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Missin' New Orleans

by Jed R. Cruz, published on March 13, 2003

Those damn kids are running around outside again. I don't know, maybe the front porch of St. George's Books makes a good home base or something, but I wish they'd take it elsewhere. I doubt that Bourbon Street is appropriate for children in the first place. There's the nice-looking hardware-and-curio store down the block. I'm sure the weirdo running it wouldn't have any complaints about a bunch of hyperactive children giggling and pawing at each other outside his store the whole day.

Did I say "the whole day?" I've been here an hour. One hour after this, I'll get around to making the coffee. Two hours after THAT, the shut-in sleeping in the back will wake up, peek outside for a minute and pat me on the back for doing a good job.

"Grai-cee," he'll mumble, stumbling over to the coffee pot. "You ahlways made the best cow-fee for me in the mornin'." If he's in an especially good mood, he'll add, "Oh, thanks for bringing the pai-per in." He'll gulp down a couple of cups, hobble right back into his lair and the rest of the day will be accentuated by the click-clack of his typewriter. That's in a few hours.

Until then, though, it's just me and you.

Not that I'm complaining; I'd take this boredom any day over beheaded chickens on the floor and funny markings in red stuff slopped on the store windows. New Orleans is a great town, really. I love the general atmosphere and the culture. It's the freaks in snake tattoos and animal masks I can't stand. Maybe I'll tell you all about that business someday. Maybe you'll have to tie me up and get me drunk, but maybe I'll tell.

That story really isn't about me, to tell the truth. If you want to know more about the so-called Voodoo Murders, Gabriel's your man. Gabriel Knight. He owns this shop, and he's back there, sleeping like a pig. Like a puppy, I'd say if I was feeling particularly nice this morning, but it's a cold and foggy Saturday outside. I say if you want all the facts -- all the raunchy details -- Gabriel Knight's your man.

"Gracie," he'd say, pretending to be flattered. "You know ah'll never get by without you." That means he's horny.

Pig.

Anyway, that's all ancient history now. Soon to be bad fiction, if Gabriel keeps up with his semi-autobiographical writing. He's been holed up inside that little studio for a week now, and I can't decide if I prefer his click-clacking all day to six months ago, when all he'd do is bring a different bimbo home every night -- two or three of them if it was Mardi Gras.

You see, everything's peachy-fine right now. Gabriel's writing his book, which will earn him money, which will in turn pay my salary. I haven't seen any news of murderers or rapists or anything in the papers, and thank God for that, because we all need a break. Besides those damn kids and the fog outside, life is good. I only wish Gabriel would agree.

Don't get me wrong; I think it's great that he's gotten past his writer's block, but he's practically lived on coffee for the past week! I started bringing double portions of my lunch for him yesterday, but I wish he'd take some time off for a few hours everyday and go out. He's going to screw up my budget, among other things. I'm not sure why I'm entertaining this idea, but he hasn't even made a pass at me lately. All he's interested in is that damn book. It's turned into an obsession, and it's unhealthy.

Monday was the last time I saw Gabriel go out. "Ah gotta drop by the police station," he said. "Get some photos an' files. See you, Gracie." I don't think I've ever heard Gabriel say my last name. Not once.

We had our usual three to four customers that day, and Gabriel wasn't out very long. He promptly hung up his coat and rushed into his studio, calling out, "Hold all mah calls, will ya?" Hold his calls, indeed. He hasn't talked to anyone but me and his cop friend Detective Mosely, as far as I know. That was the start of that infernal click-clacking.

Gabriel was a total *sshole the next day. The old lady who came in every Tuesday wanted to see if Gabriel was fine. She was worried that I wasn't taking care of him enough -- who am I, his mother? "He used to carry my groceries," the old lady said. "He would go shopping with his grandma, but he would get my groceries, you know? Is that his typewriter I hear? I gave him a book once, you know."

Fine, I thought. I poked my head through the curtain to Gabriel's studio. "GRACE!" he roared, even as I cleared my throat. "Cain't you see I'm WRITIN'? Don't bother me." I tried to crack a joke, and he responded with, "Shut the hell up! And DON'T bother me!"

