On Archimedes Street (7 page)

He wouldn’t be letting his mind run along this track if he hadn’t been picking up signals. The man went nowhere. They’d usually knock off around two or three, then go home and shower. Elwood would sometimes stay in the nude, with just a towel wrapped around him, flashing cock and balls while he wrote in that green notebook of his. Did straight men do this around each other? And he’d often finger his cock idly through the fabric of his sweatpants as he made them dinner. A good cook. But, then, that meant nothing. All the famous chefs were straight, right?

Ed reminded himself of his situation. Too much was on the line here.
Can’t go there.

The band currently playing wasn’t helping keep Ed’s libido at bay. They were tight and good, and the vocalist kept singing about black drawers and about legs being in the east and west. And of course Ed had immediately flashed on his legs being splayed in just such directions by Elwood. The two Adonises he’d noticed in the row behind him—one dark-haired and the other blond—weren’t helping either. Shit, the place was crawling with porn stars.

Would Elwood’s set come next? Ed now wondered nervously how the crowd would respond to him. Ed himself didn’t know what to make of Elwood’s vigorous attacks on the kitchen piano after dinner, accompanied by shouted, off-the-wall lyrics, if you could call them that. The lyrics, he had noticed, often reflected some incident of the day.

“I
ax
for cash, but she say
check
! Heck wit’ dat check! Check dat check! Check dat check!” he had growled into his music one night after dinner. This was on the day they had done old lady Simmons’s camellias. That raunchy old lady had sat herself down on her porch and openly devoured Elwood with her eyes as they worked. But at the end Rita had told Elwood she didn’t have the cash, would he please take a check.

The crowd cheered as the legs-in-the-east-west vocalist and her combo departed the “stage,” jury-rigged from—what? Ed wondered—pallets? Then suddenly Elwood leapt up on it. “Wailin’ Elwood!
Whoo-hoo
!” someone yelled, and the crowd took up the chant. “Wailin’ Elwood the Tree Man! El-
wood
! El-
wood
! El-
wood
!”

Ed flashed on Elwood’s morning wood, which he had glimpsed just yesterday. Then came a fifteen-minute rape of the keys, Elwood style. Ed listened critically, and he had to admit there was power and a strange beauty to his playing. He waited for the lyrics.

“You done slime my okra!” Elwood shouted.

Oh Mother Cabrini, he’s singing about me!
Last night, in an effort to be helpful, Ed had boiled a batch of okra, a new vegetable to him, just like he used to boil green beans in Ohio. After five minutes, Ed had drained and salted them, splashed a little vinegar on them, and left them in a rectangular glass dish. Thirty minutes later, Ed noticed that they swam in a deep pool of what looked like saliva. He had forked one and watched in dismay as a trail of clear goo slid off the pod.

“You done slime my okra!” yelled the ragged voice again.

“
You done slime my okra
!” Call-and-response from the crowd.

“You done slime my okra, an’ you don’t eben care.”

“
An’ you don’t eben care
!”

Ed’s mind raced. From the raunchy laughs in the crowd, he knew this was sexual innuendo. What was Elwood’s okra? His prick? Okra was phallic in a way. And slime was spit? Was Elwood saying that he wanted Ed to suck his cock? No problem there.

“So I gonna slime your gumbo.”

From the row behind Ed: “Slime my
jum
-bo! Haw! Haw!” That certainly wasn’t helping.

Shit, thought Ed. What is my gumbo? And does Elwood really want to slime it?

“Gonna slime your gumbo!”

“
Gonna slime your gumbo
!”

“Gonna slime your gumbo, by the light of the slimy moon!” Elwood pounded the piano.

“
By the light of the slimy moon
!”

Ed tried to connect the dots. Moon, moon. As in mooning someone?
Shit! What is he telling me?

Elwood left the stage to cheers.

“Honoria,” said Rita, in the row of folding chairs behind her Abbott boys. “Was that supposed to be good?”

“Well, Rita, it was powerful in its way.”

Rita sighed. “I think I’ve lived too long.”

“Amen, Miz Rita,” said Doodie, owner of Gretna Best Hardware. He sat between the two women. “Gimme Fats Waller any day.”

In the event, whatever gumbo slime meant, Elwood didn’t make gumbo that night. He made spaghetti with a sauce of reduced oyster liquor and green onions topped with fried oysters. Ed ate it with appreciation but nervously. Would his gumbo be slimed?

