hope for his sake he becomes a great
artist some day. I don’t know what else he could do if he weren’t.”
Kaleidoscope of horse flesh fills tableau visual
around and around deep dirt track, followed by winners and
losers galore. Tote board lights flash as do the eyes of
momentary victors to whom small spoils are awarded.
Losers cry and try to get it back at the next opportunity.
One never knows. Maybe something good will happen.
Tyger’s personal fortune that day reflects the totality of
the collective experience. He busts on the Eighth Race, but picks
up a healthy payback in the Ninth as Mickey’s Flashback
uncharacteristically wires the mile-and-a-quarter field.
Sometimes one can win while choosing a horse for the wrong
reasons. Mickey’s Flashback looked like a closer and with a name like that.
Couple that pick, as Tyger does, with the Number Three
horse, Mardi Gras Honey, and he takes a healthy $85 cut out of
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future losses. Even the likes of Tyger can feel like a winner for
a fleeting moment. Coming on to feature time,
the $50,000 added Last Chance Sweepstakes, the crowd saddles up
for one final fling. “Oh lawdy over there,” points the Sandman.
“A fat lady is singing.” A small wiry semi-derelict dances a demented jig
by the starting gate. Pete Fountain in the flesh blows the post parade call
on his crazy clarinet. He mixes the classic call of the post parade in an odd
medley with “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans,” and
“When the Saints Come Marching In.”
Horses display varying degrees of enthusiasm as they
prance around the track. Some snuggle into their walking mates.
Others rear their long neck heads, looking over the ragtag crowd,
deciding if they feel like running this final day.
Loud, foul mouthed bettors provide the usual verbal abuse
squad accompaniment. “Hey Simington. I hear you’re
sleeping around.” “Man. That Tonkaton’s Nightmare again.
I have nightmares just thinking of that motherfucker.”
“Hey Randy Romero, get a real job.”
Oh sorry, that is not just any anonymous oaf. That comment
is vintage gangplank talk emitted by Armor’s Tungsten’s tongue
a’wagging. His head is still locked in Carnival carnage.
Sandy looks in Tyger’s direction as the object of the dream
exacta pulls into view exhibiting the pre-visualized
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instructions. “Reason’s Boy?” Sandy asks hesitantly.
“Looks like a winner to me, baby,” Tyger answers. “Floating along at 15-1.”
Sandy puts $20 on the bay colt’s head — a very large wager
for the usually cautious family man — while Tyger, true to the
dream exacta promise, wheels the field under Reason’s Boy in a $3
exacta that comes to a total of $33, adding $7 to win. The boys
return, preparing with Armor’s to watch the race.
Armor’s has decided he is finished forever with this crap.
He watches the tote board for innocent amusement, eating large
scoops of popcorn recently purchased as a consolation prize.
He went down $40 for the day.
The crowd hushes for a brief instant as the horses approach
the starting gate at the far end of the track. And they’re off.
“Split Season with the early lead, followed by Secret
Taipan, BottomOfTheBarrel, Closet Cooty, Marfa’s Missile, and
Presidential Bid. And around the turn it’s…” Blah blah blah blah
Where the hell is Reason’s Boy?
A few million light-year eons pass as the horses round the
far turn. It takes the horses about 44:4 seconds in real time
according to the flashing tote board. Reason’s Boy has launched
with final odds of 14-1.
Tyger looks everywhere for the horse and can’t seem to pick
him up the 12 horse field. Sandy gives in to the forces of
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discouraging darkness, staring daggers
below the bottoms of his shoes.
Armor’s busies himself throwing popcorn kernels in the air,
attempting to catch them with his open fish mouth.
“At the to of the stretch, Presidential Bid, Secret
Taipan, Fair Warning three wide. Falling five lengths
back to Misogyny, Closet Cooty, Marfa’s Missile and…
charging on the outside Reason’s Boy. Reason’s Boy…”
You rang Maynard G. Krebs Gilligan’s Island breath?
Suddenly, Sandy snaps to attention. He and Tyger
muscle themselves past some old black guys,
springing up to the rail. The hell with them.
“Making a run down the back stretch. Presidential Bid, Secret Taipan,
Reason’s Boy two lengths back … ”
Sandy is beside himself, fists thrusting high in the sky,
yelling, “Reason’s Boy! Reason’s Boy!
