Hothouse Gods

Hothouse Gods

Frederick Barrows

Lone Argonaut

Copyright © 2013 Frederick Barrows All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN (Hardcover): 978-0-9893729-1-6

ISBN (Digital Mobi): 978-0-9893729-4-7

ISBN (Digital ePub): 978-0-9893729-5-4

Library of Congress Registration Number: TX0007875181

Cover design by: M. Styborski

Originally published September 2013

ARGO014, rev. 2.0 (04/2024)

Printed in the United States of America

Dedicated to Luckless 13s everywhere.

Introduction

Hothouse Gods is the first true novel the author completed. There had been earlier attempts, of course, some going as far back as the author’s fumbling-toward-bare-literacy preteen years. The form rejections from Big Publishing Houses provided a genuine thrill back then: Someone had actually responded! The larger lesson was to never stop honing the craft; word by word, draft upon draft, experimenting and rethinking and second guessing—but always pushing forward, even if all of this embryonic work never advanced to a publishable level. By the author’s count (excusing the juvenilia), at least three novels existed before this one, the author’s presumptive shiny debut effort. Even this personal triumph has been fraught with detours, disappointments, and a rewarding surprise (or thirteen) during the educational road to the considerably more polished manuscript presented here.

Set in 1991, the initial draft of Hothouse Gods manifested during the second half of that hyperactively transitional decade, and is very much a product of its era. Had it found a publisher in its own time, critics would no doubt have framed it as a glimpse into the world of twenty somethings navigating an increasingly frenetic, technologically innovative age. As it stands, it’s more likely for a reader to view it as a nostalgia piece. Fortunately, due to its creation within the moment it’s set, the book retains a fidelity and immediacy that hasn’t diminished with age. It has certainly taken its lumps in reaching this present milestone, however. An earlier draft appeared in 2003. While that particular, long out-of-print version contained the core story, it meandered unnecessarily, and the novel has benefited enormously from judicious trimmings and a bolstering of key sections. As presented here, Hothouse Gods is lean and mean. Certainly more killer and less filler. Hopefully, inclined readers will agree with this assessment. Thank you for taking a look, and enjoy.

Frederick Barrows

Golden Buddha Thoroughfare, Part 2

Carl, the night relief man, arrived at the motel around eleven-twenty and apologized to Jimmy for being late.

Mother refuses to get the operation, he said, unhurriedly punching in. We’ll both be unhappy until she does.

Jimmy left in a rush, barely catching the last bus home.

He’d purchased a Greyhound ticket earlier in the week, determined to leave New Orleans and head out west, bum off his itinerant father in southern New Mexico.

Do anything to break the paralyzing monotony.

Boarding the RTA, he noticed a cab pulling into the motel’s parking lot. Sarah, a Bourbon Street stripper, was home early. Wednesdays were always slow. She was wearing heels, an impossibly tight, cherry red miniskirt, and hot pink cutoff tanktop.

Jimmy plopped in his seat and gazed out the window, gawking openly. An older man, sitting behind him, leaned uncomfortably close. Yeah, she’s a real numba, ain’t she?

The guy’s breath stank of beer and cigarettes.

Jimmy shook his head. You don’t know a damn thing about her.

The old codger, his eyes gleaming, flashed what few teeth remained. No … but I’d sure like to.

Jimmy watched Sarah move beneath the motel’s trashy neon sign. Gardenia, You’re Halfway Home.

Jimmy’s mother had been a half-hour away from aborting him before chickening out. He discovered this when he was seven, overhearing a phone conversation she’d had with her mother, shortly after his parents had separated. August 1974. Same month Nixon resigned. In all the decisions I have made in my public life, I have always tried to do what was best for the Nation.

Jimmy was relieved to discover that she was thankful for having fled the sympathetic physician’s office that crisp, pre-fall day, claiming that it would have been the second biggest mistake of her life; narrowly eclipsed by shacking up with Jake Breedlove in the first place.

