GODDESS SEEN IN BOWL OF GUMBO
by Joseph Boudreaux, Staff Writer
The Goddess Kali is known in Hinduism as the Mother and Destroyer of Creation. But can she make a roux?
In a twist on the well-known Jesus-in-the-plate-of-spaghetti theme, Parvata Sanjay of India spied the Hindu goddess in his bowl during a recent visit to New Orleans, while sampling the seafood gumbo at a popular French Quarter restaurant. “Her four terrible arms were outstretched,” said Sanjay, “and her bloody, lolling tongue was clearly visible. It was only a pattern in the soup, formed by the oil on the surface, but I believe all patterns have significance.”
Might Mr. Sanjay have sampled a few Dixie beers as well?
The Calcutta native plans to continue his American travels in North Carolina, where he says he wants to try the barbecue.
Zach added the sequence of characters that meant an editor had approved his copy. Then with a few more key-strokes he sent it on its merry way to the printing department, where it joined the other stories ready to be printed in next Sunday’s edition. It was easier to bury items in the Sunday paper—they were hungry for filler and didn’t look twice at the shit that came in.
He knew Eddy would be watching the paper for hidden news of him. The mention of Kali would catch her eye, and she might also notice that he had reversed the Indian surname and first name. Calling the guy Mr. Parvata Sanjay was something like calling an American Mr. Rogers Fred.
Other friends and outlaws might see it and recognize his hand too. Maybe some of Them would see it too, for that matter, but Zach didn’t think They would connect it with a hacker on the run.
He logged out and broke the phone connection, turned off the computer, and carried it back out to his car. A quick pee in the pink-tiled bathroom, room key left in the door, and Zach was gone. After sleeping all day he was ready to drive all night, and anyway he couldn’t stand the thought of lying there in that slick red heart-shaped bed, staring at his own lonely, horny body in the mirror overhead.
South of the Border disappeared behind him. Soon it was only a faint fuchsia glow on the horizon. As the night deepened and the traffic thinned to nothing, it seemed to Zach that the whole country lay over the next rise, around the next bend of the highway all lit up and wide awake, violent and strange and joyous, just waiting for him to come find it.
Trevor didn’t know what he expected to see inside the Rambler as the driver’s window wound down: a grinning skeleton dirt-crusted and worm-festooned, dry bone finger beckoning him in? His father’s flesh restored, black shades balanced on his blade of a nose, intense eyes blazing through smoky lenses? Or Bobby as he had looked the last time Trevor saw him, dead eyes bulging, tongue jutting like a rotten melon, chin and bare scrawny chest slicked with drool, streaked with gore?
Whatever he expected, it wasn’t the smiling face of Terry Buckett, the affable second-generation hippie who had introduced himself at the bar last night. The owner of the record store, Trevor remembered. Procurer of jazz sides, retailer of the magic that had made Bird so little money during his own lifetime.
“Hey, Trevor Black. It’s pouring down rain, or didn’t you notice? Catch a ride, man.”
Terry cocked a thumb toward the passenger door. Trevor made himself walk around the front of the car, heard wet gravel crunching under his feet though he could not feel it, heard the roar and thrum of the idling engine. Perched high on its wheels, the Rambler looked like a child’s sketch of an automobile, a small rectangle atop a larger one precariously balanced on two circles. It was a boxy, plain, yet somehow rakish machine. It was not the sort of car in which you expected to see a ghost; it was not the sort of car you expected to be a ghost.
Trevor raised his left hand and wrapped his fingers around the door handle. It was cold to the touch, beaded with rain. He pulled the heavy door open and slid in, across the dirty-white vinyl seat his butt had polished in cloth diapers and Osh-Kosh overalls, the seat that had stuck to the backs of his legs when it was hot, the seat that Didi had peed on a couple of times, though most of his accidents had been confined to the back.