You can do it baby! Come on baby’ Reason’s Boy!”
But it is a funny thing. Sandy’s voice is lost in the intense sound
swirling like a tornado sweeping up every object in its terrific wake,
spitting them out somewhere somehow down the track of human consciousness.
Tyger, too, is swept away in excitement and has joined Sandy.
“You can do it! You can do it! You can do it!”
“Down the final furlong…” Horses galloping
past the Sandy-Tyger connection going a million light years a second,
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merging blurs along the main line passing.
“It is Presidential Bid, Reason’s Boy second and Secret Taipan third.”
Ahhhhhh. Sandy expels another ahhhhhh.
Tyger’s body goes limp with a feeling of the most ultimate agony of defeat.
“Oh well,” Sandy says, turning to Tyger in the tank.
“You can’t win them all.” “Shit,” Tyger replies.
But wait. Hold your stinking horses.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,”
track announcer intercedes from loudspeakers above,
“Results are not official. Please hold all tickets.”
Too late for disillusioned some.
“There has been a steward’s inquiry. Hold all tickets.”
Sandy and Tyger, suddenly resurrected, exchange subtle glances.
“No way,” Sandy says. “Way,” says Tyger.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the now deified track announcer rambles.
“After further review by order of the stewards,
Presidential Bid is disqualified for bumping in the stretch and
placed third behind Secret Taipan. The official winner is…”
Sandy and Tyger yell the sacred name together with track announcer Tony Bentley.
“Reason’s Boy!!!” Followed by “Yes!”
“Results are official. The winner is Reason’s Boy,
a bay colt out of Turn To Reason, ridden by Randy Romero,
owned by Mr. and Mrs. Rocky Singleton;
second is Secret Taipan; third, Presidential Bid.
The running time of One Minute 43 Seconds … ”
The payoff lights the tote board like the Fourth of July.
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“$28.50 to win, $13.60 to place, $6.00 to show;
Exacta 7-4 pays $662,”
Tyger reads the results in shock as they Jumping Jack Flash.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sandy, who is jumping for joy, chimes in
like an astral projection beside himself in glee.
He does a little touchdown celebration dance.
“That’s about $285 for me. Reason’s Boy. Yes! Just say yes, baby.”
Tyger scribbles the results in his program figuring he is
set to collect about $730. “Wow,” he finally manages to expel.
Armor’s looks at the scene with more than a touch of
bewilderment. “Damn. Why don’t I ever listen
to that damn Williams? Damn.”
Sandman and Tygermeister did not need a Volkswagen Jetta to
drive the four miles back to the resting lions at Pritchard
Place. They could have flown home on the wings
of pure unadulterated happiness.
“How did you do Honey?” Mary Ann asks sweetly as they soar
like victorious archangels through the opening front door.
“Not bad. Not bad,” Sandy replies winking at Tyger.
“Not too badly at all.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.”
As, they say, God watches out for children,
drunks and fools.”
SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
(The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tyger, Sandy, Milty, and Armor’s spend the day
at the New Orleans Fairgrounds, the third oldest horse racing
track in America. Many insightful observations are made about the
racing environment and the day ends with an amazing and
unexpected turn of events.
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A gathering of — shall we say — eagles flock to Sandy
Alexander’s modest two bedroom house just beyond the lions on
Pritchard Place. Those stately monuments to living in the jungle pause across
the street from the Notre Dame Seminary where Pope John II slept
before blessing our dear who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints
before da Vikings beat them like a Saxon drum.
Next time, Poopsie, get it right.
Eagles — make me laugh, hahaha — more like a squatting of
pigeons ready to be fried for the Jolie Green Giant’s dinner.
They have a bad plan in mind.
Sandy, Tyger, Armor’s, and the puff as by David
Copperfield magically reappearing Mr. Milty are fixing to be
fleeced, about to be taken to the proverbial cleaners.
Yes comrades, the final day of the 1988 racing season is
about to commence at the New Orleans Unfair Grounds, the
third oldest horse racing track in America.
And you are there. Now, Church Lady fanatics, isnt that
special? On your marks, ready steady, prepare to be ripped off.
You expected differently in Lousyiana?
