Awakenings Chapter 2

Awakenings

   The boss, Howard Stanfield, called Chris in for a meeting early in the day. What could this fucking be about?? Chris wondered. He felt  that it had to be good because he’d worked hard and long hours in the field.

   
  Months earlier Chris had even left a long overdue vacation on a day’s notice;  he raced back from California to New Orleans to assist in news coverage for an impending hurricane bearing down on the Crescent City.

   
  He just knew that his hard work and experience had paid off this time. Yes! This MUST be a good gesture from Howard, especially since there were so many less experienced people in this news room, he thought.

  "...We’ve gotta cut your assignments back, Chris. Hey buddy…it’s just corporate belt tightening, all the news rooms have been forced to do it.  Advertising dollars and budgets are razor thin right now…nothing personal.”  This was the last thing that Chris heard today, before his final decent into self medicated despair..

   
  Less experienced co workers translate into “they’ll work cheaper.” So much for a good meeting.

Chris’ heart sank; he wondered if this day would ever end.

As another ear deafening crash of thunder and blinding lightning exploded through the narrow streets of Mid City, Chris finally became unable to support his body; his’ hands slowly slid down, again, the wrought iron gate surrounding the shop as the thunder relentlessly increased in cadence.

     
  He forced his head upward, as if to be airing his grievances directly to God.  

    "...Eli, Eli LAMA Sabachtani??"  Chris shouted in Latin from the book of Matthew.  Why have you forsaken me, God? 

  As he stared at the black sky above, the rain assaulted his face with such intensity that it was difficult to catch his breath.

   
  He struggled to hold his head up when an old metal Christmas tree angel caught his eye; he’d placed the ornament atop one of the gate spires over a month ago.

   
  In a neighborhood where the most obscure of belongings were routinely stolen, the populace seemed to be God fearing, if nothing else. Honor among thieves, Chris assumed.  None of these kids would even think about touching that angel. And they didn’t.

   
  Chris found the small angel in a box that Erin had asked him to discard; figuring it to be inappropriate to toss an angel in the trash, he placed it atop a lone spire.  She looked like she belonged there, he thought. Weathered,  but pretty.

   
  Her presence seemed majestic, as if to be watching over all who passed through this obscure little street that Chris called home.  Deep down, he felt an odd sense of comfort that,  perhaps she was looking over him.

   
  He looked at it every single day but never thought he’d be looking up at the heavenly figure with such desperation and loss of hope.

     
  Chris had grown to hate this street, out of unbearable envy. Just a mere four doors down, the remainder of his block was filled with families, laughter, friends and neighbors. It felt like an invisible fence or a moat, preventing him from trespassing on the castle grounds where happiness and comfort prevailed.

   
  Each day, he witnessed neighbors lounging on their flower adorned porches playing cards; the decadent aroma of home cooked meals swept from the kitchen to the street as kids played basketball and fans watched Saints football games together.

   
  Everywhere Chris looked, seemingly, happy couples and families surrounded him; a reminder of a life that he longed for once again. He hated walking past them; he grew incredibly bitter towards them.

   Their happiness represented a punishing reminder of everything, at least in his troubled mind, that he couldn’t have. It reminded him that someone else was now getting that from Erin, while he was held captive in an ordinary life full of struggles and sadness; day in and day out; it seemed unfair.

   
  As Chris would soon learn, today was anything BUT an ordinary day.

   
  Throughout history, unexplained events have visited many folks in New Orleans. Real or imagined, New Orleans is, notably, a city known for the supernatural.  There’s even an entire tourism industry dedicated to the subject.

     
  Chris didn’t particularly buy into it nor did he believe those stories.

   “...Folklore horseshit!” He dismissed.

 Bullshit that was passed from generation to generation; growing in embellishment with each telling. But, something curious was about to provide a moment of levity for Chris on this stormy, dark street tonight.

    A bright light caught the corner of his eye. He struggled to focus on the gate where the angel sat.  An eerie, almost warm, light emanated from the direction of the gate spire and radiated a spectacular shade of blue that Chris had never seen before.  

   
  Where was it coming from? He wondered. I’m hallucinating, he dismissed. Too much to drink coupled with very little sleep for a week. This isn’t happening, he concluded as he blasphemously laughed toward the sky.

   The light disappeared as quickly as it came and, in an instant, Chris’ head sank; the rains stingingly pummeled his body. He was sure that it was time; this was his sign.

   
  He reached into his pocket and grabbed a bottle of pills that a friend had given him to help calm his nerves and get some sleep.