Oh, she heard, and she was apologized all the way out. Poor old lady. I got up to scold Gabriel, temper or no, but then I jumped at the sound of several things hitting the wall. There was a terrific crash, and some more things hit the floor. I decided it was better to let him simmer for a while; I was no expert in handling temper tantrums.

I didn't see him the whole day after that. I guess he wrote all night, because the click-clacking went right on after I called out that I was done closing up. The next morning, he drank his coffee, grunted a good morning and went right back to work. It was right after his 5-minute shower during lunchtime that his pal Mosely walked in.

Now, I hate to admit this, but I really don't have any real friends in New Orleans. Most of them are in New York. In this city, Gabriel's family -- him and his grandmother -- is the closest thing I have to people I can trust. Close, but not quite. Mosely comes in third after them, and I'm particularly not too thrilled about that fact.

You'll forgive me if I sound a little crude, because I'm practically surrounded by men all day. At least Gabriel's just a bit sleazy and frisky, but Mosely makes me a bit more uncomfortable. He's the perfect sidekick for Gabriel: balding, overweight, divorced and unintentionally funny. I'm positive that he can be smart and serious if he wanted to be, but he seems to be too busy concentrating on being Gabriel's official partner-in-crime.

He was munching on a candy bar that sunny Wednesday afternoon when he walked in, and as he greeted me (wink-wink, cutie-pie), the click-clacking started up in the studio once again. "Auoh, the mad writer's at it again," Mosely said brightly, missing the wastebasket with his candy wrapper. He barged right into Gabriel's room despite my protests, and I braced for the worst.

"God-damn! Get out! OUT! I'm busy, damn it!"

"Heh, too busy for yer pal--"

"F*CK YOU! Get out of here! Leave me alone! Auooohhh, F*CK!"

His words, not mine. Mosely came out, white as a sheet, and I pitied him enough not to tell him to throw his trash properly. The poor guy managed a weak grin and a tiny wave before fishing out another candy bar from his trademark yellow coat and heading out the door. In the studio, the crashing and banging started up again.

After closing up that evening, I was surprised to see Gabriel peering out at me from his room. "Hey," he called. "Hey, Gracie."

I looked up. I must have looked either shocked or terrified -- probably both -- because Gabriel hesitated and sat on my desk before continuing.

"Tell Mosely I'm sorry 'bout yellin' at him, will ya? It's just that this book -- ah cain't seem to think straight when I go to work on it. I'm thinkin' of the murders an' the cult an' -- and HER, an' sometimes ah ask, 'What the hell am I doing?' It was all real, Grace. Ah saw it with mah own eyes, an' to think that I'm writing a fairy tale about it. Sometimes it seems WRONG, but ah just cain't stop. 'Cause if I ever stop, to reflect or close mah eyes... I'm afraid I'll never get myself to start again."

I just nodded.

"You take care of yourself, Gracie."

After I let myself out, I made sure no one was looking and pressed my ear against the door. The click-clacking started once again.

When I opened up the shop on Thursday morning, the typewriter was still making noise in the back. I first imagined it typing by itself. After that, I told myself that I was going mad. I knew what I was really thinking, though. Writing that book was driving Gabriel insane. I noticed that he wasn't eating, all he drank was coffee and he was losing touch of his surroundings more and more everyday. I supposed his heartfelt outpouring the previous evening was just one short lucid moment.

The bastard turned all my scientific reasoning upside down and inside out with one phone conversation.

Yeah, Gabriel actually got a call that day. It was some tramp named Astrid, and more surprising was that instead of blowing up, Gabriel actually stopped with his click-clacking to ask her out to lunch. After telling her to dress up and meet him at Cafe Du Monde ("You go ahead an' order, ah got the check."), he hung up and went straight to bed, mumbling to himself all the way. I laughed out loud several times that day when I remembered that. It was cruel even for Gabriel, but it was HIM shining through. He was still asleep when I left.

So came Friday -- yesterday. He was sitting at my desk when I came in. He was resting his forehead on his palm, fast asleep. Odd place for a break, but Gabriel had evidently done some work during the night, because I saw ribbon ink on his fingers. When I got closer, I saw his family talisman gripped in his hand. He was leaning his head on the talisman. For a guy who was sleeping, he looked pretty intense. I reached out to touch him, but he jerked awake before my hand even got close.