Terry lounged comfortably on the other side of the seat, curly hair pulled back in a faded blue bandanna, dark amused eyes looking Trevor up and down. Terry’s features were blunt, not quite handsome; his bushy eyebrows nearly met over the bridge of his nose, and he needed a shave. But his face had a friendly, squared look, a face that wouldn’t take any bullshit but wouldn’t give you any either. Make him a little seedier-looking and he could have been a character drawn by Crumb.
Terry put the car in gear, eased off the clutch, and started rolling down Burnt Church Road again. He seemed to be in no great hurry to get anywhere.
“Where did you get this car?” Trevor asked.
“Aw, I’ve had it forever. Kinsey used to help me fix it whenever it broke down, but I’ve learned to do most of the work myself. I love these old engines. No damn electronics to get fucked up, just a bunch of metal and grease. You know these wipers still run on vacuum tubes?” Terry indicated the slushing windshield wipers as though pointing out an artifact of some forgotten civilization. “Something else Kinsey told me about this car. It used to belong to a famous cartoonist who killed himself here in Missing Mile. Pretty weird, huh?”
Trevor sagged back in the seat and let out a long unsteady breath. Terry glanced over. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah.” He sat up, swiped water out of his eyes. His shirt was sticking to his skin, outlining his ribs. His jeans were sodden, unpleasantly heavy. “Just wet. And cold.”
“Well, look, I was going into town to do some errands, but my house is just back down the road. You want to stop by there and towel off? I’ll even give you a dry T-shirt, I’ve got a million of ’em.”
“No, I’m fine—”
But Terry was already turning the car around. “I forgot to get stoned before I left anyway. Consider it done.”
A couple of minutes later the Rambler turned into a long gravel driveway and stopped in front of a small wooden house whose paint was not so much peeling as fraying at the edges. A couple of rocking chairs were stationed on the porch among various whirligigs, wagon wheels, pirated street signs, and crates of empty beer bottles. Country kitsch gone weird.
Terry led the way up the porch steps, through the towers of junk, and unlocked the front door. “Watch out for the hex sign. It’s supposed to be bad luck to step on it or something.”
Trevor looked down as he crossed the threshold. Someone had painted two interlocking triangles, one red and one blue, with a silver ankh at their juncture. “What’s it for?”
“Don’t ask me. This house belongs to my friend Ghost, who’s even spookier than you might guess from his name. His grandmother was some kind of witch.”
“He isn’t here, is he?” Trevor hoped he wasn’t about to meet yet another of Missing Mile’s friendly freaks. He had only wanted a ride, not an impromptu afternoon party.
“No, his band is on tour. Extended tour. I’m minding the farm, which means free rent and a lifetime supply of good karma.”
“How come?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Terry shrugged. “Miz Deliverance was a good witch. What color shirt do you want?”
“Black.”
“But of course.”
Terry tossed him a cotton T-shirt printed with the Whirling Disc logo—a little long-haired man who looked like a hippie version of the man on the Monopoly game, twirling a record on the end of his candy-striped cane—and pointed him down the hall to the bathroom. Trevor placed his wet feet carefully on the mellow hardwood floors. He was intrigued by the idea of a house with good karma, a house that held memories of love and music.
He pulled the heavy wooden door of the bathroom shut behind him, tugged his wet shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. It was just a plain black tee like almost every other shirt Trevor owned; he had one with a pocket, but that was getting fancy. The little Whirling Disc man was a radical departure for him.
Trevor unbound his ponytail, leaned over the old clawfoot bathtub and wrung a stream of water from his hair. Then he rumpled it with a towel and let it hang loose to dry. It rippled halfway down his back, ginger like Bobby’s, shot through with a few strands of pale gold like Momma’s.
The mirror in the bathroom made him nervous; he had a strong sense of someone looking back at him from its depths. He put his lips close against the wavy silver surface, whispered “Who is it?” But nothing answered. There was only his own high pale forehead melding with its own reflection, his own eyes merging into one misshapen transparent orb that stared mercilessly back at him, his own long somber face dissolving to mist at the edges. He stood back from the mirror and watched his nipples shiver erect, his skin prickle into goosebumps.
Trevor pulled the Whirling Disc shirt over his head and hurried back down the hall to the living room, where Terry was just firing up a fat, pungent joint.
