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Monday, June 18, 2012

Prologue

Prologue
"The Day After Yesterday"


Knowing THEN what you know now. The chance to right wrongs, before they happen, has long been an alluring prospect, to be sure.

Pulling hurtful words back during an argument; not passing on a job offer when the other turns out to be a flop. While you’re at it, why not ask that high school crush out on a date? Better than finding out years later at a stupid class reunion that he or she actually had a crush on YOU.

Is fate an absolute? Could there be a predetermined template, unable to be changed? Even if you had a time machine?? What if you had the chance to go back? What would you do with a powerful opportunity to complete the undone or to right wrongs?

Would you make the same mistakes? Maybe. Or, with intimate knowledge of the past, would one be too busy looking for fate to unfold in a familiar direction as it blindsides from another? Predetermined. 

As they say, knowledge is power, hindsight is 20/20 and past is prologue.  Or is it? Really?

Chris moved to New Orleans for a rebirth of sorts. Perhaps he was running from fate or the past, more than anything. New Orleans was going to be his needed change; he was sure of it. As they say, though, the best laid plans…

Fate has found Chris Barrow in a trying spot on this particular night. Far away from his childhood home, he felt all alone in a strange, yet wonderfully spiritual city. 
   
New Orleans is a city steeped in hundreds of years of culture with a history as rich as it is eccentrically notorious. A beautiful, yet mysterious place; its people are known for embracing one another and total strangers.  They're also known for chasing them away. Especially those who don't truly love her. Unconditionally. 

An abundance of alcohol, coupled with a 24-hour nightlife, could be poison to some while its culture, architecture and history is romantically glorious to others. New Orleans is a city that does not always love unconditionally, though; you have to love it back. Equally. 

That seems fair enough, since New Orleans has shone brightly with human resilience in the face of being burned to the ground twice.  They've endured crippling bouts of Cholera and Yellow Fever...the little things that tend to plague a city which is built on top of a swamp.  And, of course, the devastation of Hurricane Katrina still haunts the minds of its people years later.

They still love, they persevere, they hope and they rebuild. It’s a city that refuses to tolerate those who pass through with a chip on the shoulder. No time for nonsense and trivial worries that plague transients who come in and out of her life every day from the flipside of the Marriott Hotel door.

New Orleans, Louisiana, yes, indeed. Truly one of the most unique cities in the world. A place, even before Katrina, of rebirth. You either “get it” or you get out.

copyright Pontchartrain Press 2008


Full Circle Chapter 1

Full Circle

   The tiny Irish pub near Chris’ home has long been a comfortable refuge; he always came alone and never brought personal troubles. The occasional bad day was securely left hanging on the opposite side of the door beneath the magnificent oak trees which line this peaceful Mid-City street.  An Eden, of sorts; a place for friendship, enlightenment and stimulating conversation for Chris.

   Everyone had noticed that, over the past few months, Chris’ usual talkative and outgoing demeanor had  somehow, slowly ebbed. He’d been hanging out more than usual. He did so in order to avoid staring at the four walls in his tiny cottage room up the block. He’d stumbled into a den of self pity of late; on some days he hid it better than others.

“...Chris? You sure you should have another one, sweetheart?”

   Marie is the bartender at a small mid city pub and a close friend to Chris’. Then again, most of the staff and several patrons have adopted him as family. They’ve taken him in for meals over the holidays, they’ve shown unconditional love, they‘ve accepted him as one of their own.

“...Chris?? Chris!!” "...HEY!"
“WHAT?” Chris snapped.

“You sure you want another shot baby?” Marie pressed.

“You gonna cut me off? Hell fucking yes I’m havin’ another,” Chris slurred.

   Marie poured another shot of Tullamore Dew. She knew that Chris only lived two short blocks away, but she’s particularly concerned tonight because he usually doesn’t drink like this and this is a particularly dangerous neighborhood at night. 

It’s typically three drinks and done for Chris. Sometimes four if he’s particularly engaged in conversation.

“...Hey, this one’s on me, honey,” Marie offered with a concerned smile. 


   Marie is an attractive young woman. Although she’s 12-years younger than Chris, she’d already gone through significant personal setbacks in life and love, just like Chris. 

   Marie dropped out of college a few years previous but recently enrolled part-time to finish her degree at Delgado Community College. She truly appreciated Chris’ friendship, as he did hers. 