He craned his neck, hoping to get one last glimpse of Sarah, but the bus had already pulled off, the ugly neon staining the night sky, the surrounding buildings washed in an emulsified darkness.

Jimmy got home and discovered Danielle stretched across the bed, dressed only in panties and a loose, Holy Angel’s T-shirt. She looked at him as if she’d been expecting someone else.

Things between them hadn’t been great lately and, rather than take her posturing as some sort of come-hither peace offering before he left town, Jimmy was immediately suspicious. She was up to something. Had to be.

How’s it goin’? he said, frozen in the doorway.

Fine. She shifted her hips, brightly decorated fingernails playing along a raised thigh.

Jimmy knew he was in trouble.

Trouble sleeping?

Not really.

Oh.

He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes.

So, um, did your mother ever get back to you?

She sat up and began rubbing his shoulders. Yeah.

She okay with you staying there?

Yeah.

She kissed the nape of his neck and his stomach muscles tightened.

Danielle, listen … maybe we shouldn’t…

Jimmy.

He knew she had him. Yeah?

Go wash your feet.

She had him and there was no way out.

Yeah, he said, and nodded. Okay.

He rose and walked down the hallway, to the bathroom.

No way out at all.

Jimmy undressed and took a quick shower, trying to focus on the moment rather than the future. He knew it would probably be the last time. It had to be. He couldn’t imagine coming back. Fate all but screamed that his destiny lay westward. His compulsion to leave the city, the crappy motel job, the mystery that was Sarah, all of it, was simply too strong. He had little else—nothing, actually—going on. He just had to hold out until payday. Survive the weekend and collect his check on Sunday afternoon. Then he’d be free. Really free. He had one last chance to stretch his legs. Maturity and the obligations of adulthood would crush him by thirty. He had six more years to get it wrong, six more years to make something of his sorry self. No ties. No children. Close calls didn’t count.

He knew that he and Danielle’s relationship effectively ended after their visit to the clinic a year-and-a-half back. At the time, he’d felt guilty because of his reaction to the cost of the procedure, more than the actual act itself.

In the beginning, she’d gotten a lot of crap for dating a white boy. Her light skin didn’t help matters. More than once her younger brother, Rodney, an All-State power forward for the Cohen Green Hornets, had threatened to trash Jimmy if he continued seeing Danielle. Give a decent brother a chance, he’d say. You got no college, no future. I got me a brother lined up at Georgia Tech who wants a shot. Danielle, she’s too good for you. C’mon, man. Don’t make me beat her out of your system.

Jimmy had seen Rodney play against his old high school team. No doubt about it, the guy had game.

When Jimmy moved in with Danielle, he assumed there had to be a deeper reason than any serious attraction on her part. He never really understood what she saw in him. Maybe he was just some tool to get back at her parents, or a shocking ploy to spark the interest of another.

Whatever the original intent, for either of them, they had both fallen into a perfect state of complacence, going through the motions of shared bills, boredom, and birth control.

One last time, he reasoned, hoping to elevate the moment to a loftier height than it deserved.

The entire time he was inside her, he had difficulty getting the promise of the bus ticket out of his mind. Danielle—legs locked tightly around the small of his back—seemed lost in some parallel sexual domain. They were worlds apart, mutually indifferent masturbation therapy, trying to influence the moment with an emotional synergy that simply was not there.

Jimmy had to conjure images of other women to reach orgasm. He felt cheap doing this, heelish. There was no telling what Danielle was thinking. There was the Montel Williams poster hanging on the inside of the closet door to consider, however. Danielle had received the poster from a friend, who claimed Montel’s new daytime talk show was going to be bigger than Donahue’s. The door seemed conveniently ajar whenever they had sex. The image of Montel, suave and cool, arms folded, smiling confidently, really bugged Jimmy.

You think too much, James Archibald Breedlove. He shuddered. Way too much.

