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Strands of dry, evening breeze approached the steel of the highway underpass. Once underneath, the air in motion was halted in its tracks, and cast by the cold metal in a spiral downward toward the concrete, like the last bit of water running out of a sink into the drain. An unknowing passerby did not notice the stymieing effect of the bridge on the pleasant breeze, but those who took time to stand under the bridge caught a faint twist of wind baring down, introducing a measure of uncertainty into an otherwise unflappable scene of giant, immovable pillars and, above, the road that bustles always.

Months of walking alongside the pillars, and under the road, left Long John comfortable in the still air. Even as the days became sweatier, he drew strength from the flat baritone of the place. The squeak of brakes. The dogged siren from a police car. The thump of bass. Any sound that broke the quiet was swallowed by the steel beams, and spit down toward the pavement. A hint of fried chicken and the colorful row houses brought some life in around the edges.
Long John was the only motion in this stillness as he walked. Head up. Eyes fixed slightly to the right and off to the purple paint and loud colors of the lounge at the end of the block. Bob-and-weave strut. He accepted the bridge’s bid for dominance over his neighborhood. Most days, he profited from its long shadow. The ignorant self-guided tourist blathering away on his cell phone. The unlucky driver with a flat tire. All he had to do was remove his piece from under his thigh-length T-shirt, and he was richer for it.

Now he passed Mouse -- so named for his penchant for causing his victims to squeak. Long John didn’t even break stride, and Mouse made an about-face. Each had his own distinct stride, but their movements were stitched together between Long John’s swooping shoulders and Mouse’s rightward-cocked head. They leaned perfectly into each other’s range of motion.
As they approached Esplanade Avenue, the ingratiating smell of fried chicken lurking, they spotted two red-nosed pedestrians, and the game was on.

“You got the time?”

“6:30.”

A minor break in stride for the nervous passer-through, to be sure, but just enough to allow Mouse and Long John to swerve smoothly beside them. Long John reached under his shirt, in the direction of his pocket but not quite.

“I can have your purse?”

“No.”

The hole from which the bullet would barrel out into her now faced her stomach, lilting toward the ground. A current of defeated breeze was pushing it further down.

“I can have your purse?”

“And anything else you got,” Mouse chimed in.

The woman squeaked, and her breath became heavier. Her entire face had now turned the color of her nose.

“Alright, we don’t want any trouble.”

“Then I can have whatever you got.”
The gun drooped a little more.

Mouse opened the purse. Long John’s back faced the road, and he stood over the woman so as to conceal what was going on. Mouse produced the requisite items from the purse in seconds. He had perfected his ability of weaving between tampons, notebooks, lipstick, and even the occasional camera that had no immediate street value. Thrusting himself into another life with details largely apart from his own was of little concern to him. He had created for himself the perfect position to look into other eyes, to see a life different from his own. But the contents of each purse were so similar, he hadn’t ever wondered.

Now the goods were coming out. Wallet. Cell phone. He noticed her license, but only saw that the state started with a W. The man pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his pale jeans.

“Just the cash.”

The man let out a sigh through his nostrils that forced his glasses from their perch atop the bridge of his nose. Two hundred dollar bills changed hands.

“Y’all have a nice time in New Orleans.”

Long John slipped behind the couple, and Mouse swooped with him behind the pillar.
The couple walked faster now. They could see the breeze blowing through the stately oaks on the other side of the road, and rushed across traffic before the signal turned to get there. The smell of fried chicken, at first inviting, now seemed suffocating to them with the unending tenacity of rot.

Mouse and Long John now wove the other direction, back toward Canal.
They passed the auto shop where Darrell, Long John’s uncle, fixed up cars.
As the pair traipsed by the neon green garage, the breeze was blowing faintly through the pages of the phonebook laid out on the steps beside his lawn chair. No one else might sense it, but Darrell knew their steps were tinged with rubber.

“Y’all pick me up some chicken?”

“We wasn’t up that far.”

“Bet you wasn’t. You best be telling everyone bout my shop, ya heard?”

“OT Auto and Detail. We goin’ overtime for you.”

Darrell slouched slightly in his lawn chair as we watched the boys go by. The sweat was beading off of him, but he did not look exhausted. He knew he should insert his own lines here. That as the role model figure, he was in charge of shouting advice, and letting the wind carry it across the street. He thought of his own line of vision ten years ago, fixed down the street. Looking for the next red noses. He pursed his lips, knowing the tailspin his advice would receive. That he had been in their position was of no consequence to the anger he felt boiling inside of him as the duo walked by. He long ago reconciled that the feeling was disappointment, but it did not change the discomfort that vibrated his cheeks as he saw them push on, stone-faced, and then out of view.