   She drew upon his life experience and learned as much as she could from it. He drew upon her determination, energy, unspoiled hope and faith in people. Her outlook on people mirrored that which he felt before life’s hard knocks had jaded him. Theirs was a friendship of balance and it was strong. Stronger than any he'd ever known. 

   Chris lit another cigarette; as the smoke swirled above his head, the past rushed through his mind like a freight train, as it’s done so in vignettes for some time now.

   The scene unfolds a couple of years previous, in Virginia, with his wife. The exact moment where Chris traces the beginning of the end. Outwardly, all seemed to be wonderful. He had it all, but it wasn’t a path that he wanted.  It was a path to unfulfillment, he thought. 

   Chris wanted simple but, his wife, success and income seemed to dictate another course. A course for which most would have just settled and kept quiet about. A status quo façade, setting the stage for a life of denial, he thought. Day in and day out…keep quiet, oh, and look happy. A life in which so many choose to live,  for appearances sake. Full of spoils, dictated by avarice.  He hated it.
 
    Chris and Angela had been married for 10 years. They moved from a small house that Chris felt was a home. It was quite comfortable and nowhere above their means, even though they COULD afford to live above those means. It was a home where memories were made. A little weekend sweat equity, coupled with a Home Depot card, transformed a small cottage into a sentimental landmark. A testament to a life well lived.

   Chris stared at the colossal ceiling in the monstrous new house. Deep in thought, he wondered, “...why in hell did I let her convince me to build this?” Five times the size of their 'home,' he couldn’t fathom making such a huge space as cozy as the cottage.

“...Do you like this color? Chris??” Angela persisted. "...Chris?"

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Chris replied through a forced smile. “...You always pick great colors, you’re the decorator,” he dismissed.

   If ever there were a time for a stunt double, this was the moment. Oh, if wishing only made it true, he sighed to himself.

  Angela is beautiful; the girl next door is how most describe her. Not the cover of Vogue but a woman who exudes natural beauty. She wore very little makeup and always appeared well put together –inside and out.

   Her humble upbringing in a rural setting fostered a down to earth demeanor. But, something changed along the way. Something that Chris could never quite understand.

   Being the middle child, and enduring a childhood with a verbally abusive dad, eventually caught up with Angela.
   
  She grew up with simple surroundings from which she couldn’t wait to escape. After all, the big city beckoned.  Why wouldn’t it? She hated the rural backdrop of her home as a young lady, so much so that she tried any and every way to whitewash it.

   When she returned for visits, Angela seemed like an outsider to her family and friends. She’d done a good job at creating a persona that was anything BUT that which reflected her roots, but, she secretly struggled with a past which haunted her.
   
  She and Chris met 16 years ago while he was an assignment reporter for a local TV station. He’d been covering a general interest story on Christmas eve at a local shopping center. A fluff piece, stocked with inane questions that assignment editors love to beat into the ground on a slow news day:

   “...So, why did you wait 'til the last minute to shop? Are ya’ finding any good deals?”

Bullshit! Chris thought. But, you have to work your way to the top, somehow.

   Chris and his camera man were packing up as Angela passed through the exit when the camera man accidentally swung a boom mic around and…BAM! All of Angela’s perfectly balanced gift boxes tumbled to the ground.
   
  Chris immediately rushed to Angela’s aid; he even offered to take some off her hands. Helping her to the car, he apologized profusely. Angela smiled and assured that it was OK. Her smile immediately captured Chris’ attention. Radiant,  genuine, he thought. 

   Chris found something in Angela that he couldn’t explain; she felt the same. It was love at first sight, actually, if you believe in that sort of thing. They dated exclusively for five years before getting married.

“Chris? Chris!” Jolted from his train of thought, Chris stared at what he thought was the Sistine Chapel ceiling. “...Look, what’s wrong?” Angela pried.

“...You haven’t been excited about this house from day one.”

“Well, I think it’s too big, Angie, but I’m OK with it. I’m thinking a lot about work right now, it’s real busy, that’s all. No worries,” Chris assured.

   The truth of the matter was that Chris had grown weary of living above his comfort zone; living a lifestyle that he’d never wanted. And, now, he was standing in the middle of a house that he viewed as more of a luxury jail cell than a status symbol.
   