Sandy’s wife Mary Ann, ever the proper Southern young lady,
offers sweet iced tea and sympathy to the about to be iced quartet.
“Day at the Races”
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Tanks, but no tanks” replies Mr. Milty, “I’ve already
consumed my body weight in margaritas. ” Ohhhh-Key.
“And you Armor’s. Come on. Have some sweet tea,” Mary
Ann coaxes the burly bear. “It will be good for you”
“Better not,” Armor’s replies. “I have to concentrate on the
horses. No distractions.”
Armor’s, as one can see, is a serious ass bettor. He dont
fool around when it comes to losing his — hard? — earned money.
Sandy finishes up chores in the couple’s backyard as Tyger
stumbles outside to say howdy. “You aren’t going to do that
dream exacta thing again?” inquires the, ever sensible Sandy, a
printing executive who is also a writer.
“Of course. It’s in my contract,” replies Tyger Williams,
psychic handicapper extraordinary.
Armor’s and Mr. Milty sit in the bright front airy
parlor pouring over the Daily Racing Form. “Who do you like in
the Fifth?” Mr. Milty asks. “It’s a $10,000 claimer.”
The cheap price is about right, the usual fare at the Fair
Grounds. It seems an almost beautiful race track, but like the
city of New Orleans, has seen better times.
“Bayou Reality ran real well last time out, moving
down in class,” Armor’s notes as he scans the printed field.
“Looks as good as anyone in that field. I like the connections.”
Mr. Milty scribbles the information down in his pull-out
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racing section. “Odds are nice at 5-1,” the man of a thousand
faces adds. “It’s a keeper.”
“Hmmm. I like Classy Boat in that race, too. What about
Dangerous Bid?” Mr. Milty continues scouring through the small
print of the racing paper that looks like hieroglyphics to the
uninitiated, but is quite simple to decipher for those with some experience.
“Dangerous Bid? Nah. Big fake rip-off,” according to
Armor’s considered opinion. “They put the Bid in there to make
everybody think it’s a Spectacular Bid kid like Risen Star.
It’s really sired by this other shit horse. Steer like the Titanic clear.”
“You like Bayou Reality over Classy Boat?” Milty continues.
“I’m going to bet them over and under, maybe put
five bucks on Bayou Reality’s nose.”
“Sounds good. I might play that,” Armor’s says.
Sandy and Tyger discuss variations on a theme amongst
the rose bushes and green green grass of home.
“You dreamed about which race last night?” Sandy tentatively probes.
“Focused in on the feature,” Tyger replies. “I visualized
the race track, watching the race from start to finish. Even
heard the track announcer. Saw the winning colors,
purple with a green star. Romero was the jockey
Any of that sound right?”
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“Could be,” Sandy confirms. “Randy has Reason’s Boy in that
race. Reason’s Boy is a great runner. I think he’s going off at
10-1 or 12-1. That’s worth considering. But I like Marfa’s
Missile. That’s a real nice colt.”
The outdoor garden party returns to commingle with its
indoor compatriots. Sandy kisses Mary Ann a fond farewell.
“Y’all have good luck at the track today,” Mary Ann wishes.
“Here. Take some cookies for the road. They should fill you up,
honey before you win all that money.”
Mary Ann is the greatest pastry chef in the free world .
The chain gang, especially Armor’s, scarf up a plate of
chocolate chip giants before cascading like the flooding Pearl
River over the Alexander home’s banks, into Sandy’s Volkswagen Jetta.
The gang is off to play the ponies. Look out, N’awlins’
fellow space jockeys. They’re about to blast off like the Space Shuttle Challenger.
A 10-minute drive down South Carrolton Avenue around City
Park, over to Esplanade Avenue and the boys have reached the
final gates of doom. Mr. Milty and Armor’s spend some quality
quiet time concentrating on the Racing Form.
The art touts make critical marks with respective pencils,
contemplating the immediate future with hopes of victory and some
trepidation borne of past regrets. At least, it keeps them occupied.
Such is part of horse racing·s attraction. Youse make a pick,
.-
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·
youse takes your chances.
Tyger rides along confident in his knowledge of the dream
exacta. To him, the race has already run. It has happened before.
In fact, Tyger picked Fair Grounds winners solely based on
premonition long before he knew how to handicap properly.
His success was unparalleled.