“I don’t suppose you do this?” Terry asked after a long toke. Blue smoke leaked out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth; narrowing his eyes against it, he looked sybaritic and handsomer than before. Trevor hesitated. Terry held out the joint, waggled it enticingly.
What the hell, Trevor decided, and reached out to take it with his left hand. He’d smoked pot before, but not for a long time, and never much. It had been one of Bobby’s drugs. But pot had never made Bobby puke and sob like a baby, had never made him pick up the hammer or whispered in his ear how he might use it. And Bobby had smoked it when he was drawing. Trevor thought it might be good to try some right before he went in the house.
So he wrapped his lips around the wrinkled end of the joint, slightly damp with Terry’s spit but not unpleasantly so, and took a deep drag.
Big mistake.
He hadn’t eaten anything since Kinsey’s dubious noodle soup last night at the club, hadn’t drunk anything but a few Cokes and a warm, noxious Jolt. Suddenly his stomach felt like a small pouch of cracked and shriveled leather, his tissues and the meat of his brain felt scorched by the fire that burned inside him.
The joint slipped from his fingers and skittered down his arm, leaving a long singed trail along the old tracework of scars. He heard Terry say something, felt his knees begin to buckle.
Big round bursts of light appeared in front of his eyes, blue and red and sparkly silver, spinning like crazy constellations. Then blackness waltzed in and wiped them all away.
Terry couldn’t believe it when the kid collapsed on his living-room floor. He had seen stoners toked to the point of zombification, staring at a TV screen as if it might bring nirvana. He had seen drinkers gone to drooling stupor in every sort of compromising position and location, including on the toilet. He had even seen a nodding junkie or two. But never in his twenty-eight years had Terry Buckett watched anyone pass out from one toke on a joint.
He retrieved the burning spliff from the folds of Trevor’s shirt, patted down the kid’s scrawny chest to make sure no stray embers were setting him aflame, checked out the glowing end of the joint but saw nothing amiss, smelled nothing weird. The pot couldn’t be laced with anything: Terry had already rolled three or four joints out of this particular bag, which came from a trusted source. His own buzz was just starting to tickle the edges of his brain, leafy and benign. It was nothing but good Carolina homegrown. This pale trembling youth must be in pretty sorry shape.
He checked to see if Trevor was breathing, gently pulled up one of his eyelids to make sure he hadn’t had a brain embolism or something. The silvery-pale eye glared at Terry, making him think Trevor was in there somewhere, not too far away. As he wedged a cushion from the sofa under Trevor’s lolling head, the kid started muttering, “… m’okay … fine …”
“Yeah, you look great,” said Terry. He went to the kitchen, found a dishrag that was mostly clean, ran it under cold water, went back and draped it over Trevor’s face. Trevor raised a limp hand to swipe at it, got halfway, then let the hand fall like a dead white bird by his side.
“Hang loose,” Terry told him. “Don’t go away.” He paused beside the stereo and scanned the portion of his vast record collection he had already managed to cart over here, wondering what music Trevor might like to surface from oblivion with. Jazz was one of the few categories Terry’s collection lacked; he liked it okay but had never accumulated any of his own, had always vaguely figured it was the sort of music you had to be an expert on to really appreciate.
Finally he selected an old Tom Waits album, dropped the needle on it, and returned to the kitchen to be a gracious host.
Trevor woke with a damp sour-smelling membrane over his face and a strange guttural voice groaning in his ears. He clawed frantically at the membrane and it came away in his hands; cold and dank and foul. How long had he been gone? It felt like minutes but could have been an hour, no more; the light hadn’t changed.
The walls seemed to tower toward an infinitely high point overhead. They were decorated with vintage acid rock posters whose lurid colors swirled and gyred, the bands’ names taunting him: Jimi Hendrix Experience, Captain Beefheart, Strawberry Alarm Clock. All had been in his parents’ record collection.
