Chapter 5: Fleur de Lis

The woods are alive, for sure, where everything is lush and green and peaceful and I’m the only one around to touch the dew on the leaves. To breathe in the scent of deep soil after a night’s rain, or to wait in total darkness for the warmth of dawn.

A city is not peaceful like that. But there are people in cities, and it’s the people who make dead streets come alive.

-

If the devil were the sort of guy who needed weekend getaways, he’d have an upstairs apartment on Bourbon Street, Ben decided that night.

He trailed Tyler and the girls down the narrow boulevard, staring with wide and wary eyes at the laughing figures passing in and out of gaslit doorways and under neon signs. Thumping music from a dozen clubs warred for control of the airspace. Crowds of people stood on wrought iron balconies above the street, throwing beads into the throng. The scent of vomit loitered in the air, advancing and receding in waves like an unsubtle perfume.

Ben struggled through the press of bodies to catch up with the group. “Where are we going!”

“I thought we’d just look around a little while, you know, take in the atmosphere,” Tyler responded. He waved up at the closest balcony and stuck his chin out. A gaudy garland swirled around his neck like a horsehoe swinging around a pin. The group on the balcony cheered.

“Oh look! They’ve got fishbowls!” Billi pointed out a pink sign lit up beside a particularly graphic strip club display.

“What’s a fishbowl?” Ben asked.

“Beats me, buddy. Let’s find out.”

They pushed their way off the street to a sidewalk that was hardly less packed. A tired blonde and a burly black guy bustled behind a short counter in the tiny shop beneath the sign. Tyler approached.

“Four fishbowls please.”

“Cat and I will split one,” Billi interjected.

“Make that three!”

“ID’s.”

Ben nervously produced his new license and placed it on the counter alongside Tyler’s and the girls’. The bartenders ignored all of them and busied themselves with the drinks. Ben watched as they began shoveling ice cubes into containers that clearly resembled a goldfish tank.

“So uh, what’s in this thing?”

The blonde woman responded without looking at him. “Sixty-four ounces of fruit punch mix, rum, vodka and diesel.”

“What’s diesel?” Ben turned to ask Billi.

“How old are you again? It’s grain alcohol. One-eighty proof.”

“Ah. Ma’am, how much of it is diesel?”

This time, she looked up as she thrust a straw into the bottle’s plastic lid and slid the drink across the counter.

“A lot. Be safe dear. Next!”

Ben and Tyler paid for the drinks. Ben clutched the cocktail in both hands. It was painfully cold.

“This is like half a gallon of liquor,” Tyler marveled. “And they were only ten bucks each.” He flung an arm around Ben’s shoulders. “Nawlins, y’all!”

“Nawlins!” The girls cried. Ben braced himself, wrapped his lips around the straw and pulled. A torrent of icy, bittersweet liquid shot between his teeth. He gulped and licked his lips.

“It’s good!”

“Course it’s good!” Billi said. “It’s about as much sugar as alcohol. They’re dangerous. In other cities, they won’t let one person have a fishbowl all to herself.”

“Don’t drink it too fast, Benjito,” said Catalina. “It might affect your dancing. ¿Cuando bailamos, mi alma?”

“She wants to know when we’re hitting the club,” Billi translated.

“Bailamos muy soon, sen-yor-i-tas. Follow me.” Tyler bulled back into the current of bodies. At the end of the Bourbon Street bar strip, they turned onto a relatively quiet side road. Tyler and the girls chattered during the brief respite from the noise. Ben mostly ignored them, focusing instead on the surprisingly delicious cocktail. Soon, people appeared again, and another strip of brightly lit storefronts came into view.

“Here’s Frenchman,” Billi said. “Come on. A worker at the hostel tipped me on a great place for jazz.”

Frenchman Street seemed older, if not wiser. The iron lamp posts grew a little taller, their yellow lights a little hazier. Tropical plants grew in house yards mixed in with the storefronts. A few palm trees leaned over lacy iron grates set in the narrow sidewalk. Ben stumbled. He was suddenly unsure if he could find his way back.

They stopped abruptly in front of a bar that didn’t look much different from any of the others on the street. “Here we are. Best club jazz in the quarter. Great cocktails too.”