Mr. Milty refused to go with Tyger for a time because
it seemed that every time Tyger won, on the longest of shots, Mr.
Milty lost on favorites. “Hey man, you are stealing my fun,”
concluded Mr. Milty. Fair grounds enough.
Horse racing isn’t about horses at all. It is rather a
reflection of human nature.
We see human foibles and personifications take flight as
airy addenda to the actual situation on the ground. Not to
mention the usual human greed attached to all forms of gambling.
Be that as it may…
Strangely, too, the more expert Tyger became in
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handicapping, the less successful were his dream exacta
selections. Therefore, he saves the method only for special occasions.
As Tyger’s losers conformed more precisely with racing odds
and attitudes, Mr. Milty dropped his objections to attending
races with the post-psychic master. They were playing on a more level surface.
Tyger won far less often, but had more confidence in the
scientific method. So, he continued with the method rather than the madness.
Ahh, Gentilly Boulevard, where Sandy pulls up to the gate,
hands the parking attendant $2, moving along little doggies to
a “lucky” parking place. The boys pile out of the car, floating
through the $1 general admission turnstile over to the Paddock
area where they all buy 75 cent programs.
It is very important for each player to have his own
program, so that he can concentrate better on the action.
That’s just the law of the land, folks.
What a sight the Unfair Grounds are as the last day
of the season with an accumulated Pick Six pool of $95,000 to be
divided that day entices 7,500 “fans” of the “sport of
kings”about2,000 more than usual. No need for LSD here as the
joint trips the light fanatic with colors and bizarre behavior.
“Reminds me of ugly night at the Galleria,” moans Tyger,
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recalling a massive overdose of acid that accompanied the
incredible accumulation of the scariest persons on the planet
later that same evening at the Houston Galleria.
But these ugly patrons are New Orleans’ finest, and by
definition more colorful, interesting and bizarre than any group
of ugly citizens everywhere. Take that, Space City Houston.
Such is another distinguishing mark that makes the Big Easy
special. Besides, language, food, and culture; New Orleanians
are inundated by a phenomenon that even has a moniker.
These rare bird strange unfathomable rara avis souls
are known as “characters.” Better believe it comrades,
they don’t need to be acting to fulfill that role.
The characters are out of their cages inundating the ticky
tacky tracky. They line and ride the rails. They flow in eddy
pools around the Paddock where the horses are being
prepared for battle half-aware.
Some sidle up to the Oak Grill ordering hamburgers and
gumbo. Others camp outside the grandstand heaping the usual
amount of verbal abuse on the poor young jocks.
“Hey there Bruce Poyadou,” screams one gap toothed black man
a mere decibel below the sound barrier. “When ya ever going
to win one? I am sick of losing money on you, babe.”
Poyadou on top of a maiden claimer parading before the
second race — the bottom half of the daily double — rides
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along, shaking his head, laughing. He utters an inaudible
remark to the accompanying hot-walker.
“Hey dere Randy Romero. How’s it hanging,” elderly
thin white man with greasy grey hair and semi-tattered clothing
yells at the meet’s elite leading rider. “Got a winner for me?”
Romero mutters a passing equally unintelligible remark to
the jockey in front of him. Rail birds shake their heads like
cuckoo clocks gone wild.
“What? What? What you say?” the elderly spectator continues
as a chestnut horse stops a moment, seeming to wink at him.
“That’s good enough for me,” he remarks, rushing to the
doors presumably placing a wager inside at the betting terminals .
Meanwhile, the usual practiced behavior takes place in
spades in every possible direction. Patrons spit gigantic gobs of
brown goo anywhere. (Step lively, try to avoid that piece of sickening reality.)
A great looking woman in a short black dress attracts an
inordinate amount of attention. “Whoo-whee, baby,” one sensitive
soul shouts after her ass as she walks briskly shaking her
booty. Da wag wags his tail behind her not sorry butt in subtle mimicry.
Armor’s and Milty have flown the coop to engage in light
wagering on the Pick Six before laying a couple of dollars on
some loser in the Second. This is merely a diversion as they seem
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hell bent on the Fifth, Seventh and Feature race, which is the Tenth.
They bet a few dollars here and there on the others just to
maintain a passing interest. But the big money in their case,
maybe $15 or $20. is reserved for races of maximum interest.
