A dozen years ago, I didn’t protest when Cash came into the picture. I simply stepped aside, because I was scared of being rebuffed. Because I didn’t think I was good enough. Because I believed all those idiots who called me a swamp rat and white trash and son of a whore.
But I’m not that whipped kid anymore. And this time I’m determined to swallow my pride and take a chance.
It’s been two days since I got out of jail, two days since Maggie put her life and livelihood on the line to secure my bail. Now here we are, sitting on a checkered blanket, our dinner eaten and the last of the dirty rice and corn maque choux tucked back into the picnic basket.
Mom stuffed my refrigerator full of food before heading back to Shreveport yesterday. And God knows I’ll never be able to eat everything before it goes bad, so I offered to supply the grub if Maggie supplied the basket and the blanket.
Where once there were plates and plastic containers between us, now there’s a looming space. I stare at it uncomfortably. She ignores it by fidgeting with her new phone. As for Cash? He seems oblivious to the tension hanging in the air like a threatening electrical storm.
Or maybe he’s not so much oblivious as he is drunk. All evening long, he’s been taking regular hits of Gentleman Jack.
On the opposite bank of the river, the sun is making its path toward the horizon. And beneath the tree next to ours, three ladies of advancing years have parked their lawn chairs and settled in for the show. Like tines on a fork, they’re indistinguishable from each other. Curly white hair. Orthopedic shoes. Flowery dresses topped with fuzzy cardigans.
Sisters maybe? Lifelong friends?
Will that be me and Maggie and Cash in fifty years? Still friends? Still sitting side by side enjoying the sunset?
Cash caps his flask and runs an unsteady finger over the initials on the outside of it. His words are slightly slurred when he asks, “You think people have a right to happiness? Or should it be something you have to work for?”
Here we go. Another exercise in abstract thinking. I don’t know if it’s the head injury, the booze, or the combination of both that’s been making him so reflective these last few months. But whatever it is, it’s starting to concern me. Not because I think philosophizing is a bad thing. But because it’s not like him.
Cash has always been a man who acts first and asks questions later.
“Isn’t a right to happiness one of the fundamental ideals we hold dear as Americans?” Maggie frowns. “I mean, it’s part of the Declaration of Independence, for Pete’s sake.”
“That’s the right topursuehappiness,” I tell her, absently splitting a blade of crab grass and tying the two pieces together into a loose knot. “It’s not the righttohappiness.”
She cocks her head. “What’s the difference?”
“One lets you sit on your ass and wait for a good life to come your way. The other says you gotta go out and grab the good life by the balls.”
Cash motions to the activity around us. “And look at all these people grabbing the good life by the balls.”
The Fly is a large swath of green space in Audubon Park. It nestles up against the east bank of the Mississippi and is a favorite spot among locals. It’s here that the good folks of New Orleans come to toss Frisbees, take their dogs for walks, and picnic while watching some of the city’s most spectacular sunsets.
Leaning back on my elbows, I stretch my legs out in front of me. A soft breeze blows by, making the grass sway. The river smells ancient in a way that’s hard to describe. And the sounds of laughter, conversation, and music drift around us. A symphony of humanity.
“Happiness is like anything else in life,” I add. “You have tochooseit.” When I pin Maggie with a pointed look, she bites her bottom lip and glances down at her phone, thumbing the screen to avoid my eyes. “Some folks who have the world at their feet are never satisfied. Always looking for something better or different or closer to what theyusedto have,” I continue mercilessly. “While other folks who seem to have nothing at all couldn’t be happier.”
I hitch my chin toward a group of men and women sitting in a circle on the grass about thirty yards away. Ratty clothes and unwashed hair tell the story of their dire straits. And yet each and every one of them is laughing and joking. And when the guy strumming an old beat-up guitar switches to a new tune, they sway together and sing their hearts out. The sound is pure joy.
Maggie follows my line of sight. “Aunt Bea says a hardscrabble life in New Orleans is better than living on Easy Street anywhere else.”
Cash snorts. “What would Miss Bea know about hardscrabble? She’s as rich as Croesus, thanks to her husband and his fucked-up brain veins.”
I glance at him sharply. Everyone knows Maggie’s aunt came by her money the old-fashioned way: She married it. Everyone also knows her husband died young of an aneurism. But to put it so grotesquely…
“You might wanna see your way ’round to laying off that shit.” I hitch my chin toward his flask.
“Whatever.” He indulges in another long pull of whiskey to provoke me. Then he points across the way and whispers, “Look. There it goes.”
The sun is a molten ball of fiery orange and rose gold melting into the horizon. The tips of the river’s currents flash liquid silver in the dying light. And the thin layers of clouds overhead are painted in the rich hues of pink and purple, scarlet and canary yellow.
My breath catches. Maggie sighs wistfully. And Cash stretches out on his stomach, resting his chin atop his stacked fists as life on The Fly comes to a standstill. Frisbees are dropped. Folks out for exercise stop in their tracks. Even the bugs and the birds seem to have been struck mute by the beauty of the sun putting on a display like no other.
My poet’s heart tries to find a way to describe the scene and fails. Partly because there aren’t enough adjectives in the English language. Partly because, just when I think I might be able to come up with a bit of prose that could capture what I’m seeing, the scene changes. The colors deepen. The lengthening shadows add a whole new dimension to the tableau, and I’m back to where I started, at a loss for words.
The minutes stretch out as the glowing orange orb dips low. Lower still. Finally, only a crescent of golden light appears above the trees. There it seems to stop. Suspended in the sky. Impervious to the seconds ticking by, until…in a blink, it’s gone.