   
  Chris fumbled with the lid and emptied the rest of the bottle into his mouth; ready to go home; he’d finally had enough. No one will miss him, not now, he reasoned.

     
  He thought about lost love and a life that was. A life that used to  be. just three short years ago, so much more full of hope and potential. Chris sank, face first, to the ground and began to cry.

   
  The rains continued to pound his body as if they were trying to wash him away. Or maybe cleanse his soul. A mixture of sludge, water and debris from the storm drainage grate crashed against his almost lifeless body.  As he saw it, a deserving fate had finally arrived.  He felt ready. 

    He knew that he didn’t have much time before the pills and alcohol mixed, finally excusing him from a life that he wished undone. Why couldn’t he just erase the slate and go back? He KNEW for sure that he would make better decisions

   
   He would never get involved with Angela or Erin. He resolved that the three of them would ultimately be better off by not crossing paths.

   Chris lay crying and praying; replaying many troubling events in his mind, trying to make sense of it all.  He lay on the ground, waiting to die while fiercely beating himself up for the past.

   Maybe, instead of marrying Angela, he would have pursued the interest that he held for Erin. Maybe he would have simply better appreciated life. He would have done so many things differently, he regretfully thought. Maybe he and his dear friend,  Marie,  could be roommates,  and bitch about life together while watching TV and playing board games, as they loved to do to ignore the scars of life.

Chris took a large gasp, his body illuminated in the warm blue glow in front of the gate before passing out. His heart stopped.  

“...What the fuck is this crazy bitch doin?” A voice rang from the street.

   
  A neighborhood gang, known as Dumaine block (D-Block) approached as Chris lay unconscious, face down  in the gravel under his guardian angel.

“...Yo, see what the fuck this crazy ass white boy got on him and let’s get the fuck outta here, Thomas,” one of the guys commanded.

   
  Thomas is one of five young men who belong to this notorious neighborhood gang.  He knelt down to Chris as his friends looked on.  Thomas spotted an expensive watch on Chris' left wrist...along with an empty pill bottle; the lingering aroma of whiskey was nauseating.  

    Thomas has been in and out of jail since he was 15. He still runs with a gang because society, he feels, will never give him the chance he deserves. He’s an unlikely gang member in many ways.

   
  He secretly wants to own an auto repair shop someday. Thomas has goals; his vision, unlike that of his friends, is not myopic. He’s always held an entrepreneurial ambition.

   He’s quite gifted in the area of auto mechanics, a talent which serves him well at such a point where life finds him, since he and the boys steal and strip cars for "chop-shops" routinely, making a race pit crew look like shade tree mechanics.

   Thomas was raised by his Auntie after his mom and dad died in a car accident when he was seven. He knows there’s something better for him but, like Chris, he feels that the cards are stacked too high. It’s sometimes easier to give up. The path of least resistance can be an inviting and convenient prospect...something Chris knew too well. Something gang recruiters and bosses also know, all too well.

   Thomas’ aunt taught him, as his parents before her, to be a God fearing person. He was taught right from wrong and provided the necessary tools, love and support to succeed. But, in a world where so few second chances are afforded, one must do whatever it takes to survive…especially when you‘re in a gang as a result of bad decisions. 

  Thomas liked the acceptance and bond that the gang provided. It filled a void left behind when his parents were killed.  These guys were the only people in society who didn’t judge him.

     
  Maintaining the status quo is easier than crawling out; a cornerstone of gang life. On the streets, it’s kill or be killed; a creed that comes with the territory when accepting membership.

   A moving target at all times, by accepting the lifestyle of a gang, one must accept hard truths. There’s a bead, always planted squarely on your head. Be it a rival gang, the police or a lone vigilante; the bead is always there, ready to exact an end.

  

   For those who don’t look over their shoulder, the end is less than desirable and, many times, sooner than expected. Sadly.

   Thomas continued to snoop through Chris’ pockets before looking back to the guys who eagerly watched from the curb.

“...Nothin! This is a damn crazy ass white boy, ya’ heard me?” Thomas assured. “...He done took a bottle of fuckin’ pills. He’ll be dead pretty soon.”

“Well let’s take the shit he got on him and get the fuck outta here before he dies, son,” one of the guys demanded.

“...Yeah, Thomas, get this niggah’s shit and go before we get blamed with killin’ this crazy motherfucker,” another pressed.

   
  Thomas looked up to the gate spire where the angel above Chris’ head curiously caught his attention.  He looked back down at the watch.  Reaching into Chris’ pockets, Thomas felt the wad of money. “...You fuckin’ crazy, boy,” Thomas whispered to Chris.