Tyger and Sandy stare down their respective forms. They
perch near the rail by the officials box at the top of the second
longest stretch in America.
Or so the program claims. No one can figure out
where the longest stretch is nor how long it could possibly be.
This one must suffice and seems to stretch near forever.
The long stretch makes for some intriguing picking. The
serious handicapping crowd must keep in mind that principles are
turned on their heads here. One looks for the top closers who can
negotiate the stretch after front runners have burned themselves
out in their dumb-ass equestrian blaze for glory.
“And they are off,” track announcer Tony Bentley calls the
start of the race. “Silent Glory takes the lead followed by
Insignificant Poppism, Fernwood Tonight, Alybaba’s Dada, and six
lengths back along the rail…”
The outside crowd has increased in numbers and intensity, as
the horses round the first turn of a six furlong outing, heading
towards the stretch. Milty and Armor’s are back for the fray.
“Oh man, where is that Salad and Dressing,” Armor’s is
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already complaining. Milty stands in a personal circle merely
shaking his head with an ever souring expression.
“Around the first turn, Alybaba’s Dada, Key to the Locker,”
etc. etc., “and back ten lengths is Fernwood Tonight, bringing up
the rear,” of course, a horse is a horse, Salad and Dressing.
“Armor’s this is all your fault,” Mr. Milty mutters. “I knew
we should have bet on Alybaba’s Dada.” “Hey man, no one twisted
your arm.” “I know but … ”
The crowd blurs as shouting minions rise in a nitrous type
solution of heavy white noise accompanying air thick with grey
cigarette and cigar smoke. They yell as one shaking fist
thrusting through the air. They urge their particular favorites
to victory in every way, shape, and form possible as if horses
and riders could hear them or their plaintiff cries could affect the outcome.
“At the top of the stretch, Alybaba’s Dada; Dr. No No has
gotten in and charging along the rail, here comes Aura of Fire.
There will be no catching him today. Aura of Fire, Alybaba’s
Dada, and a photo for third place.”
Whoosh. Some higher power has let all the nitrous out of the
balloon. It crashes to the ground. The crowd immediately dissipates.
Curious sporting types stand in place watching the tote
board flash official results. Tired losers tear up those evil
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offending tickets, flinging them with disgust to the spit-riddled concrete floor.
A couple of guys dance in the distance with fists
raised in a salute to the winner and their apparent good fortune.
“That a way Aura of Fire,” a redneck yells. “I knew it.”
That redneck mother lucky stiffs it inside to the betting
window for his temporary reward. Horses double back to the
winners circle and officials box while being simultaneously undressed
by Latin inspired attendants. The redneck mother’s karmic slip is
showing. Whaaa …The winning jockey waves his baton in salute.
A well dressed gaggle of dotty looking persons, the owner and his family, walk
to the circle ready to be awarded the proper recognition as a
track photographer snaps their picture with horse and jockey.
Another guy tears up his ticket. “Damned be it,” he mutters.
“I covered every pick but that one. Shit. Had Alybaba’s Dada on
top of Fire.” So it goes. Tons of yelling as usual
as Alybaba’s Dada is posted as second favorite at 7-2.
The blessed winner was an 8-1 long shot.
Payout on a $3 exacta wager is about $100.
“That’s decent,” a just crawled out of the bayou bengal
comments. “We’ll get ’em next time.”
Don’t even ask about Milty and Armor’s. They are busy
looking at the Racing Form plotting their next disaster.
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“Who do you like in the Third?” Armor’s eggs on Milty, The
dismal tenth place finish out of ten horses perpetrated by Salad
and Dressing quickly has been forgotten. “It’s an allowance race
for $25,000 three-year old filly claimers.”
“Hmmmm. Marry Me Mary A. might be a good one,” Milty jokes.
“You like that one, eh Sandy?”
Sandy laughs. “I think I already bet on that one in real life,” he notes.
“Ran at Louisiana Downs last year,” Armor’s adds, not
missing a hoofbeat, “That’s a good sign.”
“How about Cindy’s Candy?” Milty inquires scratching his
slight beard stubble. (He lost that among other items, during
Mardi Gras.) He never shaves on race day mindful of
the Herculean myth.