Danielle was in the shower when the phone rang. Jimmy didn’t want to answer it. He lay in darkness, forearm draped across his brow, hoping the person would get the hint. Just leave him alone.

After the seventh ring, he jerked the receiver from its cradle.

Yeah? he said, sounding more disoriented than he actually was.

The time is now, Breedlove.

What? Jimmy sat up. Who is this?

Sonofabitch … what, I catch you sleeping?

Jeff?

Who the hell else?

Goddamn. How … how are you doin’?

Doin’ great. Which is why I’m calling you.

Cool… Jimmy ran a hand over his face. What’s up?

The time is now, Breedlove. Go west, young man! Go west!

Jimmy scanned the last place he had seen the bus ticket. It wasn’t there. West?

I need you out here with me, J-Man. My wingman, close. Need you to get Skyburn from Granny’s house. Bring it out to me.

Sure… Jimmy leaned over the side of the bed, searching. He was certain he could get a refund. Hell, yes…

Told you I’d call one day. No fair warning. The time is now, J-Man. Right now. Retrieve my ride and get your sorry ass out here.

Uh, yeah… He coughed. So, what the hell are you doing?

Music, Jeff said. Managing a rock band, Vegetative State. Hey, my time’s almost up. I’m at a convenience store, on the way home. Shitty gig. Tell you all about it when you get here. Quick, take down this address.

Jimmy found a pen and jotted down the information. Pismo? As in Pismo Beach, like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons?

The very same. Trust me. It’ll be more than worth the trip. See you in a few days. You are good to go, right?

Hell, yes, Jimmy said. As a matter of fact, I—

Okay, see you—

The line went dead.

Jimmy placed the receiver back in its cradle and stared at the hastily scrawled address. Jeff, his best friend from high school, had made good on his promise and actually called. Jimmy couldn’t believe it.

Pismo Beach?

Really shoulda taken that turn at Albuquerque.

You say something, baby? Danielle called from the bathroom.

No, Jimmy said. Must have been Montel.

What?

He extended his leg and nudged the closet door shut. Nothing!

Thursday night was chaotic. Jimmy was stuck on the graveyard shift because Carl ate some bad chili and called in sick.

Compounding matters was the appearance of a huge beer truck that pulled into the parking lot shortly after Jimmy arrived, with an army of frat boys providing secret-service-tight escort.

Frat guys were the worst. They invariably trashed the rooms, bothered the other guests, and relentlessly harassed the desk clerk on duty.

Jimmy had paused for five generous seconds when a young sorority tart bounced up to the night window and said, Can you please, please, please break a twenty for me. Pleeeeease?

No, Jimmy said.

Why not?

Sorry. He shook his head. Motel policy.

You’re too cute to be such an asshole, she said, and then sashayed toward an idling vehicle. Jimmy watched her depart, taking note of her tan legs and plump rear, shocked at finding himself mildly aroused.

Twenty-four phone calls, twelve requests for change, and at least seven instances of cars peeling out of the parking lot later, Jimmy observed an empty steel keg rumble across cracked asphalt. Trailing the ungainly cylinder was a buck-naked idiot sporting a crewcut and giant green T painted across his pasty white chest. Needless to say, he failed spectacularly in his attempt to vault the trundling half-barrel.

That’s it… Jimmy reached for the phone. And then, as if by divine decree, a cop car materialized, its patrol lights flashing dramatically.

Yes! Jimmy said, relinquishing the tightly clenched receiver.

The cop brought his vehicle to a halt and then said over his loudspeaker, Justin Radolet. Get your sorry ass out here!

Uh-huh, Jimmy said, get your lily white, Richie-Rich, family-supported, fraternally fucked-up ass out here!

The door to a downstairs room opened and a tall, gangly goofball, wearing rose red Bermuda shorts and neon yellow, glow-in-the-dark Ray-bans, ambled into the parking lot. Imported beer can in hand, he nonchalantly stood in the path of the squad car’s beaming headlights.