“I’m tellin’ ya’, this boy ain’t got shit but a cheap ass watch on and no money in his pockets. Let’s go; he’ll be dead soon.  If he don’t die, he’ll positively feel like shit tomorrow, believe dat” Thomas assured the guys as he snaggeds $20 from Chris'pocket before rising to his feet.

      

  The gang moved on; Thomas casually glanced back as he and his friends walked ahead.

 Something haunted Thomas about seeing this pathetic man lying in the street, left to die.  "...He'll absolutely be dead, soon," Thomas thought. 

   
  He fixed his eyes again to the top of the gate, staring at the angel.
 
  He wondered how it came to this for Chris. He wondered if that could be him someday. He wondered if the life that he’d been living held the same fate as that of Chris, only lying riddled with bullets, left to die alone.

   
  These were the demons that haunted Thomas late at night, hidden behind bravado and denial. Hidden behind  loose sanctuary  that life as a gang member falsely  provided.  Seeing Chris on the ground, practically dead, conjured worries from the hidden, dark reaches of his mind. His choices.   He wondered how two diametric opposite people as he and Chris  could meet the same fate. 

“...C’mon Thomas, what the fuck? You wanna go back and cuddle with crazy bitch?” One of his guys heckled. 

“Fuck you!” Thomas snapped.

   
  About an hour had passed and Thomas knew that he should be heading back to his aunt’s house. She nags him about the streets “...bein’ nothin’ but trouble at night and he had no business out in it.”

   
  He also knew that what punishment God didn’t dole out in the after-life, his aunt could more than make up for in this life. Plus he had a seven year old girl who he loves dearly and he was ready to hug her right now, especially after seeing Chris on that street tonight.

   
  The mother of Thomas’ child died a year ago; an accidental casualty of a stray bullet in a gang related street shooting; a bullet that was intended for Thomas and one of his friends.  The world had become increasingly tough for Thomas to understand. Unforgiving and unfair, he thought, as did Chris.

   
  Thomas felt as though the walls were closing on all sides around him and the ceiling was slowly crumbling, with no way to crawl out. The gang was his only sense of being. Finally, he felt important, for once in his life. He knew the risks involved with this lifestyle, but it was a small price to pay for a feeling of inclusiveness; something he told himself again and again.

   
It felt damn good…most of the time.

   
  Thomas felt some regret about the life he’d been living and his daughter, Felicia, is probably his saving grace. A lifeboat of sorts. His new girlfriend was on his mind now, too. He wondered if Chris had anyone in his life.

“...Somebody gotta know this white boy so he don’t have to die in that goddamn street,” he mumbled to himself at the sky.

   As Thomas walked, he couldn’t help but think about Chris, he felt torn about leaving him to die, even if he was a crazy man. He walked back to the front of the shop where he found Chris, motionless, face down, in a soggy heap.

Thomas stared at Chris from a careful distance before moving closer. He knelt next to Chris.

“...Why the fuck you gotta go doin’ somethin’ stupid, boy?” Thomas asked under his breath.  "...I'm amazed that watch is still on your wrist," Thomas laughed. 

   
  He noticed that water was dripping on Chris’ head, even though the rain had stopped. Thomas looked up at the angel where he witnessed something that took away his breath; the water was coming from her eyes. “Tears??” Thomas whispered as a rush of adrenalin coursed through his body.

“No fucking way!” He said to himself, trying to catch his breath. 

   Thomas bolted from his knees and stumbled a few steps before falling backwards to the ground.

“...Dear lord Jesus in heaven,” Thomas chanted quietly, over and over, still trying to catch his breath.

“Somebody fuckin’ with me,” he thought. He frantically looked around, searching for anyone, searching for an explanation.

  Chris was all but surely dead, but a breath of life swept through Chris' lifeless body as the mysterious blue aura briefly returned as  quickly as it disssapeared. Thomas reached into Chris’ pockets and found his keys. He couldn’t just leave him on the street. Thomas knew one thing for sure; he wanted to get the hell away from the haunted Christmas ornament.

   He’d heard spooky ghost stories all his life, naturally so, since New Orleans is known as the most haunted and supernatural city in America. His auntie was particularly spooked by folklore; she told many stories that had been passed down through generations.Thomas usually pacified her, but laughed it off in his mind.  Not this time. 

   Looking back to the angel, Thomas didn’t know whether to feel blessed or scared to death. He knew what he saw but tried his best, in his mind, to explain it away.