“I want a Sazarac,” Tyler replied. “Ben, you’ll need to get rid of your drink or they won’t let you in.” Tyler had long since drained his own. The girls disappeared inside.

“Oh. I don’t want to waste it. I’ll wait out here and finish it.”

“You want me to wait with you?”

“Nah. Go ahead. I’m fine out here. Really. I’m enjoying this.” Ben smiled warmly.

Tyler eyed his friend suspiciously. “You sure you want to finish that?”

“Scout’s honor.” Ben cocked his head and tossed a salute.

“You’re not a scout. Are you?”

Ben thought for a minute. “I don’t think so. Get the crowd warmed up for me. I’ll be in soon.”

Tyler laughed. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll check on you in a bit.” He disappeared into the bar.

Ben ambled a couple paces from the door and squatted comfortably down against the wall. He watched the parade of people going by. From sidewalk-level they looked like tropical fish flitting through an iridescent reef, glowing in the club lights strobing the streets the way the Caribbean shoals must glow in the shifting light of the moon.

What a strange kind of world it was, Ben thought, that comes most vividly to life long after the sun has gone.

 “This seat taken, partner?”

Ben blinked as a large bundle sagged to the sidewalk beside him with a liquor-scented whuff. The bundle resolved itself into a scraggily-bearded man in a tattered coat. A dirty hand with broken nails stuck out of one sleeve. A bottle was in the hand, and it was pointed at Ben. Ben shook his head.

“I’m James,” said the bundle-man, and tipped the bottle into his beard.

“Ben,” said Ben.

“Pleasure. Nice night, huh Johnny?”

“I think so.”

“Real nice night.” James smacked his lips. His face screwed up in a grimace, revealing a mouth peopled more with brown-checkered gums than yellow-green teeth. “What I wouldn’t give fer a piece of crispy fried chicken right about now. Wish my gummies didn’t hurt so damn much.”

“That would be nice.”

“Did I ever tell you about my wife?”

“I don’t think so.”

“She died a few years back. Sure did.”

“That’s awful. I’m sorry.”

“Me too, Johnny. I was in the army, you know. Special forces. Long time ago. Don’t matter now. When I got out of the service first thing I did was marry that girl. Prettiest little thing I ever saw. We had a nice house. Some cattle out in Texas. But she got cancer one year, and the doctors tol’ us she needed an operation. I sold everything. We didn’t have insurance, see.” James squinted at the empty bottle, then tossed it in the street. It shattered beside a pair of black high heels. Somebody squealed.

“Sold off the house, my truck. All the cattle. I got my baby operated on, though. Damn sure I did. Yep. I carried her home. Next day she calls me into our room, she says, ‘baby, I got to go. I said to her, ‘Why? Where you goin’ baby?’ and she says ‘I’m goin’ home, Jimmy, home to Jesus. I love you.’ Then she died in my arms.”

Ben watched helplessly as the big man’s shoulders shook with silent sobs. Tears splashed on his coat. Ben reached for his hand and held it. It was warm and surprisingly strong.

“I’m sorry, sir, truly I am. I’m makin’ an awful embarrassment of myself.”

Ben cleared his throat. “It’s a shame about your wife,” he said, feeling strangely mature. His head felt heavy.

“It is, sir, it’s a sore shame. But if that ain’t a joke, I don’t know what is!” He cackled and slapped his thigh and then stared at the hand he’d slapped it with. The thumb was swollen and black at the joint.

“What’s wrong with your hand, mister James?”

“Oh, that? Don’t you never flash your money in this town, Johnny. Never. Four guys jumped me last night, just for the cash in my pocket. I got one of ’em. Kicked his knee back the wrong way. But they beat me to shit for all of eleven bucks. Busted my hand.”

He leaned toward Ben. So did his odor. “You ever been in a fight?”

“No, sir.”

“I thought not. You know, you kinda look like a mama’s boy to me.”

Ben shrank a little farther against the brick.

“You listen here. You git in a fight, you remember that every man’s throat is open. Every man.” An iron grip seized the back of Ben’s neck and pulled him inches from James’ face. The man’s other fist was jammed into his Adam’s apple.

“You git jumped by more’n one guy, to hell with a fair fight. You hit each man once, and you hit him so he don’t get up. You won’t get a second chance.” Ben jerked his chin in understanding. James released him and leaned back, smiling broadly.