"Wugh! It's okay, it's okay," he sputtered. His face was red. The talisman had left an impression of itself on Gabriel's forehead. "Jus' went out here for a li'l reflection, s'all."

He forgot the talisman on my desk when he went back inside. Funny thing to forget. An hour passed as I worked, sometimes contemplating the talisman, tracing its contours with my finger. The object revealed none of its secrets to me. It was a silent hour.

I brought the talisman to Gabriel after I noticed how quiet it was. The quiet almost scared me a little, and seeing Gabriel sitting calmly at his writing desk -- arms folded and lost in thought -- was quite a sight. I got a good look at his room -- my first since he started his book. It still looked as lived-in as any other guy's studio out there, and Gabriel's books were scattered all over the room, apparently having been thrown around quite a bit. Around Gabriel's typewriter, newspaper articles and photographs were pinned up on the shelves. Some police files that Gabriel probably shouldn't have were spread all around the floor around him. A few sheets of bond lay crumpled in his wastebasket. Just a few. My attention focused more on the partial manuscript itself. He might be going nuts, but he was certainly being productive.

"That's it," he said with an empty grin. He took his talisman from me. "That's mah baby. Thanks, Gracie." It didn't occur to me then to think about what he was referring to. He looked too hungry and exhausted and about to black out.

Well, there was no other description for the expression on his face when I told him I brought lunch. He was like a tired little boy, fresh from a scrap in the schoolyard and coming home to Mom and a tray of milk and cookies. We ate my tomato and lettuce sandwiches out in the shop and he didn't b*tch about them one bit. I told him not to eat too fast. Good God, maybe I AM acting like his mother.

Gabriel got back to work after that, filling the shop once again with his endless click-clacking.

"Gracie?"

Click-clack. I wonder how his book's coming along.

"Hey, Gracie."

Oh, he's awake. He's looking at the coffee pot. Whoops.

"No coffee this mornin', Gracie? No, don't ya move. I got a great idea."

Very suspicious. "I can hardly wait, Knight," I tell him.

He's at the window, peering up at the sky. "Innit a great day, Gracie? Great day for a walk. Nice an' cold this mornin', too."

"Great day -- if you can see it through the fog," I say.

"Ah feel like doing something today. Going out, just you an' me?" To accentuate his macho-ness, he yawns loudly.

Now that's a first for this week. Maybe he's making up for all those days that he didn't try to get into my pants. Which means...

"How's your book, Gabriel?"

He grins. It's a special grin -- one I've never ever seen before. His talisman gleams around his neck. It looks like it's grinning, too. This grin isn't creepy at all. The word that comes first to my mind is RELIEVED. "It's done, Gracie. I'm gonna make myself some copies, then I'm callin' mah editor friend after lunch. In the meantime--", he flips the door's OPEN/CLOSED sign, "--we're goin' out to celebrate."

We are?

"Mah muse must have been workin' overtime." He exhales, tired eyes closed, and to me, it looks like he's exhaling all the madness from within -- not just from the past week, but also all the madness from before that he'd been keeping inside. "Listen, Grace. Thanks for lookin' out for me, huh? Ah know ah haven't exactly been CIVIL..."

"I will stick around all you want as long as you pay me, Knight. And I can deal with being treated like furniture for a week."

"Yeah? How?"

"I talk to myself."

Gabriel chortles, and I must have turned a little mad myself because I smile a little. He understands.

"So you'll have a drink with me? Maybe a walk or a movie?"

"If you take a bath."

"Already did, Miss Nakimura."

"Then let's go."

As we lock up, Gabriel almost gets knocked down by a couple of boys running by the porch. He shakes his head.

"Will you look at that, Gracie. These damn kids are runnin' around out here again. Jesus, out here on Bourbon Street! What IS it about the shop?"

I shrug, trying to wrap myself up tighter in my warm coat. "Maybe it makes a good home base or something, don't you think?"

The End

 

Last update: October 24, 2007


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