“That nag. No way,” Armor’s replies. “Big loser at Delta
Downs last month. She sucks.” “Just like you,” Milty taunts.
“Randy is on her,” continues Armor’s referring to the
meet’s leading jock. “Don’t care,” Milty responds. “Don’t care.
Got no chance no how no way, Jose’.”
Sandy stands nearby checking out the program and laughing.
“Dream about this one any?” he asks Tyger.
“Nah,” Tyger answers. “I think I’m going to bet $5 on
MyMindlsOutahere. I always liked that filly. She’s a good closer.
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So it goes through races three through seven.
A few wagers here, a few losers there.
The crowd grows as the feature looms nearer. Some leave,
some arrive, creating an interchangeable mixture of imagery.
Armor’s and Milty — believe it or nuts — are doing
Nicely-Nicely Johnson this day.
They head into late afternoon a bit above even.
Quite satisfied and looking to cement their immediate future
with a killing in the next race.
“We are going to be partying tonight,” Armor’s boldly
predicts. “What else is new?” asks a skeptical Sandy.
Tyger walks into the cavernous black hole that lies just
beneath the $2 grandstand seat surface, into the waiting jaws
of surreal beef jerky. Color television monitors dot the
landscape as do food booths and bars.
A veritable cross-section of persons who seem to have fallen
to earth from other planets careen, bouncing off each other
like crazed self-motivated bumper cars at an amusement park gone
wild. “Where do these people come from?” asks a perplexed Tyger
walking to the betting window.
Smoke hangs in a sickly cloud resembling Los Angeles on the
smoggiest day of a summer inversion representing yet another bit
of awfulness with a small “a”. Tough to understand the
self-immolation styrohead set.
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“What the hell is wrong with them?” Tyger asks himself while
coughing loudly. Right there is the main reason he prefers to stand outside.
Tyger picks a betting window with a short line. He places $5
to win, $3 to show on Number Seven, “Where’s the Bleep,” and $3
over and under on “Where’s the Bleep,” with Two, Five, Eight, and Nine.
Ahhh, and give the dear boy $2 to win on Number Two,
“Hate Yo Mama.” That is a hunch bet.
Tyger walks up the stairs to the facility’s second floor.
More of the same, and kind of depressing.
Horseplayers and their fellow travelers walk around in
respective haze like zombies oblivious to surroundings.
They stare blank pages at the ever unfolding story hoping
for a flood of good fortune to wash away those earthly troubles.
An entire gamut of human emotion washes across the linoleum
checkered floor sweeping away more mundane thoughts of current
conditions. Poor saps will have more than enough time to cope
with their daily routines between now and the opening of
Jefferson Downs in Kenner. That occurs the following Wednesday.
For the eternal moment, this huge pack of rats and a few
artistic mice are frozen like figures on a Grecian urn turning
ever yearning towards the Eighth Race post parade as they
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silently watch second floor monitors for wagering clues.
The future for these poor huddled masses is now. Like Raider
owner Al Davis said, just win baby. It doesn’t matter what it takes.
How fortunate for the fatass cigar smoking touts, and
nice guys finishing last that they aren’t actually running
themselves. At least this way. vicariously betting on dumb
beasts of burden, they have a mathematical chance,
no matter how slim, of victory.
How easy it is to forget the many humiliating defeats
preceding, doubtless following in that moment of pure ecstasy
of complete victory. Winning for a moment suspends that
moment in space-time forever.
Tyger cites the words of John Keats to a nearby lout. “John
Keats?” the short in stature long in snout nose answers.
“Doesn’t he jock at Pimlico Park?”
“Never mind.”
Such powerful intoxication over-rides all other
considerations and sensibilities. Authorities encourage this
activity while banning substances that are good for the soul like sweet marijuana.
Who is in charge here anyway? Like the black soldier answers
in Oliver Stone’s Platoon, “You’re not?”
Solly Cholly. No one seems to know what is going down or what
they are doing. Communal amnesia blankets the horse and bugger set.
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Everyone sets aside those earthly cares and heavenly goals
to concentrate instead on more pressing matters like the Daily
Racing Form, figuring out bets, mining strangers for
misinformation, losing their heads as some gelding grabs the
brass ring, or finding their souls swept along on a magic carpet
ride of universal desire. Fools and buffoons,
jerks and great artists they might be, God bless them every one.