“This has been a de-lightful conversation. Just one last order of business. It gits awful cold under the bridge at night. Now a man ought to be honest so I ain’t gonna lie to ya. I want another drink. Two-fifty will keep me warm and toasty all night.”

Ben dug into his pocket and pulled out a few dollars. James tipped an invisible hat. “Thankee, friend.”

Two pairs of black boots appeared on the sidewalk. Ben followed them up to two barrel chests and two sets of crossed arms, topped by two unsmiling faces.

“Move it, buddy. On your feet.”

James winked at Ben. “That’s my ride,” he said amiably. “If you gentlemen wouldn’t mind?” He stuck out his arms. The bouncers yanked him up.

“So long, Johnny!” He stumbled off into the crowd, singing loudly.

One of the bouncers nudged Ben with a boot.

“I’m awake!” said Ben cheerily. He stood with some difficulty.

“In or out. Choose one.”

Ben thought a moment. It was a pleasant night, and he wasn’t ready to go inside yet. Besides, he still had to finish his drink. “Out,” he decided, and headed down the sidewalk. The warm, humid air settled over him like a light blanket. Music tumbled down the sidewalk. He smiled and let his eyelids droop a little as he ambled on.

Before long the crowds began to thin, and Ben found himself on a dark side street. He stopped and listened intently. With the noise of the clubs behind him, he thought he heard something. Yes, he was sure. Water. A river.

The Mississippi!

Ben began walking much faster. He scented the air. He could swear he smelled it too: mud on the marshy bank, algae on the docks. Here he was, in earshot of the gateway to the West, the waterway that split the continent.

But he couldn’t find it. He had to find it.

He heard footsteps behind him. A small figure was walking briskly toward him from the direction he’d come.

“’Scuse me! I’m trying to find the river. Can you help me?”

The figure resolved into a young woman as she stepped into the yellow glow of the streetlight. She was rail-thin and she held her arms oddly stiff at her sides. She stopped uncomfortably close to Ben. He took a step back.

“I’m trying to find the river. Do you know where it is?”

“Are you Native ’Merican?” Her face furrowed in a frown.

“No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“I am. I’m a quarter Cherokee. On my mother’s side.” She stood stock still and peered straight at him. Ben fidgeted.

“You lookin’ for a good time?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s too bad. You would know if you was. You wanna donate to my cloud fund then?”

“Your—no, thank you.”

“Oh. That’s alright. I’m already a mile high.”

“I think I might be getting there too.”

She giggled. “I like you. You’re kinda cute.” Her face lit up. “Hey, you remember me? You remember me, don’t you?”

Ben stared. Her smile collapsed.

“You don’t remember me.” She stalked off. “River’s that way.”

“Hey, thanks, um—what’s your name?”

She muttered something.

“What?”

She performed an abrupt about-face, strode back to Ben, and hugged him fiercely. He could feel her lips brush his ear.

“Angela,” she whispered, and walked away.

Ben continued on. The side street emptied onto a wide boulevard where the buildings abruptly stopped. He could really hear it now, a dull roar rising from behind the trolley tracks at the crest of a low hill. He crossed the tracks and the river burst into view. A driving wind rose off the torrent of brown water. It smelled of algae, and river mud, and coming rain.

Ben squinted into the wind snapping at his clothes. Several barges, silhouetted against the lights on the opposite shore, steamed against the turbulent current. Soft music floated down to the sidewalk from a white paddleboat towering above a dock in front of him. It was moored with ropes thicker than Ben’s arms. Passengers in formal attire chatted under the gaslights on the multi-tiered deck. He half expected to see Mark Twain among them.

This was the river that had carried the European explorers in from the Gulf Coast, here at the mouth of the Mississippi valley. Fur traders, conquistadors, and Caribbean slaves in chains had debarked on the very same spot where he stood with his plastic bottle of liquor watching the people in their vests and evening gowns sipping from tall glasses. Some must have hoped for a life of adventure and fortune in a virgin land. Others, just for survival. Or at least a quick death.