The room was furnished much like his childhood home in Austin: bookshelves of cinder blocks and particleboard, comfortable sofa with sagging cushions and the nap on the arms worn thin, table that looked like a refugee from someone else’s trash pile. Early Starving Artist, or Poverty Deco. Trevor saw parts of Terry’s drum set strewn about the room, a cymbal in the corner, a snare propped between a bookcase and the doorway that led to the hall. There was only one difference between this stranger’s house and the one he remembered living in with his family: this one felt somehow safe. His parents’ home had felt safe once too, but that was so long ago Trevor could barely remember.
He tried to sit up and felt his brain starting to spiral off into the ether again. A snippet of dialogue from Krazy Kat drifted through his mind: Just imegine having your “ectospasm” running around william & nilliam among the unlimitless etha’—golla, it’s imbillivibil—
Imbillivibil it was. Yet it would seem he’d swooned in Terry’s living room, or whoever’s living room this was. How fucking embarrassing. Terry didn’t seem to be around, and Trevor thought that when he felt able to stand he might just slink out of this safe place, walk the rest of the way into town, then out to Violin Road.
Yes, that was what he thought he would do—until he smelled the aroma wafting from the kitchen. It rooted him to the floor, made his nostrils flare and his head throb with longing. Oily-dark, bitter-rich, utterly compelling.
Coffee.
* * *
Terry finished making two generous sandwiches, poured two mugs of joe, picked up the plate in one hand and both steaming coffees in the other. Precariously he edged back through the kitchen, into the living room, and held out the mugs to Trevor. “Do you want sugar or—”
He was surprised again when the kid seized a mug and drank down the hot black coffee in what looked like a single swallow. Terry winced, imagining the bitter brew blazing down his own smoke-seared throat, but Trevor just sighed and licked his lips and held up the empty mug. “Can I have another?”
“Should I just bring the whole pot?”
“Yes.” He seemed serious, so Terry went back to the kitchen and got it, along with the bag of sugar and a couple of spoons. Trevor poured himself another cup, stirred in a meager spoonful of sugar almost as an afterthought, and drank half of it at once. Terry took his first sip. “I thought you could use a bite to eat too.”
“What is it?” Trevor hadn’t noticed the plate of sandwiches until now.
“Olive loaf and mustard on whole grain.”
“Olive loaf?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of a classic around here. A while back, Kinsey wanted to have New Orleans Night at the Yew and serve muffuletta sandwiches, right? But he didn’t know how to make the Italian olive salad. So he made these fucked-up things on sub rolls with boiled ham, slice
d pepperoni, and olive loaf. They were awful but we all choked ’em down. Since then I’ve kind of gotten to like it.”
Trevor took a sandwich and bit cautiously at the very edge of it, stayed poker-faced, managed not to shudder. Then he seemed to inhale and the whole thing was gone. He picked up the other half of the sandwich and repeated the process, then poured himself another cup of coffee.
“You, uh, want me to fix another pot of java?”
“I don’t know.” Trevor looked up, and an odd shadow passed over his face. It was as if he had managed to relax for a few minutes, to let down a little of his guard, and then he had suddenly remembered some awful thing he had to do. “Maybe I better just go.”
“It’s okay, man. I’m in no hurry. That’s the whole point of owning a business, you know—you set your own hours and pay people good money, nobody yells at you if you’re a little late.” Or a little stoned.
Spooning coffee out of its foil bag, Terry mused over the enigma in his living room. There was something very strange about this new kid: he seemed nervous and aloof, but at the same time terribly lonely. It was as if he had no social skills, as if he were some kind of space alien who had read extensively about people and their habits and customs, maybe wanted to know more, but was only now making first contact.
And he put away java the way Terry’s car chugged motor oil. Terry wondered what Trevor was trying to stay awake for.
One thing was certain: Missing Mile had itself another live one.
Trevor stayed long enough to drink most of the second pot of coffee. Terry finished the joint and ran his mouth in what seemed like a friendly way, talking about music, the town, even comics once he found out Trevor drew them. Trevor didn’t usually talk about it, but Terry asked so many questions that he couldn’t help answering some.
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