It is difficult in the final analysis to hate the beast who
knows not what he does. In this way comrades, we must pity the
poor horse playing gambling addicts and wish them Bonne Chance on
this the last day of blissful ignorance at the UnFair Grounds until
the season traditionally re-opens later that year on Thanksgiving Day.
Enough of the upstairs-downstairs shit for Tyger Williams.
He rejoins the in-crowd near the finish line ready to be
appraised of the latest statistical updates of fate.
“Sandy won the last race. Milty and I blew it. Big bummer,”
Armor’s recapitulates. “I haven’t a clue what happened to Mr.
Milty after that. He said he had to go away for a minute,
never returned. I guess that means he won’t be coming back.
“Yeah,” Sandy adds, “Mr. Milty is the master of the tasteful exit.
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Couldn’t get out of the Superdome fast enough when we
went to the Saints playoff game. I think he lasted a quarter.”
“Guess he’ll find his way home alright,” Tyger replies.
“He always seems to anyway.”
“That Mr. Milty,” Sandy adds. “I stopped trying to
understand him years ago. He is as inscrutable as one of those
damn faces he paints. I hope for his sake he becomes a great
artist some day. I don’t know what else he could do if he weren’t.”
Kaleidoscope of horse flesh fills tableau visual
around and around deep dirt track, followed by winners and
losers galore. Tote board lights flash as do the eyes of
momentary victors to whom small spoils are awarded.
Losers cry and try to get it back at the next opportunity.
One never knows. Maybe something good will happen.
Tyger’s personal fortune that day reflects the totality of
the collective experience. He busts on the Eighth Race, but picks
up a healthy payback in the Ninth as Mickey’s Flashback
uncharacteristically wires the mile-and-a-quarter field.
Sometimes one can win while choosing a horse for the wrong
reasons. Mickey’s Flashback looked like a closer and with a name like that.
Couple that pick, as Tyger does, with the Number Three
horse, Mardi Gras Honey, and he takes a healthy $85 cut out of
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future losses. Even the likes of Tyger can feel like a winner for
a fleeting moment. Coming on to feature time,
the $50,000 added Last Chance Sweepstakes, the crowd saddles up
for one final fling. “Oh lawdy over there,” points the Sandman.
“A fat lady is singing.” A small wiry semi-derelict dances a demented jig
by the starting gate. Pete Fountain in the flesh blows the post parade call
on his crazy clarinet. He mixes the classic call of the post parade in an odd
medley with “Do You Know What It Means to Miss New Orleans,” and
“When the Saints Come Marching In.”
Horses display varying degrees of enthusiasm as they
prance around the track. Some snuggle into their walking mates.
Others rear their long neck heads, looking over the ragtag crowd,
deciding if they feel like running this final day.
Loud, foul mouthed bettors provide the usual verbal abuse
squad accompaniment. “Hey Simington. I hear you’re
sleeping around.” “Man. That Tonkaton’s Nightmare again.
I have nightmares just thinking of that motherfucker.”
“Hey Randy Romero, get a real job.”
Oh sorry, that is not just any anonymous oaf. That comment
is vintage gangplank talk emitted by Armor’s Tungsten’s tongue
a’wagging. His head is still locked in Carnival carnage.
Sandy looks in Tyger’s direction as the object of the dream
exacta pulls into view exhibiting the pre-visualized
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instructions. “Reason’s Boy?” Sandy asks hesitantly.
“Looks like a winner to me, baby,” Tyger answers. “Floating along at 15-1.”
Sandy puts $20 on the bay colt’s head — a very large wager
for the usually cautious family man — while Tyger, true to the
dream exacta promise, wheels the field under Reason’s Boy in a $3
exacta that comes to a total of $33, adding $7 to win. The boys
return, preparing with Armor’s to watch the race.
Armor’s has decided he is finished forever with this crap.
He watches the tote board for innocent amusement, eating large
scoops of popcorn recently purchased as a consolation prize.
He went down $40 for the day.
The crowd hushes for a brief instant as the horses approach
the starting gate at the far end of the track. And they’re off.
“Split Season with the early lead, followed by Secret
Taipan, BottomOfTheBarrel, Closet Cooty, Marfa’s Missile, and
Presidential Bid. And around the turn it’s…” Blah blah blah blah
Where the hell is Reason’s Boy?