Ben walked along the length of the boat, lost in thought. His head was pleasantly buzzing now, and he barely noticed when the sidewalk angled downward to a lower dock level, beneath the gangways connecting the boat to the shore. He didn’t register the disappearance of the streetlights, the thickening of the air, or the deepening of the shadows—until one of them detached itself from the rest.

The shadow resolved into a man. Ben blinked, and stuck out his hand. The man crushed it. His eyes were yellow, and his teeth were bad. He didn’t smile.

“How you doin’. It’s a beautiful night. Ain’t it a beautiful night?”

“It is.”

“It’s a beautiful night. You want a beer?”

Ben sloshed his drink, mostly empty now, and shook his head.

“You lookin’ for work? I got work.” He showed Ben a wallet stuffed with bills. “You’re a good guy, I can tell.” He thrust a finger into Ben’s chest and jerked his chin. “You’re a soldier. Mmhm. You lookin’ for work? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with makin’ an honest living.”

Ben shook his head. “Ain’t nothing wrong with it.”

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it. It’s a nice night. You know my cousin’s dead. Just the other day.”

“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

“That’s life. Hey what’s your name? Tell me what’s your name.”

Ben told him.

“Hey, Ben. I’m Knowledge.”

“Knowledge?”

“Uh-huh. K-N-O-W-L-E-D-G-E. Knowledge. I’m forty years old, but I got the soul of a eighty-year-old man. You know something. I just got out of jail. Did ten years. Just got out the other day.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“Know what I was in for?”

Ben didn’t.

“I killed the guy who sold my mother drugs.”

“I’m glad that’s behind you now.”

“You know something. You’re a good guy. I can tell by your aura. You can tell ninety percent about a person by they aura. You need me to do anything for you? You got anybody you lookin’ at? I’ll kill ’em. I’ll toss ’em right over the railing. You’re a good guy. I’ll kill ’em for you.”

“I don’t want you to kill anyone for me, sir—”

“No! No! Do not call me sir, cause you a man, just like me. And I respect you. Uh-huh.”

“Thank you, s—Knowledge. I have to go.”

“Ok, ok, alright. Good night, it’s a beautiful night. You gonna remember me, Ben? You gonna remember Knowledge?”

“I’ll remember.”

“God bless you, brother. Pray for me! You gonna pray for me?”

“I will.”

The man called Knowledge melted back into the shadows. As Ben ascended toward the lights, and the riverwalk, and the cocktail music, he wondered at how very different two men’s worlds could be.

Like a moth to a flame, Ben was drawn toward the light spilling out of the jazz club’s open door. He tried one last pull on his straw, but the sweet nectar had run dry. He tried to enter the doorway, but could not. He struggled briefly, then looked down, surprised to find a hand his chest. Realization shot through the fuzzy corners of his mind and, smiling broadly, he offered the bouncer his empty drink. The man shook his head.

“ID please.”

“Oh yeah.” Ben placed the card in the hand, which curled around it for a second or two while the bouncer scrutinized a pair of deeply tanned legs parked at the bar. Satisfied, the hand extended and Ben retrieved his card.

“Thanks.”

A long, scarred slab of wood extended to Ben’s right, beside a sizeable dance floor. A jazz band was warming up on the low stage in the back. A few people were standing in the middle of the floor, drinks in hand, while the rest of the patrons milled about or sat at high metal tables set in the shadows around the floor. Ben spotted Tyler and the girls in the far corner.

“There you are!” Tyler said. He’d acquired another drink. “Where’d you run off to? I was about to go and look for you.”

“Did you get bored out there?” Catalina asked. “Or did you miss us?”

Ben smiled. He sat down on the barstool with some difficulty.

“Your friend’s not very talkative when he’s sloshed, is he?” Billi whispered loudly.

Tyler laughed. “He’s not all that loquacious when he’s lucid, honestly. Anyway, you were saying?”

“Right. I will admit there are some interesting things about New Zealand.”

“I heard there were more sheep than people there.”

“That’s not quite true anymore. And we do have much more than just mutton and wool. There’s the Maori, there’s all those flightless birds, and oh!—had you heard about the glow worms? That’s a sight to see.”

The band was picking up their volume and tempo. A group of young men and women had gathered in a tight knot on the dance floor, arms draped over each others’ shoulders, swaying loosely to the brassy rhythm. Ben eyed them with a longing that surprised him.