  The echoes of Angela’s artsy girlfriends rang from the other room as they pined over the beautiful crown molding and the 30 foot ceilings. They gushed at how magnificent the imported hardwood floors appeared and how they wished for the same in their homes. Chris’ mind drifted far from this scene; equally searching for peace while drowning out the moment.

“Chris???” Chris!!

Marie tried her best to roust Chris from an obvious bout of being over served.

“...Hey, darling! Let me get someone to walk you home, baby, OK?”

“Nah,” Chris slurred, “Fuck that!' I can make it.”
“...Well, you better call me when you get home, then,” Marie insisted.

   It was a dark and rainy walk home for Chris on this particular evening. 

   In New Orleans, when the rains come, it’s as though the very heavens have fully opened, impossible to be sealed.

   Rain can portray New Orleans as an especially lonely city, especially at night. The bustling, late night crowds on Bourbon Street take any nearby refuge, a.k.a. the bar. The usual raucous streets become hauntingly quiet when the rains come.  It's almost vengeful. 

   Mid City is especially serene. It’s one of many neighborhoods that contribute to an eclectic feel for which New Orleans is known. Each neighborhood has its own personality; further adding to its alluring intrigue.

   As Chris denoted,  there's the French Quarter,  the People's Republic Of Uptown and the land of Mid City, drawing geopolitical designation to each neighborhood in the Metro.

   Unfortunately, Mid City can be quite dangerous at night. This part of the city was hit particularly hard with flood waters after Katrina. Dotted with numerous condemned and collapsing houses, there are entire blocks which remain abandoned. Not the setting for a stumbling drunk transplant from Virginia to be aimlessly wandering.
   
   Chris thought about the past as he stumbled through those drenched streets, wondering how in hell it had come to this. He had it all. A beautiful wife, beautiful cars, a gorgeous house; he’d worked his way from the bottom to the top as the manager of a prominent TV news station back home. He walked away from the job to go back to doing what he loved…being in the field. And, he did so for much less money.

   Being the director, Chris reasoned, became an increasingly dirty and unethical lot in life; typical in his line of business.

   Surely doing something noble like going back to his roots would pay off. Not as quickly as he’d hoped. This chapter of life had been punctuated with trying circumstances that he’d never expected.

  His mother was the only remaining relative to speak of and, compounding his worries, Chris watched as she slowly died of cancer. She was a kind soul, by all accounts, and, in selfish, fleeting thoughts, Chris wondered, “Why her?” She didn’t deserve to die this way. His faith had been tested.  Fully.

   Chris’ mom wasn’t scared of death; she was primarily worried about everything that was going on in Chris' life. She simply needed to KNOW that he was alright with work, with romance, his well being. A typical mother’s concern.

   As the final images of his mother flashed through an already defeated mind, his heart sank. In her final days, Chris lied to her in order to provide comfort.

   Visiting her, he always wore his Monday Night Football game face, especially as her health visibly deteriorated; He tried his best to convince her that everything was wonderful. That he and his girlfriend, Erin, were okay since he’d separated from Angela.

   It was true love, he assured, never telling his mom how the rebound relationship had virtually collapsed and how he fell to some uncharacteristic behavior in the process.

   Erin had even joined him on the last visit; she,  also,  wore the same game face so as not to let on as to the troubles that she and Chris had long been experiencing.

   Work was great, everything was going to finally be OK, he convinced his mom. Chris felt that she needed to die in peace rather than be burdened with needless worry in the process. A white lie, but a lie that he, and the doctors, felt necessary.

   After separating, not long after moving to New Orleans, Chris and Angela’s marriage came to an end. The final chapter and page in, what was once, a promising, loving life together. The final footnote to their story was notarized and signed by both, along with the lawyers and a parish judge.

“...Irreconcilable differences. Hah!” He thought. She’d been cheating on him. He was no angel either. He spent long and late hours elsewhere as well towards the end.

   Quite simply, this was a couple who began their journey with such promise and love who slowly drifted apart.  A long goodbye of sorts.

   Upon returning to his roots as a field reporter, Chris’ assent moved at a staggeringly slow pace at best. He lived in the back of a repair shop in a rented cottage  that he'd previously used for storage.  A tiny  space that he fashioned a home as best he could. He initially did so to hide and regroup.

   As the rain unrelentingly poured from the sky, Chris sat on a lonely, dark sidewalk tonight; his mind drifted momentarily to a time where he last remembered being happy.