Justin Michael Radolet…

Yeah… The kid took a swill of beer, belched, and then bounced the can off the hood of the cop’s car. What the fuck you want?

Jimmy could not believe his ears. Kick his ass, he said. Call some buddies and thrash this rat!

Several seconds passed before the cop got out of his car. He was a big guy; a badge Jimmy didn’t recognize. He hoisted his gun belt snug below his sizeable gut and approached the arrogant punk, standing nose-to-nose with him. So, he said. How’s the old man, wiseass?

Richer ’n’ fatter than ever!

The two exploded into laughter and hugged one another.

Jimmy shook his head. There is no justice left in this world.

Someone on the upstairs balcony maxed out the volume on a herculean-sized boom box, the cop started dancing, and the place went wild.

The night’s lone bright spot came around half-past four—the frat bacchanal having mercifully sputtered out an hour earlier—when Sarah, her dark hair pulled back and knotted in a tight bun, entered the motel office to pay her rent.

Jimmy, on the phone with a kid in room 119, said, Corner bar. Bathroom. Buck a piece, and hung up.

She placed her purse on the counter. Tough night, Mister Breedlove?

Jimmy sniffled and shifted his weight. Typical.

She wore a black tanktop, no discernible bra, and faded cutoff shorts. The majority of her makeup looked to have come off swiftly, perhaps during the cab ride home from the club.

Jimmy had no doubt she was most beautiful creature on the entire planet.

Guess what, Jimmy, she said, digging through her purse. This really cute guy invited me to go to San Francisco with him! Can you believe it? Frisco! I think he’s a movie producer, or a director. Either way, isn’t that awesome?

He nodded. Yeah, sure. That’s awesome…

There you go again, Sarah said, shaking her head.

What?

You’re checking me out, sizing me up like I’m some piece of meat on display.

Well, are you? he thought, determined to see her dance, at least once, before leaving the city.

She produced a pair of twenties. Tell me, Jimmy, when’s the last time you got laid?

He took her money and popped the register open with a practiced flick of the wrist. Last night.

So, she said, chewing her lower lip, I’ve got to know, did she get off?

He shrugged. Sorry. Didn’t ask.

Well, you must have known.

He updated the folio for her room, registered under her roommate’s name. Haven’t seen Cookie around, lately. She okay?

Jim dandy! Sarah’s head lolled back, and she spun around.

He clucked his tongue. You been drinking?

She giggled. You can always tell, Jimmy.

Yeah, well—

A gunshot sounded.

Christ! What was that?

He shook his head. Sounded—

A second shot. Moments later, a young man scampered over the sagging fence bordering the property’s back lot, near the Dumpster.

Lock the door, he said, and reached for the phone.

Sarah twisted the bolt shut on the glass doors and then retreated behind the counter, near the recently polished golden Buddha statue.

Damn… He squinted. I think he’s been shot.

Does he have a gun?

Jimmy couldn’t tell.

Someone had shot the kid in the abdomen. He looked to be sixteen, seventeen at most. Receiver pressed to his ear, index finger crooked on the nine, Jimmy made eye contact with him. He could have been a high school band drum major, or a ROTC tough capable of a hundred, perfect form pushups in less than five minutes. Not tonight, though. His eyes were bloodshot, petrified.

Jimmy blinked and he was gone, stumbling across Tulane Avenue, a car honking at him as he crossed the road. The driver probably wouldn’t notice the blood staining his tires until the weekend, hosing down the polluted whitewalls, likely pondering his next investment opportunity.

Jimmy placed the receiver down and exhaled. Sarah touched his shoulder and he jerked away.

Oh, God, she said, I’m sorry.

She looked as if she were about to cry and he wanted to hug her, to show her how tough, sensitive, and manly he was, but he couldn’t. They just looked at one another and said nothing.

A siren screamed to life and a vagrant began banging on the office door, demanding to know what time it was.

