Dirty Boulevard by David James Keaton

Author:David James Keaton
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

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I’M WAITING FOR THE MAN

Chris Orlet

They’ve pulled down the street signs and shot out the vapor lights. He mulls the possible reasons for this. To confuse the cops? Stall the EMTs and firefighters? Or is it just wanton destruction?

He turns down what he hopes is Pennsylvania Avenue. They’ve torn down the signs here, too, so these state streets all look the same, endless one-way thoroughfares, flanked by rows of multi-families, the scorched, crumbling red brick where tongues of flame flicked the now boarded-up windows. Gutters teem with trash. Plastic bags, Styrofoam cups, and spent fireworks blow down the sidewalks like low-rent tumbleweeds.

“You have arrived at your destination,” squawks the tinny voice on his GPS.

The locals are out enjoying the weather. They squat on stoops and cement porches, rubberneck as he cruises by. Bored young men, shirtless, sagging pants, smoking, laughing, flirting with the women. They eye him warily as he cruises down their street a second time. White dude in ball cap hiding behind aviator sunglasses. A police? No. They know exactly what he is.

He pulls down the bill of his cap and turns his face away, feels their blank stares follow him down the nameless street.

Out of nowhere, a child materializes from between parked cars. He jams the brakes, heart rocketing into his throat. The girl, ten or eleven, stops, stares woodenly at him. Says something unintelligible and moves on. Voices drift from the sidewalk; older men listening to blues, passing tallboys, warning him to watch where the hell he’s going.

His Audi creeps forward. He snaps off the radio. Can’t think with the radio blasting.

Dude, you need to chill. Remember why you’re here.

He remembers. That thick blanket of warm happiness. Of God rushing through every inch of your being, and not a care in the world. Pure fucking euphoria.

It’s not something you forget.

More people up ahead. Older folks, sitting on folding chairs in the little patches of weeds and dirt that pass for front yards, gossiping, playing cards. They seem to get older as he goes. The narrow street is lined with cars and trucks, several with plastic sheeting duct-taped over the window frames. A few once nicer than his awesome Audi A3. But barely.

Huh.

He spies the one wide-open parking space and swings in. Not used to parallel parking, it takes him four attempts. He still feels their stares. White suburban boy driving Daddy’s car.

Actually, it’s my car. Okay, so my dad bought it for me. It’s still my car.

He leaves the engine running in case he has to make a fast getaway. He glances in the rearview mirror.

Take it easy. You’re getting paranoid. It’s just a street, like any other street. Families. Grandparents. Kids. Crack houses. Guns.

He pulls out his phone and texts the man.

The Man.

Does he even have a name? He should’ve asked his cousin. When he still could. Doesn’t matter.

“Im here.”

He waits. Nothing.

The Man is always late. The Man does not punch a clock. He does not keep to a schedule. Probably doesn’t even own a watch unless it’s for show.

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