“I liked your set, Elwood,” said Ed after dinner.

Elwood grunted and headed for bed. “Night.”

Chapter 8

I
N
RETROSPECT
,
Flip realized his reservations about Dutch had been mostly groundless. Yes, Dutch was juvenile and asinine at times. Well, maybe all the time. Flip thought back to the unit on the eye, when they were dissecting a cow’s eye. The thing was a giant, fat-covered blob, and Dutch had prodded and poked it with the curiosity and intensity you’d expect from a seven-year-old. And he’d reduced Mimi to near hysteria by secretly popping a big plastic brown eye in his mouth and leering at her during that dissection session. Mimi, squeamish to begin with about the eye dissection, had nearly thrown a hissy as Dutch mouthed the plastic eye and worked it suggestively in and out of his lips.

And Mimi. That sure as hell hadn’t worked out. Dutch had told him all the men Mimi went for were in a select club, and clearly Flip wasn’t in that club. And Dutch hadn’t thrown any of the women who dogged him day and night Flip’s way. Well, he couldn’t really expect Dutch to procure women for him. And, even if he had, Flip was drowning in schoolwork. Redemptorist was so much harder than he had expected. He didn’t have time for a social life, as Dutch obviously did.

Yes, he had to admit it bothered him that everything came so easily to Dutch. Women, schoolwork, bike stunts, which he learned with dizzying speed—every damn thing. Dutch never seemed to pay attention in Dr. Abbott’s class, yet he zipped through their review exercises in record time, correcting Flip when he got something wrong. He’d expected that he would have to carry Dutch, because they were graded as a pair for lab work. But it was the other way around. The final straw had been dinner with Dutch’s folks in New Orleans. During his second visit to the “raised cottage,” their big wedding cake in the Garden District, Dutch had given him a tour. He stopped counting rooms after twenty. Obviously, the Abbotts were rolling in it. Second-best, that’s what Flip felt like, and the feeling was new to him.

But on the whole, Flip admitted, he wasn’t complaining. Old lady Simmons, their landlady, was sharp and funny and one hell of a cook, and they had a standing Wednesday night dinner invitation. The shotgun was a sweet deal, far cheaper than he’d expected, even if Dutch had blanketed every horizontal surface with board games, model cars, and other little-boy toys. Surprisingly, Dutch was neat and orderly and carried more than his share of the housework. He didn’t keep tabs of who took the garbage out or washed the dishes last. They had settled into a companionable routine, doing homework, playing
Battleship
and the other inane games Dutch insisted on, or watching movies, both sprawled on the couch, with Dutch plopping his big feet in Flip’s lap and Flip throwing them off in disgust.

The best, of course, was the stunting. Flip had conquered the cross-up, the tabletop, and the bunny hop, and together they were perfecting the Smith grind, double tail grind, and tailwhip. Flip had come up with a
da
-wum
da
-wum
da
-wum
dah
mantra to complement Dutch’s uhm-uhm
bwah
, and when they stunted and chanted together they drew a crowd. Crazy Wailin’ Elwood had approached them; he wanted to incorporate them into his Saturday sets. Archimedes Street, rarely traveled, smoothly paved, and with a nice high curb to ratchet off, was a perfect practice ground.

Flip tried to wrestle with whatever was gnawing at him. What the hell was irritating him? Maybe it was that Dutch had taken over his life, just as his fug had infiltrated the shotgun so every room, even Flip’s, smelled like, and seemed to belong to, Dutch. He had to admit it wasn’t Dutch’s fault. Dutch bathed twice a day. But for the past few days, Flip had become increasingly aware of the Dutch funk on the sofa, the chairs, his scent everywhere. It wasn’t repulsive or obvious, but always subliminally there. He didn’t know why, but it was beginning to wear on his nerves. And he found himself just staring at Dutch, for no reason.

Chapter 9

F
RENCHY
WAS
on the way to becoming a fixture on Archimedes Street. He spent as much time as he could there, and Manny now wondered whether the boy got enough to eat at home, wherever that was. The kid had an appetite! Manny had begun to feel protective toward him. Frenchy was all skin and bones, with a thatch of brown hair cascading over his pale forehead and with eyelashes only a girl should have. Manny knew all about not getting enough to eat, from his own childhood. But, he reflected, Frenchy could now throw a football and baseball like a real boy, and he’d begun working on a mean right jab. Dominic had been right. Frenchy needed a dad.