You seeing Robocop tonight?

Cookie smacked her lips, measuring the spread of pink gloss. Yeah. Uh-huh.

Sarah sighed.

Cookie frowned, gazing at Sarah via the motel room’s bathroom mirror. What’s with you? You don’t give Joey no credit. He’s a good guy, has respectable intentions. So he’s got a fucked up home life. Who doesn’t?

Sarah crossed her arms and gave Cookie a skeptical look.

Cookie pulled a gob of gum from her mouth and mashed it into a green plastic ashtray. You are so judgmental.

Hardly.

You are. Like you’re better than me, or somethin’.

Oh, fuck, Sarah said. Don’t even start with that crap.

There you go again.

What?

Dismissing me, like what I have to say don’t even matter.

Cookie…

There was a flash of genuine anger in Cookie’s eyes, something Sarah had rarely seen from her roommate of nearly three months.

You know, Sarah, you can be a real bitch sometimes, she said, primping her frizzy brown hair and adjusting her ruby red halter top. You’re the one who moved in with me, remember? Besides, you don’t come from a nicer family, or speak any better than I do, or know much more than I do. And you most certainly don’t dance any better than the rest of the girls. I mean, don’t you get it? We’re all the same, broken toys for people to play with.

Sarah’s mouth fell open and before she could frame a reply Cookie spun around and slammed the bathroom door.

Wow! Easygoing, insufferably cute, harmless little Cookie apparently had teeth after all.

There’s hope for her yet.

Sarah turned toward the mirror mounted across from the main room’s two beds, and reached for her favorite eyeliner.

Jimmy approached the house. Jeff’s grandmother was out back, working in her garden. Jeff had lived with her, on and off, since his mom took off to parts unknown with some drug dealing biker when Jimmy and Jeff were in their last year of high school. Jeff’s father had died of cancer, passed away on Jeff’s ninth birthday.

At first, Jimmy didn’t recognize the woman. Flabby flesh hung from her arms. A battered, wide-brimmed hat eclipsed the noonday sun. Sunspots dotted the back of her neck. He had no memory of her looking like this, as if she’d aged twenty years since his last visit.

She had lived in Jefferson a long time, for at least as long as Jimmy had been alive. Her house was one of many that sprung up on reclaimed farmland after the Second World War, where present day South Claiborne gave way to Jefferson Highway. He couldn’t believe how old she looked. He had spent nights in her house, but had never really considered her age, or aging at all for that matter. Looking at her now made him feel uncomfortable, like he was treading on sacred ground, as if she were an attentive spirit that refused to let her precious plot of earth go untended.

The bus had dropped him off a half-mile away. With the heat, the walk seemed longer. He was trim, but sorely out of shape. Sedentary employment was a patient crippler.

Dust covered the car parked in front of the house. Perhaps Jimmy had expected too much. If the vintage Chevy drove, he would be happy.

He approached the sagging fence separating the driveway from the back of the house and called out to the woman. It took three hollers before she finally responded.

In the mailbox, she said, gesturing skyward. Keys in box!

Jimmy frowned. The woman was completely obsessed with her garden. He could have been anybody, some convict passing by, or a pitiless predator. The woman had soil to till. Nothing else mattered.

The keys were in the box. Jimmy hoped there was gas in the tank.

Jimmy’s grandfather had taught him how to drive. Rumbling through the vastness of southern New Mexico, little Jimmy would hold onto the enormous steering wheel of the battered ’56 Ford as if an enraged steer were bucking beneath him. Gramps had a grand old time, swilling whiskey, singing bawdy tunes, crying, Floor it, Jimbo! Floor it! Jimmy ran into a cactus one time and the old prospector slammed his head against the dashboard, busted his skull wide open. Jimmy had never seen so much blood. Gramps lost his license a short while after that; lost all mobility, ultimately.