A few million light-year eons pass as the horses round the
far turn. It takes the horses about 44:4 seconds in real time
according to the flashing tote board. Reason’s Boy has launched
with final odds of 14-1.
Tyger looks everywhere for the horse and can’t seem to pick
him up the 12 horse field. Sandy gives in to the forces of
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discouraging darkness, staring daggers
below the bottoms of his shoes.
Armor’s busies himself throwing popcorn kernels in the air,
attempting to catch them with his open fish mouth.
“At the to of the stretch, Presidential Bid, Secret
Taipan, Fair Warning three wide. Falling five lengths
back to Misogyny, Closet Cooty, Marfa’s Missile and…
charging on the outside Reason’s Boy. Reason’s Boy…”
You rang Maynard G. Krebs Gilligan’s Island breath?
Suddenly, Sandy snaps to attention. He and Tyger
muscle themselves past some old black guys,
springing up to the rail. The hell with them.
“Making a run down the back stretch. Presidential Bid, Secret Taipan,
Reason’s Boy two lengths back … ”
Sandy is beside himself, fists thrusting high in the sky,
yelling, “Reason’s Boy! Reason’s Boy!
You can do it baby! Come on baby’ Reason’s Boy!”
But it is a funny thing. Sandy’s voice is lost in the intense sound
swirling like a tornado sweeping up every object in its terrific wake,
spitting them out somewhere somehow down the track of human consciousness.
Tyger, too, is swept away in excitement and has joined Sandy.
“You can do it! You can do it! You can do it!”
“Down the final furlong…” Horses galloping
past the Sandy-Tyger connection going a million light years a second,
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merging blurs along the main line passing.
“It is Presidential Bid, Reason’s Boy second and Secret Taipan third.”
Ahhhhhh. Sandy expels another ahhhhhh.
Tyger’s body goes limp with a feeling of the most ultimate agony of defeat.
“Oh well,” Sandy says, turning to Tyger in the tank.
“You can’t win them all.” “Shit,” Tyger replies.
But wait. Hold your stinking horses.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,”
track announcer intercedes from loudspeakers above,
“Results are not official. Please hold all tickets.”
Too late for disillusioned some.
“There has been a steward’s inquiry. Hold all tickets.”
Sandy and Tyger, suddenly resurrected, exchange subtle glances.
“No way,” Sandy says. “Way,” says Tyger.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the now deified track announcer rambles.
“After further review by order of the stewards,
Presidential Bid is disqualified for bumping in the stretch and
placed third behind Secret Taipan. The official winner is…”
Sandy and Tyger yell the sacred name together with track announcer Tony Bentley.
“Reason’s Boy!!!” Followed by “Yes!”
“Results are official. The winner is Reason’s Boy,
a bay colt out of Turn To Reason, ridden by Randy Romero,
owned by Mr. and Mrs. Rocky Singleton;
second is Secret Taipan; third, Presidential Bid.
The running time of One Minute 43 Seconds … ”
The payoff lights the tote board like the Fourth of July.
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“$28.50 to win, $13.60 to place, $6.00 to show;
Exacta 7-4 pays $662,”
Tyger reads the results in shock as they Jumping Jack Flash.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Sandy, who is jumping for joy, chimes in
like an astral projection beside himself in glee.
He does a little touchdown celebration dance.
“That’s about $285 for me. Reason’s Boy. Yes! Just say yes, baby.”
Tyger scribbles the results in his program figuring he is
set to collect about $730. “Wow,” he finally manages to expel.
Armor’s looks at the scene with more than a touch of
bewilderment. “Damn. Why don’t I ever listen
to that damn Williams? Damn.”
Sandman and Tygermeister did not need a Volkswagen Jetta to
drive the four miles back to the resting lions at Pritchard
Place. They could have flown home on the wings
of pure unadulterated happiness.
“How did you do Honey?” Mary Ann asks sweetly as they soar
like victorious archangels through the opening front door.
“Not bad. Not bad,” Sandy replies winking at Tyger.
“Not too badly at all.”
“Well, isn’t that nice.”
As, they say, God watches out for children,
drunks and fools.”
Surveillance final CH. 19