The Bluesiana Snake Festival. Aubrey Bart

sweet as could be. ‘Sure, honey, you come with us. Anybody gives us any trouble, three screams’re better than two!’”

      Herecome Hidden Dave Crossway—Jungian streetsweep working to support a writing habit (his novel Lovers and Other Dirty Fighters soon to be published soon as he got a publisher). Blowed from far look: shades, scarf, whichway hair. Comes off with the shades to hang out with Shushubaby (she was his friend who got him on the street crew): “Years now I’ve been hearing about this El Topo flick. Gotta see El Topo, man. Raise your consciousness untold megaherz. Elbow slippin the armrest woke me up. I walked out . . .”

      Tommy Blaha didn’t just make a scene, he stormed it. Shirtless. Jeans cut off to a tease. Androgyne tattoo active with keenings of his streamlined, boldly notched physique. (Somebody once said Blaha was born on an offramp . . . son of a wild man and a wilder woman.) Comes in full swagger ahead Liz Klutch and Albert Johnson—him fuming, them laughing.

      “He got kicked out of The Toulouse for yelling at James Booker to cut the jive and play!” Matronly in bibs, backbun and grannies, Liz Klutch had somebody’s oldfashioned auntie covered—

       They kicked’im out for that?

      “Oh yes, dear. James Booker gets kidgloves treatment in there, you better believe it.”

      “Hi Albert!” Shushubaby’s kinda man, Albert Johnson: black dude tall and slim, erect on his bones, loose at the joints. He set her fresh coffee, she like to blushed: “Oh, how sweet!”

      Albert that Albert smile eyebright like a woman: “How sweet it is! I spilled the sugar.”

      Already Blaha had seen enough, “Later for this,” he was walking, lay siege on the pinball machine over Got Grease Grill across the street.

      “. . . Well, let me tell you, James Booker fa-reaked. He’s on like the apron of the stage, okay. ‘I’m rappin up the people, man.’ Tommy goes, ‘I don’t wanna hear it.’ Really. I’m like, I am not believing this. They’re having words over people’s heads. It was rude.”

      Doc showed up with Brooklyn Bob; Doc a dark moon on, head hung, hands in pockets; Brooklyn Bob taking measure all around, attitude It seldom matters Doc aka Alan Updock, lapsed biker out of Detroit, at forty the elder statesman of the streetcrew; Brooklyn Bob no streetsweeper but more like streetcrew emeritus by reason he was a chessplayer.

      “Doc just got a ground zero street rap laid on’im.”

      Doc broke it down: “I’m walkin down Ursalines, comin down here, I see these two bros crossin the street up ahead. So one of’em I see bends down and picks somethin up off the street. He’s showin his partner, y’know, they’re into this thing. So I’m makin the corner, dude asks me do I have a light, and he’s, you know, sorta lettin me see this joint that he’s found. I figured I’d help’em out, I give the dude a light, then he offers me a hit. I’m like, Hey, y’know, this is all right. I’m thankin’em, y’know, I’m about to take a hit, I look and the other dude has a pistol on me. They got these cocky smirks now, right, dude tells me, ‘Go head, take a hit,’ he says, ‘You wanna be feelin good as you can for this.’”

      Now was Brooklyn Bob got a smirk: “Mightcoulda passed it back when they hitch’up for yer money, Doc. Be feelin good as they could for zero large!”

      Albert come lately: “I write a mean IOU!”

      Big Jim Bullshit would know what was more: “You heard about Dirty Ernie got mugged up on Bienville. Didn’t have no money so they took his hat.”

      United Cab Ronnie stopped in for a break. “Just got stiffed on a fare upto The Funk Shop. Some kid AWOL from the military, man. I mean talk about a storyteller. ‘DI was an asshole, man. I went over the wall.’ Weapon goes off at inspection, right. DI was on his case. Anyway, upto The Funk Shop I’m pickin up he’s slow from the pocket, right. I get this sinking feeling about the fare. Sure enough he cops a plea. I’m flashin on Future Winos of America decab here, right? I mean what could I say? Yeah, hey, no problem, kid. Thanks for the tax writeoff. Then he’s hittin on me do I have anything for the head! I’m like, Hey, I don’t mix business with pleasure, okay? Specially when business is slow. He goes, Hey, that’s the best time. I said, Out. Then he makes with this touch like he’s down on hard times, y’know, would I lay some paper on’im! I said, The most expensive fare I’ve had in I dunno how long and you have the gall to panhandle? He goes, You gonna be cool or what?

      I mean d’you believe ‘at shit? I said, Work up a juggling act, kid. He bends back on my finger and goes out slammin the door.”

      Marlies Hennegar, waitress upto Mespero’s, brooding off Immigration hassles:

      “Never have I felt such freedom as I feel here . . . I so do not want to leave, but I may have no choice.”

      Guy bellies barside; glazed look, random air, eyecontact call this was not his first stop. Said please for a draught, reaching for his wallet. Big Jim Bullshit took the style hit. One draught up in a frosted stein.

      Longwayfromhome look about Marlies would not escape notice.

      “I was once a man who moved patrols thru jungles.”

      Burnout to one comes in a place and gets weird with somebody mightcould apply. Lifestories she could tolerate, provided you kept it positive; patrols thru jungles could be told someone else. When he stayed with the subject, she shined him on. He rambled on anyway. Something about three slugs caught in a firestorm . . . carried out the jungle on a buddy’s shoulders. Talking at her face in a barback mirror got him stonewalled same in remove. His voice shook; shook and broke. Crosslooks offmirror cut fluterank forefronted. Guy was in tears but not finished yet. Something about the few who got out alive. She turned facing him—the mug slipped his grip, dumping on photogear up bartop. Big Jim Bullshit slipped Dockery topsops. The stranger made apologies, but these people had no time for imbalanced behavior: apologies met same as patrols thru jungles. Big Jim Bullshit told the man come see him tomorrow; he stood him a fresh draw—this time in a plastic walkingcup. The stranger slumped, face in hand. Marlies just looked at the guy. Dockery and the live ones too. Was Milo Kopke brought the coverage. United Cab Ronnie was with him; Brooklyn Bob and Forbert too.

      Milo long and spindly at his flamingo pose on one leg: “Care to join with us in headship?”

      The stranger wiped his mug a backhand: “Good stuff, dude?”

      Hidden Dave Crossway got up to go, got waylayed by this cameracarrying couple coming tableside. The woman was ample who once had been fine, winter blonde, smile more timely than felt: “Excuse me, you people sweep the streets, I understand?”

      Dockery was all over the coverage: “They wanna get some pictures, I told’em I’d get’em some local play.”

      Crossway led with his eyes: “Pictures don’t turn out, you still been anywhere?”

      Mugs hung wha?

      Crossway had it behind him, he was walking. Doorway out he crossed passing nods with Poopdeck Perry of Baltimore.

      Big Jim Bullshit spotted Poopdeck Perry: “Ah-right P Doop!”

      Poopdeck Perry faced off High Noon style: “You cajun muva!”

      “Whodat bungholed—”

       Wear it out, Dickinthedirt

      Dockery got next Liz Klutch: “So whatta we got for a moonswoon vigil? Go go or no go?”

      Liz shrugged: “Beats me, dear. The square is open but the lights are still on. Hard to tell who, what or even if at this point.”

      “Max wax is when?”

      “Threethirtythree, dear.”

      “Max wax at threethirtythree. Kind of a numerological ring to that.”

      “Really.”