Jimmy slid behind the wheel of the Impala. According to Jeff, Skyburn—as he’d affectionately dubbed the candy apple red behemoth—managed decent highway mileage, had beautiful guts and eight cylinders ready to roar. More power than Jimmy needed. While stoplights had a way of making all cars equal, out on the straightaways—the spillway and six-mile stretch leading to Slidell—there was ample opportunity to unleash the beast lurking beneath the hood, to take the machine beyond its breaking point. Melt pistons to the core.

Arriving home, he shifted the car into neutral and coasted in front of Danielle’s apartment. He didn’t recognize the metallic blue Grand Marquis parked in the driveway and had only a passing familiarity with the thumping beat emanating from behind the shotgun duplex’s antiquated walls.

Danielle had the day off. She’d planned to go visit a relative’s grave, have lunch with her cousin.

Jimmy shook his head. He still hadn’t found the bus ticket. He was counting on that money to help finance his trip. The house was shaking on its foundation, the music throbbing insistently. Jimmy ground his teeth together and gripped the steering wheel tightly.

A pigeon fluttered overhead, expelling the residue of its daily variety on the Grand Marquis’s shiny windshield.

That was meant for me, he thought.

He felt a funny tickle in his stomach. Somehow it all made sense. She was taking necessary precautions. It was too clear, painfully so.

He shifted into drive and tore down Helena, barely acknowledging the stop sign as he pushed toward Carrolton.

Joey wants to talk to you, Cookie said, as she and Sarah exited the Pink Lady.

Not a chance, Sarah said, hunting a cab.

Sarah felt ill, watching as the tarnished badge stepped out of his silky white Chevy Corvette ZR1 and drunkenly sauntered up to Cookie, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. The word going around was that Big Joey Stuffato’s supervisor was going to put him on probation for battering a hooker, and sending her to the hospital with a broken jaw. He had a hearing coming up and his entire career hung in the balance. Real dramatic stuff. Tonight, Joey acted like he didn’t have a care in the world. He placed Cookie in his ride and then got in on the driver’s side.

Hey! he said, leering at Sarah. I need to talk to you.

Sarah crossed her arms and didn’t budge.

Come here! You deaf?

Sarah moved fractionally closer to the idling vehicle, hoping to placate the buffoon and be on her way.

So, why don’t you come back to the motel with us. We’ll have a party. Do a little blow. No big deal. Just a friendly get together. She watched his lips move. Just a little get together among friends, that’s all. I’ve been watching you, been checking you out. Nice moves. Come on, sweetie. Lighten up. Where’s the fun in life if you don’t loosen up a bit? You know me. You know Cookie. We’re all friends here, right?

Thanks, Sarah said and backed away. But I’ve made other plans.

Cookie! he said, snapping his head a half-turn. Tell your girlfriend to get in the car.

Come on… Cookie said. You won’t regret it. She hiccupped. Promise.

Sarah shook her head. Sorry. I can’t.

Goddammit! Big Joey composed himself and exited the car. Hey, don’t make a scene. Let’s go. He stepped uncomfortably close and said, in a hushed tone, Now.

She held her ground. No.

What could he do, kidnap her right there, out in the open, with hundreds of pedestrians walking nearby? She’d make one major scene. She’d scream bloody murder.

He backed up and opened the driver’s side door. Come on, he said. Get in.

It wasn’t a request.

Come on… Cookie said, slurring her words as she shifted to make room for Sarah.

Have a good night, she said, and turned to walk away.

Bitch!

Joey lunged forward and clamped Sarah’s left wrist. She twisted away, kicked him in the left shin, and retreated into the protective arms of the club’s bouncer, Benjamin Israel Shareef Smalls.

Joey was a big guy, but he was no match for Benji, a six-foot-eight, three hundred-sixty pound behemoth with catlike reflexes and a passionate disposition toward defending the honor of the Pink Lady’s prime assets.

The lady said no, Benji said, towering over a suddenly indecisive Joey.