His eyes slid around the table. Billi and Tyler continued their flirtatious sparring. Cat sat leaning over her elbows, obviously bored. Her lovely cheeks had attained a soft blush, accented by the warm lights reaching into the shadows from the dance floor. Ben stared. A surge of courage welled up in him. He was a man, after all. He could do this.

He sat straight up, took a deep breath, and made a bold inquiry.

Catalina glanced at him. “Did you say something? Louder, Benjamin, you’re mumbling.”

Ben deflated a little. He tried again. “Would you, um. Would you like to dance?”

“Oh, are you asking if I want to dance? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Come on Billi, you’ve had enough for a little dancing, haven’t you?”

Catalina fairly skipped onto the dance floor. Ben floated dreamily after her. Tyler downed the rest of his drink with a grimace and slammed the empty glass down. Billi laughed with glee as Tyler pulled her onto the floor.

Fear and confusion suddenly gripped Ben’s bowels. Fishbowls, he realized, were laced with liquid courage but not much in the way of sense. He’d never danced in his life. He felt more exposed with each step he took toward his partner. The lights that had a moment ago seemed so warm and inviting now glared with an evil glow. The enchanting music that had drawn him in from the street now crashed and thumped in a terrifying, senseless din.

Catalina had no such fear of the dance floor, and for good reason. Ben believed most members of the fairer sex could hear innately the spiritual streams that flow through all music. Cat heard more than most. She was already in motion by the time Ben reached her, and hers was a body born to dance. Ben began to panic.

Her hazel eyes glowed. “Do you know any swing, Ben?”

Ben concentrated, but he could not remember a time he had ever swung. It was as he feared. He hung his head and turned to go.

“Wait!” She caught his arm. “I’ll teach you. But you have to promise me something.”

Ben looked up warily. She laughed, sweet and low and lilting.

“Ya estás suficiente borracho. No more drinks tonight, hm?”

Ben weighed the taste of the bitter-sweet nectar and the pleasurable warmth spreading to his toes against the light in this lovely creature’s eyes. She raised her eyebrows. Reluctantly, he nodded.

“Wonderful! You’ve got at least a little sense left. Come on, you can’t dance with me from three feet away. Yes, you can actually put your hands on me. Not there! That’s better. Now, listen to the music, and do what I do.”

Ben struggled through a few shuffling steps.

“Don’t look at your feet. Look at me.”

Ben stared.

“Ok, maybe do look at your feet. Ow!”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright! Keep moving. Listen to the bass and the drums, not the brass or the sax. That’s it.”

Tyler and Billi whirled by behind them. Both dancers glistened with sweat as they spun in and out of close embrace. Tyler cast Billi out impossibly far on the floor and snapped her back in a blur of swirling hair.

Tyler bumped into Ben at the end of the motion. He released Billi’s hand and gripped Ben by the shoulders and suddenly he was spinning, too. Above a wide, feverish grin, Tyler’s handsome eyes were both as far away and as bright as Ben had ever seen them. Then he was free again, tottering breathlessly beside Catalina. She watched eagerly as their companions resumed the ritual.

“Your friend is a wild man!”

Ben’s heart sank.

“He’s a good dancer.”

“He’s great. Come on, let’s go again.” She took his hands and started to step. Ben didn’t move. He stared dejectedly at his feet.

“Much better than me.”

Cat ducked her head to peer up under his downcast brow. “How do you know that, Benjamin? You’ve hardly tried.”

Ben considered this. He jerked his chin.

Catalina smiled. “Ok, now keep your arms strong. Give me a little push back. Don’t lose my hand.”

Slowly, Ben forgot about Tyler and Billi, and about the band, and the other bodies on the floor. His world contracted to the lithesome figure with the dark-pale smile and the big bright eyes. Together they swayed and stepped. The musicians on the stage poured out their souls through gleaming saxophones and trombones.

Ben followed the sway in his skull and swung Cat into a deep backward tilt. Her neck arched so that the curtain of her hair nearly touched the floor. Ben wondered.

“Psst. Pull me up tiger, before your back gives out.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that! You’re really not bad at this, Ben.”