“...Somebody fuckin’ with me,” he again dismissed.

   Thomas propped Chris’ lifeless body upright and dragged him inside down the long, dismal, hallway to a back door to a tiny cottage that Chris called home. He grabbed a trash can and stuck a nearby ink pen down Chris’ throat to make him throw up.

“Damn!” Thomas grimaced, waving his hands in front of his nose.

“...What the fuck you have to eat, boy? Goddamn!”

       

  He deposited Chris on the bed, glad to have the dead weight off his shoulder and the smell away from his face. Sitting at the foot of the bed, Thomas watched as Chris slowly stirred to life.

   
  Chris babbled incoherently off and on as Thomas shook his head, judgmentally. He wondered how the hell Chris was alive. He also wondered why he was sitting here, in the middle of the night, with a total stranger in a dismal room behind a shop. But, for some reason, Thomas couldn‘t leave.

He passed the time watching television while Chris slept. Only interrupted from time to time by Chris’ incoherent mumbles.

"...For somebody livin' in a shitty ass place, at least you got all the cable channels," Thomas laughed to himself.

  Thomas sifted through some pictures and letters strewn atop a tiny antique desk.  Pictures of Chris and Erin lay scattered among the wrinkled stationary and envelopes.

“...A fuckin’ girl? That’s what this is about?” Thomas mumbled under his breath, turning to look at Chris‘unconscious body.

“...You are a crazy ass motherfucker. Ain’t no bitch worth this, boy.”

  As Thomas scanned one of Chris’ letters he laughed.

“...You a damn good romance writer, though. Goddamn, I need to write some of this shit down, son!”

   
  About ten hours had passed when Chris bolted straight up in bed, startled to see Thomas, who was perched at the foot. He backed up against the headboard in a panic.

“...Who the fuck are you?” Chris demanded.

“I’m the guy who saved your fuckin' dumb ass outside last night,” Thomas replied, as though a thank you should be the FIRST words out of Chris’ mouth.

“...Look, you probably feel like shit now and you sure as hell look and smell like shit and I suspect you probably wanna brush them Goddamn teeth as soon as possible. So, now that you, obviously, are alive, I gotta go,” Thomas dismissed.

   
  Still deliriously disoriented, Chris anxiously begged;

“...Wait! What happened?” Chris anxiously demanded. 

“You took a whole bunch of this shit," Thomas waved an empty prescription bottle in the air.

“...And, from the smell of things, you had about a gallon of cheap ass booze. My boys were about to take a piece outta ya’ dumb ass, sleepin’ in the streets like you was. You damn lucky I was wit' em’ and that I was in a good mood, boy,” Thomas continued to lecture as Chris desperately tried to regain his bearings.

“...Now, if you don’t mind, I gotta go. You wasted enough of my time for one night, son, AND cost me a bunch of money and it’s about to be daylight.” Thomas scolded as he headed for the door.

“Wait!!” Chris begged. “I’m gonna walk with you, I don’t wanna sit here right now; I need some air,” Chris insisted.

“You gonna walk me home??” Thomas laughed. “...What, you think this is, a DATE, boy?  Just so ya’ know, I didn’t slip you a date rape drug.”

“No!” Chris snapped. “...I just don’t wanna sit here right now,  Goddammit!”

   Chris and Thomas wandered down the street as Chris pried Thomas about what had happened. Thomas wondered in the back of his mind about what he’d seen above the gate; he didn’t dare tell Chris.

“...Look, this is me,” Thomas pointed to an unassuming little pastel yellow house where he lived with his aunt. “...You do YOU; what you gotta do. Nice to meet your crazy ass, thank you, you’re welcome and I’ll catch the rest of your bullshit drama on Dr. Phil,” Thomas dismissed.

Chris extended his hand, “...Thank you. I’m Christopher, Barrow…call me Chris, though.”

“...I’m Thomas and I will not be callin’ you anything or be hangin out with your ass, so this is goodbye. Actually, I’ll call you lucky to be alive …Christopher.”

“Ok,” Chris sheepishly replied.

   
  Chris slowly turned and headed for the street. Thomas reached the front door where he stopped, studying Chris as he walked away.  Chris clearly struggled with one foot,  carefully in front of the other.

“...Hey, motherfucker!” Thomas yelled to Chris.

Chris stopped and looked back at Thomas. “...Yeah?”

“..Behave, boy,” Thomas ordered, with a slight smile. 

Chris smiled before turning to walk away.

copyright Pontchartrain Press 2008