They passed Juice, ducking behind a 1999 silver Chevrolet with a battered hood. His bald head covered by his sweatshirt, eyes drooping and bloodshot. He stared straight ahead. That was acknowledgment enough of their presence. Finally, Mouse spoke.

“How you gonna spend the money.”

“Gotta pay back my mama. She bought my new shoes so I could march in the band. I wanna pay her back. She need the money. Said she tired of puttin‘ up for me when I‘m out all the time.”
“You in band? Please. Let’s get with Stitch and see if we can give the tourists something other than dat piece. You know it’s gonna go off one of these days, then we sunk like my cousin. Stitch said we movin’ up. He takin’ notice of what we doin’.”

“Don’t mean we can’t do both. I wanna be in band. Someday we gotta lead that parade. We be marchin‘ down this street blowin‘ dat groove to the wind.”

“Sound like you blowin’ smoke, boy. You know we gotta take what we can get out here.”

At Columbus, back to work. Another red nose with a lop of frayed, gray hair on top was looking around behind of the giant concrete columns. Long John noticed she did not have a purse. Her floral skirt wore unevenly, and her shirt was rumpled. As she turned toward them, her eyes appeared to be rubies casting a shimmer out toward them in the shade. Without a word, they picked up their pace and headed straight for her.

“’Scuse me, miss, you got the time?”

“Hey non, nonny nonny, hey nonny.”

She hid on the other side of the column, walking away from them.
“You got a dollar?”

She jumped to the next column.

“Young men will do’t, if they come to‘t. By Cock, they are to blame.”

Long John reached under his shirt, as though he were reaching toward his pocket. She jumped out from behind the column and faced them. Her eyes glazed over, she looked out at them and her head swung to the left. Her enlarged pupils stared out at them. If he looked closer, Long John likely could have seen her shrunken brain, purged of the rotund substance that gives it vitality. He could have seen the holes sunken from her cranial lobes, resembling giant eyeballs.
Long John and Mouse glanced at each other, officially breaking the ruse.

“That unmatched form and feature of blown youth, blasted with ecstasy!”

Mouse, still craving money, noticed she did not even look at them, and attempted to reach toward her pocket.

“O, woe is me. To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”

Mouse backed off, but Long John was unfazed. He reached in for the other pocket, but the woman sat on the ground cross-legged before his hand got in, and she rocked back and forth.
Mouse, completely devoid of the posture that usually causes squeaks, sat down with her, and motioned toward Long John to do the same. Long John concealed his piece back under his shirt.

“You alright, miss?”

She reached into her shirt and brought out a handful of crumpled flower petals.

“Their perfume lost, take these again. For to the noble mind rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”

A current of breeze blew through the curls of her rumpled hair. Long John and Mouse stood up, and wandered between the pillars, their paths diverging.

from a lookout station on the flat ground is perched
a listless benchwarmer in the habit of mirth
talking down to dick diver
and pickin' the dirt
from the frayed edges of ayn rand's letters;

gazing out toward the grapefruits
he notices a tryst
at the corner of the ocean and the land where he sits
of the penny-thieves, beach combers and immigrants.

the greening of his oranges and arthritis of the lips
has given him a grunt that with rancor he can spit,
but he just winks at the union of fishermen.

having that day trapped a turtle,
they mercifully writhe
like the dancers behind Madonna,
and wring their hands with pride.
their stomachs grumble calypso,
but they make sure they don't deprive
a share of the booty to the pelicans.

just then did appear from the corner of their eye
a jalopy wheezing cornstarch
with jimmy carter at the wheel.
to his backseat passenger Pancho Villa he turned, shouting
"look, man, i'm only taking what was promised."

the sky's turning gray, dripping sweat from the brows
of the geese passing over
while flying northward, they look down,
but turn their necks away from the humble shrouds
of the onlookers at jackie robinson's funeral.

"his legacy lives on," says the mayor to the crowd
which includes the pedestrians, who outlived him with pride
"he was never a coward, but ran from high tide,"
the mayor waxed as he raised
a hand to his ear,
signalling the parade
of the little league,
who are sponsored
by the country club at the holding pond.

when the sky returned to blue, the sun dropped its course,
and exploded, dripping pink,
i looked out, but didn't feel the force.
then i looked to the paper for an explanation why.
the pastel lobby said it was just a test run,
it didn't interrupt the conversion of the train tracks
to a curtain.

but that blast did make me deaf in the left ear, i suppose,
because now all i can hear is the language of repose,
and there's no telling whether or not any of it's from the soul
i just hope i die happily ever afer.