Contemplating Jazz

            A warm breeze off the gulf blew a sullied sprinkle of dust through the air as darkened, sinister rain clouds hovered over New Orleans, forlornly dimming the city.  Raymond Paul walked down St. Claude Ave., taking his usual route to school, kicking and jerking rocks and other pieces of street debris with his torn-up shoes; which his mother had tattered back together the previous night.  A hovercraft flew by him, stirring breezes of dust and grime from the street.  The filth dirtied and muddled him; he’d just taken his weekly shower at the community center two days ago and he was already covered in dry muck.  He looked up at the shadowy clouds and prayed for a rainstorm to come so he could once again feel clean.  Growing up in New Orleans, he knew to never expect any feelings of fresh cleanliness, but still craved for them longingly.  He sat down on a curb outside the home of his friend, Everett Crispin, which had once been a liquor store, and waited for him as he did every morning before heading to school and gazed blank faced down the ravaged street.  He heard a light bustling as Everett finally forced open the door of his shabby home and stepped outside, sauntering aimlessly onto the street. 

            “What’s up?”  Raymond asked as Everett took a seat next to him on the curb.

            “Nothing much,” Everett answered, “What time is it?  Are we late again?”

            “I don’t think so,” said Raymond, “the sun’s not high enough yet.”

            The pair sat silently for several minutes after their brief interchange.  There was nothing much for them to talk about other than the redundancy of enduring an existence in New Orleans or the fear of what another hurricane might do to the city.  A fight broke out several blocks down the street, causing an utter outburst of clamor and commotion, but neither boy so much as turned their heads towards it; such an episode was so typical of the local streets that it raised not an eyebrow nor a bit of interest amongst any onlookers.

            “You want to head out?”  Raymond asked his friend as they sat in murkiness together.

            “Sure,” Everett answered, as he lifted himself up to his feet with low spirits and pessimism.

            The duo walked side-by-side down the their regretful street with no desire to converse with each other, despite the years of their friendship.  Their was no reason too share anything with each other.  They each knew their outlooks, opinions, and beliefs would be entirely the same.  Such was the case for every person in the city of New Orleans; each thought of nothing other than the rotten and excessively dreadful state their lives had been in since Hurricane Clayton.  Each thought of nothing but the outmoded surplus of anguish that twisted amongst the streets.

            “Hey Everett,” said Raymond as the pair walked by the fresh dead body of a homeless man, “do you want to skip school today?”

            “And do what?”  Everett responded dully, “school’s the only way we’ll ever get out of here.”
            “I don’t think there’s any way out of here,” Raymond stated as the twosome walked down the block from the body then stopped to talk.

            “Yeah,” replied Everett, “but everybody says that if you get a scholarship you can. . .”

            “Who cares what anybody says,” Raymond snapped back, “they said they would fix this city, remember?”

            “Yeah,” said Everett stopping his stream of thought.

            “I don’t understand why you’ve missed the bandwagon, Everett,” Raymond went on, “we’re never going to get out of here.”

            Everett looked around for a minute, first at his feet, then across the street, then back at Raymond.  The starred at each other for a minute then Everett looked away again.   He shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in a lame attempt to nod off what Raymond had just said.

            “My father made it out of here,” said Everett candidly, turning his head downwards in contemplation.

            “Your father’s probably dead, like mine,” replied Raymond candidly.

            “Yeah I know,” Everett said, “but sometimes I feel like we’re a little too negative about everything.”

            “Nothings negative about the truth,” Raymond stated bluntly, “there’s no point in trying to twist things out of proportion, man.”

            Everett looked around for another few minutes, and contemplated skipping school.  Raymond took as seat on the curb and started twirling his thumbs about as he waited for Everett’s response.  A random man with burn wounds stumbled his way down the street and passed by them, knocking against Raymond’s shoulder slightly as he stumbled by, limping distressingly.

            “I think today’s my birthday,” said Everett as the man passed by.

            “Really?”  Pronounced Raymond as jovially as the city allowed him to be as he jumped to his feet.

            “It might be,” answered Everett expressionlessly, “I was born on April 6.”

            “It’s definitely early April,” Raymond stated, “but I haven’t had a look at a calendar since the last time I was at city hall three weeks ago.”

            “Yeah,” said Everett, “I guess I’m 15 now.”

            “Happy Birthday,” Raymond tried to exclaim.

            The pair stood silently for a few more minutes, looking around the street, each deliberating whether skipping school would be a good or bad idea.  Another hovercraft flew by, this one a military vehicle, and stirred yet another spout of dust and filth across the boys.  Both looked at each other and gazed upon the smut that had been smeared across their faces, at which point, both began to laugh.

            “Let’s do it,” Everett said.

            “Skip school?”  Replied Raymond.

            “Yeah,” Everett confirmed, “let’s do it!”

            “We’ve got to celebrate your birthday somehow, right?”  Said Raymond as he cracked a light smile.

            “Yeah I guess so,” pronounced Everett as he tried to put a pep in his step.

            The duo stepped out of the sidewalk and into the street with a newfound looseness within them.  They walked with a fresh ease and openness, no longer going through the repetitive conformed gesture of walking to school.  They treaded sideways and slantedly through the dusty, broken pavement, past menacing looking man who stood perfectly still, starring at them, and went several paces down the block, at which point they simultaneously realized they were still headed towards school.

            “Where should we go?”  Asked Everett as he pulled to stop.