“...Hey, I gotta introduce you to one of the coolest fuckin’ chicks I know, Chris…she’s like one of the guys, only she’s a girl!” Scott exclaimed. "...she's got big boobs," Scott joked. 

  Chris’ friend, Scott, was talking about a bartender friend of his.

   They sat in a suburban chain restaurant & bar where Scott’s friend, Erin, worked.

    Scott was one of those guys that everyone knows. He’s the happy go lucky, care free, life of the party. He’s never met a stranger and knows how to talk some serious shit. Even if he couldn’t back it up, you still loved him because…well, because he’s Scott! You gotta love Scott.

“...Hey, Erin, this is Chris, he’s a buddy of mine.”
“Nice to meetcha Chris,” Erin greeted with a beaming smile and friendly eyes.

“Hey, when you gettin’ off work?” Scott asked.

“Bout’ thirty minutes,” Erin replied.
“Cool, you gonna hang out and drink a while?”

“I think so,” Erin replied with a shrug.

   Erin, Scott and Chris drank and laughed deep into the night, mainly at Scott. He was, after all, unintentional comic relief. One of those guys who’s funny but doesn’t realize it. He’s just being himself.

   Chris’ mind wandered. He was having such a good time, the first time in a while, even though he knew that Angela was sitting at home. He felt guilty. Angela waited and wondered why Chris had been hanging out so late with Scott, and doing it so often lately. It wasn’t like him.

   Angela had always felt a tad bit leery of Scott’s influence over Chris anyway.
Chris shook it off, reasoning that he wasn’t doing anything bad at all.


   He had been, reluctantly, accepting of the fact that he and Angela wanted different things, even if Angela didn‘t realize it. Plus, he hated staying in the house that had become a symbol of everything he hated. He wished for the old 1,200 square foot home and a time when things were much simpler. End of story; everyone lives happily ever after. Right?

   So, he unrepentantly continued to enjoy the company and drinks with Scott and Erin. It was well deserved fun indeed, he thought.

   In a short period of time Erin became someone in which Chris could confide; someone who understood him. Finally, Chris thought, someone who enjoyed simple.

   Erin wasn’t Angela and Chris felt rather guilty for enjoying her company more than Angela’s. Erin was one of the damn guys and it was nice. She went to a bar to drink, not to read fashion magazines. She enjoys good conversation and she’s quite personable and outgoing. Angela was outgoing, but only with those with whom she felt comfortable. Erin could adapt and talk with anyone.

   Erin enjoys a good museum and she has class, but she also felt comfortable wading in the lake, unfazed about getting her clothes wet. Walking in the rain was just fine with Erin, too. Bad hair day?? Put a cap on bitch. That was Erin’s way of thinking. Wine and cheese parties were fine with Erin, but not a way of life.

   Erin is a beautiful young woman with radiant reddish brown hair and a smile that would stop you in your tracks.

   Her eyes are bright blue and she emanates a presence that commands attention, unassumingly, though.

   She’s got girly-girl traits but can also be a tom-boy when she wants to be. She speaks her mind and never feels the need to sugar coat words. Erin is extremely practical and full of common sense. She's a realist. Chris loved that, among many things.

   Working her way through college, Erin bartended and worked as an office manager until she could complete her business degree and someday put her education to good use to run a bar of her own.

   Yes, indeed, Erin is a hard worker. Her determination is as big as her dreams and her faith in people was even stronger than it should have been in many cases, given her life experience.

   Erin had just emerged from an abusive relationship, something that Chris couldn’t understand. He wondered how anyone could behave in the manner in which her ex did, let alone to a wonderful person like Erin. She had some troubling times in her childhood with an abusive mother who was known to self medicate with pills and alcohol, just like Chris‘father did with the latter.

   Her mother died when she was young. So, Erin unexpectedly faced the daunting challenge of raising two siblings, alone.

   Chris had a similar childhood with his father, who also abused and overused alcohol. As a result, Chris’ father, Avery, died when Chris was twenty years old.
Maybe this was another reason Chris enjoyed Erin’s company.  They had something dark and ominous in common. They’d both lost someone they loved…too soon and,  for foolish, self destructive reasons. They both had a marriage that “didn’t take” as the adage goes.
   
  Chris spent a lot of time with Erin and soon realized that he had feelings for her, beyond friendly drinking buddies. Erin also began to feel the same about Chris; all the while, Angela continued her comfortable, fashionable life, in denial about everything as Erin and Chris, unwittingly, were falling in love.

