This place is open 24 hours. No windows, no source've daylight. They keep the AC turned real low, so I gotta keep my jacket on. Stepping back outside is hell, like walking into a sauna. It's starting to turn cooler, though. Season's changing to autumn. Got a birthday comin' up soon, wonder if I should look up Damek. There's a fire in the fireplace, a nice limestone affair, old. I think this place used to be one them old plantation houses. Up stairs is a hotel of sorts. Expensive, and I think that the price've a bed includes someone to share the bed with. My daddy used to bring me here when I was 3,4 years old. Me and Damek. Mama'd watch us while he talked to people. We were told not to bother daddy-he was working. Never knew what his work was, but I can guess. Our house always had guns in it. Me and Damek were taught to shoot when we were four. Daddy took us out back our cracker box house, near the swamp, and set up targets. I can still unload a clip at 50 paces, in an area smaller'n my palm. This place ain't changed much. Tables all carved up, look chewed on almost. Little burnt at the edges. We always used to sit at the same table, and people'd come up to us and talk to Daddy real quiet, and he'd nod. He carried a Desert Eagle with him, shoved into his pants. That's a big god-damned gun. Blow a hole in your head too big to patch back up. Mama had its twin tucked at the small of her back, worn hard and cold under the waist of her skirt.
Stool's uncomfortable; legs're falling asleep. I stand up, accidentally bump Fangs. He glares, all spooky, and I glare on back. He does a double take and leaves the bar, black silk shirt rippling in the breeze he creates. My guitar case leans against my leg like a sleepy child and I think about taking off, heading back to the Quarter to make a bit've money. Gotta make rent, ha ha. Ol Fuckhead's come by. Tried talkin' to me… seemed horrified at what I do for money. He had to leave in the middle of our conversation. Typical. I hate him. Him and Ella. Wonder where Amet is… Been here a couple weeks, and ain't seen him yet. Wonder how he's changed-if he'll recognize me. Maybe I oughta call Damek, find out if he's heard from him.
The floor's wood: rough, splintery, scored with time and abuse. It's morbid, but I can't help wondering where it happened, if there's any way of telling where it happened; or even what happened, exactly. I look for any telltale stains, but find nothing.
Damek got along with daddy better, was his favorite. Amet was a hard-ass. Still is, I bet. Didn't let Damek - or me-pull shit. Kid used to suck his thumb when he was nervous. Daddy threatened to cut off his thumbs he ever caught Damek doing it. It worked. Dam sat on his hands for a month after that. Never sucked his thumbs again.
Grew up like that, always knew what was what. Woke up every morning to food on the table. You didn't eat until you'd washed, brushed, and combed. Way it went. Still do that, over a decade later. Old lessons last the longest.
It's cold in here, and I keep thinking about Kentucky, whether Blue Boy and Lady Angel are really right for each other. Boy's got the legs and stamina; Lady's a mudder with her dam's speed. Have to call Eddy and see if Jace's made his mind up yet. Thing about Kentucky is, water comes welling cold and clean right out the ground. Louisiana water is dirty, can't drink it. You drink the dead when you do. Every time I shower, there's water that's been soaked in death surrounding me. I can't help thinkin' about that every time I take a shower. I just feel dirty all the time now.
Someone comes in, big fella, and the light shines slick off his skull. His skin's the color of bakin' chocolate, and I know from personal experience he's every bit as bitter. I stand up when Amet comes in, and I wonder if my daddy'll recognize me.
Evzen's brother Damek, by Dan Mathis.