            “Uh. . .I don’t really know,” answered Raymond.

            “There’s really nothing to do besides go to school,” Everett alleged, “is there?”

            “That’s nonsense,” barked Raymond, “don’t say that.”

            “But it’s true,” Everett uttered with a raised eyebrow.

            “Come on man,” Raymond reasoned, “look around for a minute, there’s got to be something fun to do.  Just stop and think, we’ll figure something out.”

            The two boys did exactly as Raymond suggested, they halted themselves in place and partook in a moment of consideration.  Raymond looked around stirred in fidgety motions as he thought, while Everett stood idle and subdued, utterly lost in the spirals of his inner contemplation.  It were almost as if he were a dummy.

            “There’s nothing to do, we’re just going to end up standing here all day like the creepy old guy over there,” Everett said as he pointed towards the intimidating man who had watched them walk by.

            “There’s got to be something,” Raymond pressed again, “we just have to think harder.”

            “I don’t think that’s going to help,” replied Everett straightforwardly.

            “I think it will,” Raymond argued, slightly ticked off.

            “When’s the last time you had a good idea?”  Everett asked abruptly as he made sudden eye contact with Raymond.

            “This morning,” Raymond answered with no hesitation.

            “What was that?”  Everett inquired briskly.

            “It was my idea to skip school,” Raymond replied promptly.

            “You think skipping school was a good idea?”  queried Everett.

            “Yeah, it was a great idea,” Raymond claimed, “there’s no reason to go there.  We’re never getting out of New Orleans.”

            “But there’s nothing to do besides go to school,” Everett declared frankly, “there’s nothing to do in these streets.”

            “There’s plenty to do,” counter-claimed Raymond.

            “Like what?”  Everett asked, “stare at how the hurricane devastation has become more devastating over the years?”

            “There’s plenty more to do than that,” argued Raymond before Everett cut him off.

            “Really?”  Everett retorted with sarcasm, “You think so?  There is nothing to do in this city besides try not to get murdered or mugged.”

            “Don’t be like that, man, we’ll think of something fun, it’ll just take a little imagination,” Raymond declared out of pure hope.

            “Imagination?” Everett echoed with open scorn, “Since when is it a good idea to walk around New Orleans with an imagination?”

            “Since we decided to skip school this morning,” replied Raymond.

            “That’s just stupid,” said Everett discourteously, “the only thing you need in these streets is the ability to get away from them.”

            “Do you have that?”  Raymond swiftly countered, “Can you get away somehow?”

            Everett stopped to ponder that question before responding.  He’d been plenteous times by his teachers at school that the only way out of New Orleans was through school.  But the problem with New Orleans was that it’s schools were terrible.  Everything was terrible in New Orleans.  The city had no running water, no  electricity, and no official police force.  Was there really a way out?  Everett repeated the question in his head and tried to answer—which was something he found himself doing often.

            “No,” Everett answered as Raymond starred at him harshly, “I don’t think I can.”

            “Welcome to the club bro,” Raymond replied as he extended his hand out to his friend, “you’re definitely not alone.”

            “Sometimes I just feel, like,” said Everett as he took his friend’s hand but then hesitated his speech, “never mind.”

            “Sometimes you feel like what?”  Raymond asked.

            “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Everett insisted.

            “No say it,” Raymond said, “I’m you’re friend, man.”

            “It’s just that sometimes these streets make me feel really worthless,” Everett stated expressively after collecting his thoughts for a moment.

            “Why would you say that?”  Raymond responded immediately.

            “Just look around yourself for a second,” Everett answered fervently, “what do you see besides waste?”

            “Stop being so negative,” Raymond refuted, “let’s figure out something to do.”

            “How?”  Everett argued, “There’s nothing to do in these streets.”

            “We’ll have to imagine something,” Raymond said passionately, “just try it.”

            “What’s with you and this imagination stuff?”  Everett replied with a slim chuckle.

            “I don’t think there’s enough imagination around here,” Raymond stated bluntly, “just look around, do you see anyone imagining anything?”

            “There’s nothing to imagine,” Everett said dully, “we live in a wasteland if you haven’t noticed.”

            “Let me tell you something I believe whole-heartedly, my friend,” Raymond pronounced strong-mindedly, “no matter what life does to your mind’s eye, there’s always something to imagine.”

            “That’s some deep shit,” replied Everett.

            “Damn right it is,” Raymond agreed as the friends shared a laugh, “let’s find something to do.”

            “Let’s imagine it first,” said Everett with a smirk.

            The duo high-fived each other and walked on down the street, in candid search of something entertaining to do with their day.  They walked through the broken streets of the French Quarter, viewing not a single site that did not seem threatening, whether the hostility was manufactured by the shattered looks of the landscape or by the nasty and aggressive air of the people in the streets.  They went on to the fragmented scene of the Central Business District and saw the same aggressive depictions.  They kept walking and moved on to the hurricane-crushed ruins of Uptown, and found nothing more than the monotonous recurrence of devastation.  They found nothing more than waste.  But still they walked with pride, trying tediously hard to imagine what pizzazz and enthusiasm might be somehow made from the depths of their bleak surrounds.  They worked their imaginations with vivacity, trying profusely hard to unlock the oomph, pep, and zing of the city they found themselves trapped in.  But unfortunately, the pair’s venture through their dreaded home of New Orleans yielded no tangible signals of Jazz.