   Chris was in a spot where he loved someone while falling in love with another. How the hell do you fall in love when you‘re married?? Chris wondered. Angela had faults, but he loved her. He realized that they were complete opposites and that there was someone else out there with whom he connected emotionally.

Erin soon began working in her spare time, helping Chris with his freelance news service. They made a good team; it was nice to spend so much time together. However, Angela grew increasingly suspicious.

   Things were not working out well with Chris’ new career path, a move was needed, he decided. The income decrease had made it tougher and tougher to keep the house. A move must be made. Wait! I can’t leave Erin behind, he reasoned.

   She’s a part of his work and was obviously becoming an important person in his life. She must come, too! Chris reasoned.

   The thunder crashed as Chris pulled himself up from the puddle that had formed on the flooding Mid City sidewalk; he continued the stumble back to his lonely room, which seemed so far away from his recent world of luxury that he’d known. His old master bathroom was bigger than his room at the cottage.

   Even with the opulence of the palace that he so despised, Virginia was a comfort zone, his childhood home that now seemed so far away.

   After the divorce he still held love for Angela, but not the kind of love that they had once known. He felt some animosity toward her and she for him but, after it was over, they both concluded that calling it quits was for the best.

   They’d both made mistakes and should have pulled the trigger much sooner. Indecisiveness, it should be named the 8th deadly sin, Chris thought.

   Through Chris' setbacks; he desperately continued to rebuild a career that he loved so much. He sacrificed the spoils that his previous job afforded because he needed to do the right thing, or so he felt. He did so to maintain integrity, while slowly losing it in other areas of his life.

   How in hell, he wondered, can someone make sacrifices for a noble cause and have to struggle so damn much in the process? Chris selfishly scoffed.  He felt alone in a big and uncertain world now.

   The pressures of the career, a failing relationship and an increasing dependence on an abundance of available alcohol affected him in ways that drove him in one direction while driving Erin to another man.

   He’d suspected for longer than he let on. He‘d been given the same lines by Angela and gave them right back in the past. Body language and nuances don’t lie, Chris resolved. Erin finally told him the truth two days ago. It’s not a relationship, she assured.

“...It’s a time for me to find myself for a while, Chris,” she explained over lunch at their favorite Mexican restaurant.

  Absolution, he thought. What else is left? Chris searched his mind.

   Perhaps it was, indeed, something Erin needed, given what she and Chris had become. He’d become a burden and abusive to those around him. Angry at the world, looking to lay blame anywhere but on himself. She had done the same.

   As Chris approached the gate surrounding the shop, a crash of thunder, again, pummeled his head to the past.  He mustered all the strength in his body to pull himself from the ground, reaching, one hand above the other; he finally slipped, slowly downward, losing his grip on the rain soaked wrought iron gate.

“...I love you Chris, I really do, but I have to do this right now.” Erin pleaded, with tears in her eyes.

“...Look, Erin, I know that I became someone different, but you did TOO, and you know it,” Chris pleaded

“...Yeah, because of you,” Erin interrupted.

“Goddamn it, Erin, you were sweet one minute and a total bitch the next, usually over nothing…just out of the blue.”

“Yeah, Chris? Sometimes, as I recall, it was because of you, too. Erin barked back. 

"Do you remember how fucking violent this became?” Chris yelled, desperately trying to make his case.

“REALLY, Chris? Do I REMEMBER??” Erin replied. “You introduced that element with drinking. Do you remember pushing me into the fucking wall Chris??   Or, were you blacked out? That’s why I broke your Goddamn finger, Erin screamed.”

“Yeah, you were in my face with your hands around my neck and then hitting me in the head,” Chris retorted.

   Erin’s body language grew visibly animated.

“...Ooooohh, poor Chris, you’ve been such an angel, haven’t you?” Erin asked with feigned pity.

“Yeah? So have you, right??” Chris sarcastically quipped.

“Not at all,” Erin calmly replied, “...but, much better than you.” Erin blankly stared at the wall; another agreement to disagree. A patterned path where neither,  typically,  accepted responsibility. 

“...Erin, you went freakin’ crazy and so did I. I offered to get help; I offered to get help for you…maybe too late. I even suggested that we BOTH go through counseling, together…we can both still save this.”

“YOU need to save this Chris,” Erin yelled, tears welled in her eyes.