Manny liked that Frenchy took an interest in cabinetry work. He knew he was the best at hanging doors, building cabinets, installing crown molding, and doing quality finish work in all Louisiana. He’d nursed this business, and now he had them waiting in line—in the French Quarter as well as the Garden District. Dominic showed absolutely no interest in following in Manny’s footsteps. In fact, he was a little worried about where Dominic was headed in life. He showed no ambition. He didn’t seem able to defer pleasure. But Frenchy—obviously dirt-poor and interested—well, he could teach the boy anything. Frenchy was eager to learn.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, Mr. T!”

The boys bounded into the workshop. “Hey, Frenchy.”

Frenchy stopped to pat Doofus, who accepted Frenchy’s adoration placidly enough. About the size of an Airedale, Doofus had long, wiry hair and yellow eyes that were permanently and comically crossed. But as he stretched under Frenchy’s caresses, he spotted the object of his true infatuation. He saw Elwood with the adored Larceny trotting behind him, and Doofus was on his feet and out of the house like a shot.

“Shit! Dominic! Let’s go!” said Manny. Doofus was easily disoriented and roamed quite contentedly when he was lost. Once, he had been lost for nearly a week and had to be wrested from the family he’d taken up with. Manny remembered the little boy’s tears when he’d taken Doofus away.

Frenchy started to take up the chase, but Manny shooed him back. “No, Frenchy. Stay. Wait on the workshop porch. I’m expecting a delivery. If it comes, sign for it, please.”

As Frenchy waited, he saw Dutch and Flip ride up on their bikes to the shotgun they rented across the street.
Just my luck to have him next door here too.

“Hey, French!” called Flip.

“Hey, Pogo,” called Dutch. “Haw!”

“Don’t call me that, you baboon!” Nettled, he decided to wait inside the workshop so he wouldn’t have to deal with Dutch.

The workshop was Frenchy’s favorite place in Dominic’s Archimedes Street shotgun. The sweet scent of wood shavings permeated all the rooms on that side of the double, and Frenchy was fascinated with Manny’s collection of precision tools. He walked past a door Manny had custom-built out of walnut. He’d been around when Manny had assembled the gigantic door that now leaned against a wall. Spring dogs, brackets with pointy ends, kept the glued joints tight. Frenchy loved learning the lingo from Manny, and “spring dogs” seemed just the right name for those thingies. But the router Manny had used to ream out the mortises had truly fascinated Frenchy. You could adjust it for any kind of mortise penetration and angle. He now idly fingered the lozenge-shaped tenons that fit so snugly in the mortises and leaned in to examine the machine.

A scrap of unexpected color caught his eye, and he reached around behind the cubby that housed the machine.

It was a magazine. Frenchy withdrew it from its hiding place.

Frenchy now stood trembling before the images he saw in the magazine. Such beautiful men. He turned the pages. All completely naked. The things they were doing! Frenchy’s imagined lovemaking had not progressed further than the kissing of mouth and cockhead. His entire view of the world was reframed in that instant. As he looked at the images, he imagined himself as one of the men in a pair. He flushed. He skimmed quickly, fearing the imminent return of Manny and Dominic with Doofus in tow. Then he replaced the magazine and just sat, lost in thought.

Dominic was gay! And, like Frenchy, he was trying to hide it. Well, shit, of course you hid that, didn’t you? He’d thought, because Dominic was all boy, that he couldn’t possibly want what Frenchy wanted. But the masculinity of the men in the magazine was also evident. Gay, he realized, didn’t have to mean sissy.

A barking Doofus heralded their return, and Frenchy looked at Dominic, standing beside his father, with new eyes. Dominic was goofy and funny, but he now saw Dominic was also very cute, a diminutive Manny but with curly, light-brown hair. He looked at Dominic’s crotch and imagined sinking his nose into Dominic’s zipper and the slight lump he saw behind it. He felt the beginning of arousal.

Yes, he could do that.

“Did the delivery men come?” asked Manny.

“No, Mr. T.” For some reason, Frenchy couldn’t call Dominic’s father “Manny.”

“Well, then,” said Manny, slipping his son three twenties. “Why don’t you boys go get some oyster po’boys and maybe take in a movie? I’ve got some stuff to do while I wait for the delivery men.”

“C’mon, Frenchy! Let’s go!” Dominic raced out the door and Frenchy ran to catch up to him. Oh, yeah. He’d stick to Dominic like glue, knowing what he now did.