A Little History

Backed in a corner against the cold stone walls of the old Lafitte, I rested and watched one night too damn many years ago to count or really fucking care.

As usual, the air was rife with smoke and ceaseless conversation as Joe continued his finger dance along the ivories. Joe didn’t much like to sing, but he knew how to get the bar patrons to tip and every third song or so played one to which his baritone would compliment and encourage the revelers to join.

Like Joe, I much preferred when he just played, not because I did not like the sound of his voice, I did. It was when he played unencumbered by words and lyrics he poured his heart into the piece and brought the static notes and movements to life. It was then the smoke even swayed and danced for him. It was then I chose to believe he played only for me.

Tap, tap, tap

Those were the sounds when Joe hit the high notes at the far right of the piano to shake me from my reflections. He knew not to let me drift too far into my thoughts and the blackness which surrounded them.

Of all the men I had known, both in passing, as well as the carnal sense, Joe was one of my buddies. One of the damned few or one of the few damned, I know not which.

While we had had more than one opportunity to fuck, neither of us seemed interested in tainting the friendship, such as it was. It simply was.

Tap, tap, tap

Joe hit those damn keys again.

Taking a drag from my Marlboro I cut him a glance through the haze of the room.

With a broad smile he launched into his pet song for me: “Brown-eyed Girl!”

Then the drunken frivolity ensued as he encouraged one of the drunk asses seated at his baby grand to dance with me.

Fucking ass tourists.

I knew they were the lifeline for the city, but more obnoxious cock suckers I had never seen.

One of the more brawny ones followed Joe’s nod, wink, and smile and stumbled over to my corner.

I knew the game well.

It wasn’t enough I had my own fucking job to do, it was a slow night and now I had to help Joe inject some mother fucking life into the place. I was in no goddamn mood and he knew it, the jackass.

The big guy ambled over and all but tripped on the table and landed in my fucking lap. With a belch of ethanol he gave me his best line: “Hey gorgeous, do you have a boyfriend.”

At my cold silence he continued: “Would you like one?”

Original. Fucking original.

I methodically took another drag then tossed back the remains of my bourbon and coke.

No games for me that night. I was worn out and used up. It was time to go home.

When I stood the drunken ass grabbed my arm and used me as leverage to gain his feet. Squeezing that arm he implored “Come on, baby, dance with me.”

Dropping the butt of my cigarette into his open drink, I relied on my day job training and slammed my heel into the arch of his foot. When he bent over and howled in pain I grabbed his right arm with my left hand and pulled him to me. With the free hand I gripped the back of his head and slammed his forehead into the table. He let out a grunt and down to the floor he slumped, dazed and drunk.

Fucker.

A quick glance at Joe found him slowly shaking his head. With sharp eyes I sent a silent, but no less lethal “Fuck you, too, asshole.”

Stepping over the the beefy tourist, I made my way out the side door and down the street as I berated myself in my mind:

Girlfriend, what is your fucking problem?

What the fuck were you thinking?

Calm, woman, stay calm, keep your head and stay fucking alive.

Stopping short I pulled at my bag, lit another fucking cigarette, then leaned my shoulder against a dimly glowing lamp to collect my thoughts, as well as my nerves.

I was fucking falling apart.

When I needed my wits about me the most, I fucking lost them.

I started to take another long drag when a hairy arm grabbed me from behind and pushed a cold blade against the side of my neck. I could feel it press against my flesh and knew he had sliced me, just a bit, as a sticky trickle made its way down my neck and ultimately between my sweaty breasts.

“Honey,” he said, “you need to learn to play nice. I’d a thought girls like you woulda learned that by now.”

I was scared. I was so scared I could taste not only the bile rising in my stomach, but the blood seeping down my front. I had let my guard down and it was gonna goddamn cost me.

As his grip tightened around me and my breath left me, I heard another distinctly male voice from behind us both: “Mon ami, surely the whore is not worth your life?”

Swearing, the fucker eased his grip, turned me around, and in a flash of the night brought the butt of the blade crashing against my temple.

Shit.

It was my turn to go down and there wasn’t a fucking thing I could do about it.

I heard the scuffle and the grunts, but for the life of me could not catch a breath or clear my head well enough to look, much less stand and help or even run.

I don’t know how long it lasted, but I suddenly felt a hand on my arm pulling me to my feet and that distinctive male voice tell me: “On your feet, woman, we have to get out of here.”

As I leaned heavily on him my gaze traveled to the limp body of my attacker humped over on the street to the steel blue eyes of my savior.

“Can you walk?” He said.

I wanted to ask if he killed him, but realized suddenly, I did not want to know.

“Woman, we have to go. My hotel is a couple blocks from here.”

“No,” I struggled, “no hotel…cameras.”

“Fuck, fuck.”

Steadying me with both hands now, he insisted: “We have to go. Now.”

Nodding, my thoughts were slowly becoming more coherent. “My place is a few blocks to the east.”

Half dragging, half carrying me, we finally reached my small island of peace, the one place I had adamantly refused to allow any man. Standing at the door, I hesitated.

While I had known my share of men, I much preferred to love ‘em and leave ‘em on their own turf or at neutral locations. It was always safer that way.

As if he sensed my thoughts and inner turmoil, the man with steel eyes leaned his back against the wall adjacent to the door with a heavy sigh and simply said: “Your call.”

It was then I first noticed the front of his blue button-down was wet and dark. Pulling the ripped shirt aside, I realized it was his blood, not that of the attacker or me.

“Shit, man, why didn’t you tell me you were hurt.”

