The Bluesiana Snake Festival. Aubrey Bart

said to Milo, “Y’know, I could swear I’ve seen you before.”

      Milo said, “Ever done—course you haven’t done time, what am I talkin about?”

      Nieman said, “Never done time, but I have done active duty.”

      Brooklyn Bob said, “Hey, we’re all inmates or out, know what I’m sayin?”

      Nieman asked Milo, “Ever in country any chance?”

      Milo shook it off: “Declined my invitation.”

      Nieman nodded, “Hearya there. Served ‘n’ damn proud of it, don’ gimme wrong, but I don’t hold nothin gainst nobody for shinin that one on.”

      Milo said, “You did your duty, I did mine.”

      Brooklyn Bob said, “Talk about inmates or out, I did active duty and time.”

      Nieman said, “You served in the military?”

      Brooklyn Bob said, “Private first class. Got my Parris Island pin. My Korean War Service Medal. Can’t fake them trimmings, man. Did I serve in the military.”

      Forbert said to Nieman, “I didn’t believe it either at first.”

      Brooklyn Bob said, “My honorable discharge should be as believable as his Section 8 Deferment.”

      Nieman said, “I believe ya, man.”

      Brooklyn Bob said, “All of eighteen when I enlisted. Fresh outta high school. Awyeah, I was gung ho, boy. Strictly John F. Wayne.”

      Nieman said, “John fuckin Wayne! Ahright, you are a grunt!”

       Comprehensive brother handshake . . .

       Hey, if you don’t believe The Babe really called his shot, you damnside best had believe he meant to.

      —Calvin “Bobo” Proffit

      Concrete breakwater, foreyard Esplanade Wharf, down old Peter Street, opposite the French Market arcade;

      . . .Wayside wallfront, shadowactive: parked cars outlined in crosstown headlights . . . metamakes, riderless, trace on the spook (to refer suchlike nextlight):

      Scratchbuilt toolshed offlit from the produce arcade across the street; CLOSED handpainted letterimperfect on the door; assets in store: pushbrooms and binshovels long on wear, workgloves indeterminately stashed or discarded. (Toolshed under padlock, pushcarts on a chain, shape of issue what it was, inviting spoof; but like the bossman Bobo Proffit would say, “Not everybody comes to church to pray.”)

      Pickup white with amber dome, Sanitation emblem either door: Bobo Proffit at the wheel—traveled bush hat, day or so stubble—vanishing sixpack at hand, singing Don’ fuh-get ah Mon-day date . . .

      “Bananas” Joe Bonomo brooding foursquare at Proffit’s window: thumbs hitched in pockets, attitude Ain’t dis some shit

       Day ago morningshift some old woman hosing shopfront pavement turned the hose on two of Joe’s crew and when Joe went to see whatdafuck and the old woman turned the hose on him Joe went upside her head. Now Joe was a fallen labor advocate and Proffit’s time had come: Proffit would be replacing Joe head of French Quarter street sweeping operations and Joe replacing Proffit head of this detail shitbottom of the municipal power structure (Joe claimed he stepped down).

       The transfer of power met mixed reactions in the ranks:

       The man’s a pathological fuckup, man

       Yeah, well, we’re an equal opportunity outfit

       He suckerpunched an old lady, man, I mean how insecure izzat?

       Joe overcompensates

      Proffit called it shape up, like they call it on the docks—workaday connection hung on this crew to be cute. (“Hippiz with jobs ain’t hippiz or ain’t jobs—look again.”)

      Liz Klutch would find Proffit hale if not well met: “Carrotcake, Bobo. Homemade.”

      “You know ah don’t eat nuttin hippiz make.”

      “Oh for heavensake.”

      “No tellin what konna locoweed you people put’n somp’n like ‘at.”

      “Far be it from me to shake your serenity, dear.”

      Proffit stepped out the truck, stood full height—backbend loosen some truckseat out him—not to see fifty again though still a fair figure of the onetime sandlot mainstay used to make backhand stops, drive balls over heads (“Nothin beats a bat ‘n’ya hands, a cigar outcha mouth ‘n’a cold one in the cooler . . .”): Inch or so upward six foot, sturdy underbite, brew yet to tell round the middle (once got tossed for dusting the due batter during warmups).

      Shushubaby stepped forward: “Bobo, can I have new gloves? These’re grody.”

      “No baby, y’can’t. Ah jiss gaveya dem.”

      “I know you did. I need new ones already. These leave prints.”

      “Woish’em if dey doity.”

      “I did. They’re still disgusting.”

      Blaha said, “Give the girl the gloves, Bobo.”

      Shushubaby said, “I’m ashamed to have these in public.”

      Albert had gloved up, tweaked fingertiphold one of Shushubaby’s gloves: “We’re talking germ signatures from some of the most intense gutters in the city.”

      Proffit said, “Woish y’hans bafaw y’go handlin y’sevs y’won’t be gittin no goims aboutcha. ‘At’s what crotchrot’s all about. Hippiz don’t knowdat.”

      Blaha said, “Yer talkin outtayer ass, Bobo.”

      “Awta be glad a whatcha got, y’ass me. Wudn’ no new gloves eva mont when ah woiked ott hehh. We brought ah own uh we did widout, simple azzat.”

      Albert said, “Reflections of a golden age!”

      Blaha: “Give the girl the gloves, Bobo.”

      Proffit cut Blaha a look not trained on redeeming qualities: “Tommy, if ah gitchu a seaman’s cawd, wouldjou take a ship?”

      “Pack it dirty, Bobo.”

      Albert said, “Strictly short time shippers, thank you,” and Liz got a husky laugh. Albert said, “Select bars afford boarding privileges in kind.”

      Proffit said, “Yeah, ah’ll betchu da pride o’ d’fleet, awncha?”

      Albert said, “Keep your contacts for someone who can’t make it on a ship without a seaman’s card.”

      Liz yukked, “I love it!”

      Not one to linger in a downhill conversation, Proffit got a line on a whole other drift, eavesdropping only so long, then homing in for the strafe: “‘At’s like da one about da fella pulls a gun ‘n’ sez, ‘Awrightchu muttastickas, dis is a fuckup.’ I’m tellinya, somebody wanna git hisself laughed off a cellblock pullin a stunt like ‘at. Holdin up a streetsweepa fa Godsake, whoeva hoida such a thing? I’ll tellya one goddamn thing, you think you caught da hindmost—ma good friend Thibidoux got mugged by some bulldyke disguised like one a dem Krishnas. Yeah. You huyd about da bulldyke disguised like a Krishna. You ain’t huyd about da bulldyke disguised like a Krishna? Mugged ma friend Thibidoux right up hehh on Rampawt Street. Put a shitkickin on’im, too, umma teyya what. Thibidoux he couldn’t unnestan it. He thought it wuz one a dem Krishnas, see. Come to fon ott it was a bulldyke in disguise.”

      Albert said, “Sub-Saharan ancestry, no doubt,” and people laughed.

      Mimic rattletrap all