Chris had finally lost patience for being solely blamed.  "...you know what I DO? For a living? For a paycheck, Erin? I'm PAID to report but, unspoken,  I'm paid to, and CAN ruin people's lives.  Politicians,  celebrities,  you name it!  My colleagues have no problem doing it.  I DO. I don’t view things in black and white.  Shades of gray get me in trouble,  constantly.  Meanwhile,  my coworkers have no problem spreading scandal.  Yet, they stroll through life, without compassion or conscience, BUT, let ME make a proverbial illegal left turn or California stop sign stop,  and I'm in CUFFS!  I'm tired of watching others get away with shit while I'm living my life to different, decent standards.," Chris exhausted. 

Chris continued...

“...What the fuck do you think I’ve been trying to do, Erin?? Do you wanna live life being OK with not trying to fix the ROOT of our problems? Because I don’t!”  I'm all about seeing the black, white AND gray areas. I KNOW who I am and who  YOU are. I KNOW we can do this. Fuck what people think! Chris pleaded.  "I'm tired of being held to different standards," Chris concluded. 

 “...Neither of us can do this without help Erin; not from friends…professional help! We’ve made each other even more nuts, but there’s hope. Don’t give up on this, Erin.”

“...I’m guilty of things and I know I can be a bitch and that I act batshit crazy, but this isn’t working right now, Chris,” Erin exclaimed as tears trickled down her face.


   For a while, Chris had let the pressures of life drive him to be just like his dad, just like Erin’s mom. Even worse, somewhat like Erin’s ex husband.

   Chris became the very person he never fathomed. In turn, Erin had also let the pressures turn her into that which she fell victim in her past.

   A volatile relationship evolved between two people who somehow loved one another in a way that they’d never known. HOW could it get lost along the way? Perhaps it faded before it could fully evolve, on level ground. Could it be lost for good? Chris wondered. 

Maybe Erin still had more faith than she should have. Perhaps Chris should have had more faith, but not tonight. It all felt hopeless.

“...If we’re ever to be together you’ve gotta let me do this Chris,” Erin demanded.

“Aaaah, I see, Chris interrupted. You go find yourself with your new live-in tour guide and, when you get bored with the excitement or he gets tired of your ass, there I am…waiting for you to come back. It’ll be happily ever after right? Nice plan B, Erin; I’m not gonna be your fucking backup plan.”

“We can’t see each other right now, Chris,” Erin quietly announced. “...You’ve put me through too much, I’ve put you through too much as well, and I’ve behaved in ways that I NEVER would have thought possible. You have to let me go, for now,” Erin pleaded.

   Erin felt that she could save this relationship by letting go of it. She actually wanted that outcome,  ultimately. 

   Chris saw it as the end, maybe so. Maybe it would be best for him, for both of them. She’d been lying to him for a while, he believed; why believe ANYTHING she says now? Chris rationalized.

   Too many of her friends hated him for the past and too many of his friends felt the same toward her; she wanted him to move on and heal...in her eyes, some time to fix himself and be well. Erin and Chris were victims by their own hands. And, unknowingly, by well meaning outsiders.
   
Fuck work; to hell with everyone and God is a sadistic fairy tale character who doesn‘t answer prayers, Chris sulked.

   How did it come to this?? He wondered. Crumbling under pressure is normal, at times. Many people do so; perhaps he could have done things differently. "...Why can't I just erase the past and start new," he wondered. Why hasn’t God heard one single fucking prayer? Goddamn it!

   Chris’ friends assured him that God DID hear his prayers and that getting on with his life was indeed the prayer answered. Depression sometimes acts as blinders, his friends assured. Get away from this situation, they begged. Erin’s friends did the same.

   Angela remains a good friend but she’s moved on to a life with someone who shares her frilly loves in life; albeit, her new beau doesn’t have the means to provide as she is accustomed.

   A fucking starving artist, effeminate heterosexual? Are you kidding me? Chris scoffed. THAT'S what makes her happy now?

   Erin loves Chris but is ashamed of who she, and he, became together. She needed to heal, and do so elsewhere, for now. Chris’ family is gone and his career is more than a struggle.

   It seemed hopeless on all fronts for Chris. He’d convinced himself that Erin will fall in love with someone else, so there seemed nothing left in what he viewed as a pathetic life that had utterly spiraled out of control.

copyright Pontchartrain Press 2008

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