Scrambling to open the door and get him inside, I shed all my reservations. With renewed energy, I grabbed him and pulled him inside my private domain. We only got as far as the couch before his own energy abated.

Feeling the panic and near hysteria rise within me, I disentangled my limbs from his and went in search of alcohol, peroxide, and whatever the hell else I could find to begin patching us back up.

My search led me to the bathroom and when I flipped the switch there was a moment or two of flickering light before the fluorescent bulb kicked in to shed its eerie glow.

Catching a reflection of myself as I opened the medicine cabinet, I had to shut it and look closer at the image staring back at me.

The tissue around my left eye was swollen and angry. The eye itself was red with tiny little burst veins. Down my neck was a cut an inch, inch and a half long, but fortunately not deep.

I was covered in blood and my head beat with drums of rage. My wounds could wait, I wasn’t sure if the man’s could.

Grabbing cotton balls, band-aids, alcohol, scissors, tape, and wet hand towel, I returned to the living room. The steel eyes were closed, but I could tell he was listening and still with me.

I propped him up as well as I could and removed his shirt entirely. I saw despite the heat and humidity of my home city, he wore an undershirt, too. That knowledge brought a brief smile to my face. I liked that he wore the undershirt, torn and stained as it was.

I cut it off him.

Using the damp hand towel first, I blotted most of the spent blood to get a better view of the damage. I was rewarded with a flow of fresh red and a groan or two.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

“I’m sorry, man, I’m so not a fucking nurse. Do you hear me? I’m not a fucking nurse!”

“It’s okay, baby, do what you fucking have to do.” Came the labored reply.

“You need a goddamn doctor.”

“No, doctor…”

And, that was it.

He was out.

I continued to blot until I could see a three inch jagged tear along his lower left abdomen, just above the pelvic bone. I didn’t think there was a major organ right there and while long, it didn’t appear to be too deep, even though it bled like a mother.

At first, I tried to daub the area with alcohol soaked cotton balls, but quickly found that was futile. In desperation, I dumped half the bottle on it and vowed just to burn the goddamn couch when all was over and done. He stirred and groaned when the cleansing liquid hit him, but barely moved.

The next decision was whether to attempt to sew him up as I had seen my grandmother darn socks or use the tape.

The thought of pushing a needle through his torn and bleeding flesh was too much for me to bear and my left eye was fully closed.

Lacking a clear head, as well as depth perception, I opted for the tape. Before, I packed the wound in gauze, I vaguely wondered if I needed to leave a weep hole or something for it drain.

I opted for drainage and left a space.

What the fuck did I know?

Then I checked him for further damage and found none.

After pulling his feet onto the couch and making him appear, at least to me, to be as comfortable as possible, I covered him with a light blanket and sought refuge in my shower.

I turned it on as hot as I could possibly get it. Despite my fatigue, I felt the need to be clean. I washed my long, dark hair, then scrubbed myself from head to toe.

Long after the last of the suds fled through the drain, I stood with my sore eye and temple pressed lightly against the cool of the shower tile. The hot water turned to warm, then eventually became merely tepid. Still, I just stood allowing the water to run over me and wishing I would just melt away.

Eventually, I shut it down and pulled out a fresh towel. Rubbing myself dry, I realized I was bleeding again and needed to don that nurse’s hat one more time before the night was through.

Instead of wrapping my still throbbing head under the weight of wet hair and a towel, I opted to merely blot it. Grabbing a sarong from the hook behind the door, I wrapped it loosely around me and returned to the living room and the remnants of the medicinal supplies.

Finding a spot on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa, I leaned back and took several of the cotton balls. After dousing them in alcohol I pressed them securely against the side of my neck.

Fuck.

The burning was intense and brought an involuntary moan from my lips.

I felt the man stir behind me and with a gentle hand he pushed mine away and mumbled: “Let me look at that.”

With deft hands he finished cleaning the cut and taped me up. Thinking back on my freshman efforts at first aid, I had the distinct feeling this man knew what he was doing.

I did not ask.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I started to get up or at least turn to face him. Gently, but firmly his hands commanded I remain as I was. I could feel his breath on my neck as distinctly as I could the sharp edge of desire rising within me.

“Watching you at Lafitte’s, I wondered if you were tan all over.”

I did not trust myself to speak and did not think a reply necessary.

His voice became slightly deeper while one hand rubbed the base of my neck and the other pulled my heavy and long hair to one side. I could feel his lips move against the skin of my shoulder as he asked: “Are you Creole?”

Finding my voice I turned my face to his and whispered: “As far as you know.”

It would be three days before he left my city and we said goodbye. Three days a lifetime ago.

Our paths have crossed on occasions here and there when his business brought him back to New Orleans, but our lives have remained separate and distinct.

Over the years I have thought of him often, particularly when my eyes check my reflection and come to rest on the now faint scar along my neck.

The man, bastard that he is, did me a damn good turn once.

Now, I’m here to do him a damn bad one.

Life has worn me down a bit. My home is no longer my home and while I have managed to squirrel away a bit to start over somewhere, I am not sure what next I must do or will do.

My old life and career beckon me, but answering to the big boss man no longer holds any appeal. For the moment, I need to fade from the scene and this is where I shall do it.

I don’t know if I’ll make my way back to the Quarter, while at the same time, I can hardly imagine being anywhere else.

Yabu, man, know this, I’m not the kind of woman you or anyone else can trust; however, I pay my debts.

I bid you “Good night” with a word of warning:

Keep one of those eyes open, man, just to be sure.