Yeah, yeah, Joey said, and adjusted his tie. Go back to your stoop, porch monkey.

Benny smiled, cool as ice. And a nice evening to you, too, sir.

Joey gave Sarah a look that made her shudder, hopped in his car, and drove off. Cookie looked back at her roommate with a bewildered expression on her face. Sarah hugged Benny and then the tears came as she thanked him, her shoulders shaking, barely able to stand.

It’s okay, Benny said, patting her back. Don’t you worry about him. Even that fool knows when to cut bait.

Carl didn’t show up to relieve Jimmy until a quarter-past midnight.

Sorry, he said. My cat’s rheumatism was acting up and I had to take her to this vet out in Violet.

Jimmy carefully folded and tucked away a highway map he had been marking up. They got vets working this late?

On-demand animal homeopathy is very big business.

Oh.

Carl turned and began counting the till. I sure hope she’s all right. He expelled a heavy sigh. That damn leg just refuses to heal.

Yeah… Jimmy escaped to the other side of the counter.

You’re leaving? Carl looked up from the drawer.

Already gone, Jimmy said, making a farewell gesture as the door closed behind him.

Danielle had decided to sleep at her aunt’s place, or so she claimed, and Jimmy didn’t feel like going home to an empty house.

Veering onto the interstate, he headed toward the river, willfully taking a circuitous way around. He hadn’t been downtown in a while. He had stayed out of the nightlife since his late teens, when a would-be robber had shot a friend of his outside Jackson Square. Jimmy was around the corner at the time, taking a leak in Pirate’s Alley. That could have been me was the thought that resonated. His friend no longer lived in New Orleans, but the bullet was still in him, nestled in his lower back like some spiteful part of the city that refused to heal.

The Quarter was great when Jimmy was younger, a wild place of strange faces and wide-eyed malcontents burning with hyperactive excitement. He was poor but didn’t care as long as the action didn’t stop. Now he had fallen into a comfortable state of poverty. Being perpetually broke provided an excuse to not venture beyond the safe comforts of home. Maybe things had gotten worse. Maybe the shooting of a friend (he couldn’t even recall the guy’s name) had triggered something deep inside his gut, tripped the appropriate defense mechanism, and made him want to duck for cover at the first sign of trouble.

I don’t want to die having never lived. Jeff lived it. License suspended, he’d hitchhiked to California, refusing to wait a whole year to break free of The Island, as he called New Orleans. Jeff always had a plan. I’m going to send for you, J-Man, he’d promised. Mark my words.

Jimmy had wanted to go with him at the time, but he had to report to the phone bank he was working at for five. He watched his closest friend disappear with a battered brown satchel slung over his shoulder and knew, unquestionably, that it was the right idea.

Just go. Pass the uncertain years as uncertainly as you’re able. Live wholly, crazily, until the burdens of age, relationships, and hourly servitude at whatever job you’re working at by necessity, not choice, weigh you down. Embrace what you fear the most. Do it now. A second opportunity might not come again.

Jimmy rang up over thirteen hundred in sales that night. He quit three weeks later.

The time to move was five years ago.

He exited the interstate at Tchopitoulas and motored toward Canal.

He’d semi-competently stumbled his way through eight or so jobs since high school. He had washed dishes, seasoned fast-food chicken, and hauled dirt. He had self-consciously peddled newspaper subscriptions door-to-door and briefly managed an all-night Laundromat. He had carried bags for faceless well-to-dos at a fancy hotel on Canal Street that had recently closed.

He had embraced the exact opposite of Jeff’s mantra, had died a hundred petty deaths, and lived to tell about each one.

No more excuses. Change or settle.

Come tomorrow, he had no intention of returning. He was finally going to catch up with Jeff’s words, seismically shifting the entire direction of his existence. It sure beat the alternative of loafing off his father out in New Mexico, exploring the Salinas Pueblo Missions, or beating around the complex web of ancient Anasazi ruins.

Jimmy was convinced things had