Ben’s spirit soared. He pulled. The river nymph twirled across his arms with a peal of laughter, only to dart just as quickly back into the current. Ben laughed with her. He chased her flowing form across the rippling floor, abandoning himself to the rhythm of the night. Their voices began to fade and so did the music until he was aware of nothing but the warmth of her arms and the grace in her steps and the light in her laughter. She was a waking dream, and she was as real as anything ever was.

It was deep in the night when the revelers staggered out onto the gaslit curb, leaving the din of the bar behind. Catalina flitted ahead to walk beside Tyler and Billi, who were half-skipping arm in arm down the boulevard, not quite finished dancing. The air was heavy with the misty vanguard of a truly impressive storm. Ben trailed behind his friends, marveling at the foggy halos around the streetlamps.

“Let’s pick up the pace. I think it’s about to pour,” Catalina said.

 “Right. If we’d stayed any longer I’d have had to drag this boy home by his feet,” Billi groaned. “He’s fully munted.”

“Your wide Kiwi ass is munted.” Tyler winked over his shoulder at Ben.

“Ok. You’re done.” Billi shoved her partner into Ben.

Ben tottered under the load, confused. The great dancer seemed to be having trouble walking. Come to think of it, so was he. But Ben dutifully slung Tyler’s arm across his own shoulders and leaned into his friend. They shuffled off in pursuit of the girls.

Ben was suddenly aware of two urgent sensations. One was a gnawing void in the pit of his stomach. The other threatened an imminent and embarrassing explosion.

Without disengaging from Tyler, he pivoted them toward the street, unzipped his fly and released the floodgates. Tyler enthusiastically joined the effort to fill the pothole under the curb. Not to be outdone, a burly storm cloud rumbled from a yard or two above the foggy street and began to leak impressively. Its aim was fairly poor, Ben considered, but it compensated well with the sheer volume of liquid it was unloading.

“What are you doing!” someone cried.

“Squeezing the lemon,” Tyler grunted.

“I have to pee too, you know.”

“Plentya room in the shower!”

“Ugh, men. Billi, let’s go in that bakery there.”

Ben winced as Billi pushed him into a brightly lit store. His most pressing situation now tended to, he marched to the checkout counter to address the second. He smiled at an unsmiling cashier and slid some bills across the counter. A moment later, a paper tray filled with powdered pastry appeared in his hand. Sweet, buttery heaven exploded on his tongue.

Truly, the wonders of this night knew no bounds.

He rejoined the group and after only a brief puzzlement, linked up with Tyler again. They staggered back out into the rain. Ben attempted to dip the sodden pastry into the pool of sugar draining out of the drooping tray, but the tray would not hold still.

Tyler began mumbling a song. The trolley was pulling into the station. The girls bolted across the median and up the steps, gesturing frantically. Ben smiled and waved. The trolley pulled away, and Ben frowned. Tyler laughed and sang all the louder.

They tripped and fell. Cold bit him all over. Tyler thrashed and swore.

As they struggled to determine which of the squirming limbs in the pile belonged to each of them, Ben was surprised to discover a pair of boots that belonged to neither of them.

He grasped the legs attached to the boots, feeling with his hands up the line of fabric and bone until his palms ended on the sunken planes of a face. Ben swiped at the water dripping off his eyebrows and blinked hard.

Sprawled in front of a downspout running off the corner store lay something resembling a man. An empty can was clutched in one hand. The other reached out toward the avenue, open and limp and motionless. His eyes were closed but Ben knew him.

Ben shook his shoulder and the hand slid toward him. Ben took it. The eyes stayed closed, but the grip was firm.

Tyler shouted his name from the trolley station. His fingers brushed the remains of his pastry. He placed the lump of dough beside the man’s face and pried himself free of the weakening grip.

“I remembered you, Knowledge,” he said to the body on the sidewalk. “I remembered.”

The man’s lips began to work at the pastry.

“I’m sorry.”

Ben lurched to his feet and stumbled across the street, suddenly glad for the rain. It hid the tears.

When the trolley expelled them back into the night a block from the hostel, the street was empty. The city had gone to bed. Raindrops streaked through the glow of a solitary streetlight on the corner, exploding like bombs on the pavement. Ben avoided the light. Images of a freshly-made bunk rose to his mind and he began to feel warm.

Just a little farther.

He noticed Tyler was not with him.

Tyler was slumped inside the glass trolley stop, head between his knees. Steam rose from a pool of vomit spreading at his feet. Ben wobbled back to the corner and struggled for a moment to lift his friend to his feet, then sat down beside him. Tyler swayed and slid sideways into his lap.

Ben reached down and picked with stiff fingers at the laces of Tyler’s sodden boots. He yanked them off and leaned back against the cold glass wall.

It was a long time before the night stopped spinning.

Morning brought with it a dry day and a beautiful silence. Ben massaged his temples as he leaned over one of the picnic tables parked in the open hostel courtyard. His filthy clothes hung among the underwear on the Christmas lights, stiffening in the sun.

 He watched the morning cook prepare breakfast sandwiches on the grill. They were alone in the courtyard, except for a family of sparrows and a grimfaced cleaning lady. One of the sparrows eyed his sandwich on the grill. Ben glared. The bird did not back down.

“Order up, my man.”

“Thanks.”

Behind the fence slats that served as the bathroom door, someone was tearing himself a new one. Ben munched his sandwich thoughtfully.

“Hey, Eggs?”

“What’s up?” the cook answered.

“You ever have one of those moments where everything is suddenly crystal clear and you think, ‘how did I get here?’”

“All the time, man! All the time.”

“Good. Thought I might’ve been the only one.”

Ben opened his journal and began plotting possible routes out of the city. He was torn between heading straight to the Rockies or taking a detour to the Pacific coast. Or maybe they could bounce back north to the Badlands in the Dakotas. The page quickly became a mess of crisscrossing lines. The bathroom fence-door creaked and slammed.

“Mornin’, pumpkin,” Tyler said.

“Good morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Time to get going.”

“Already?”

Ben shivered. The meal had reduced the throbbing in his skull, but only barely. “One Thursday night in New Orleans is enough.”

“I don’t know how I got to bed last night.”

“Must’ve been a miracle.”

“Must’ve been. Thanks, buddy.”

“Welcome.”

Tyler sat down beside him and snagged the uneaten half of Ben’s sandwich. “Tell me honestly, though. Didn’t you enjoy yourself?”

“Some of it.”

“There just might be hope for you.” Tyler rubbed his temples. “You know, you’re right. I think I’m ready for some peace and quiet, too. Some more trees. Little streams and stuff.”

“Wow. There just might be hope for you.”

“Let’s get out of here before the girls wake up.”

“Don’t you think we should say goodbye?”

“We barely know them when we’re sober. It’ll just be weird.”

“Good thinking. Viva el amor.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Pack your stuff and let’s go.”

“Let me shower first.”

“Please.”

An hour and a half later, Ben felt like a new man, if a poorer one. They splurged on a couple of Po-boys at a dirty Cajun deli, one each for lunch. Twenty bucks more bought enough rice, beans and Spam to last them two weeks. And a trip to the thrift store left them almost forty dollars lighter, but Ben felt by far the best about that. He spread his arms as he walked out of the store, reveling in the sensation of warm sunlight on a clean T-shirt and airy hiking pants.

Tyler swaggered out next to him and chucked his ruined clothes into a nearby trash bin. He wore a fresh white undershirt with the sleeves rolled up. The tail was tucked into black jeans under a brass belt buckle and the jeans were pulled over a pair of scarred leather boots. He’d slicked his hair back that morning, too.

There were few young men in the twenty-first century who could pull off a look straight out of Grease: the Western, but Tyler was one. He leaned on the hood of his Mustang parked in the street and nodded at a group of girls coming their way. They waved.

“You look ridiculous,” Ben grumbled.

“Don’t be jealous, babe. The boots and the belt were ten bucks. How could I not?”

“Because,” Ben said as he spread out their map on the hood, “we only have enough gas money left to get us through Texas and a little farther. Then we’re broke.”

“We’ll figure something out. Where to, partner?”

Ben rolled his eyes and tapped the center of the map. “Through the Texas oil plains, and thence to the mines of Telluride and the timber-woods of Montana, to wrest our living from the blood of the land as men were once wont to do.”

“Say again, Shakespeare?”

“West, my friend. We’re going to see the mountains.”