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    Lil’ Sweets: An Egungun Controls a Lot of Spirits
    Lil’ Sweets: An Egungun Controls a Lot of Spirits
    Lil’ Sweets: An Egungun Controls a Lot of Spirits
    Ebook591 pages9 hours

    Lil’ Sweets: An Egungun Controls a Lot of Spirits

    By Odie Hawkins

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    About this ebook

    Hawkins delivers a novel that mixes the streetwise lingo of vintage pimp fiction together with scathing satirical commentary about the spread of global capitalism, the Hurricane Katrina disaster, and the AIDS crisis in West Africa. A classic worthy of the Sweets series. Dr. Justin Gifford, Professor of English Literature, University of Nevada, Reno

    Peter Wright is clinging to a chimney surrounded by dirty water after Hurricane Katrina hits New Orleans when he first learns that the man he calls his father is not his real daddy. As his mother relays his shocking biological story, Peter discovers that his father is Sweet Peter Deeder II, a master pimp with a well-known reputation.

    Eventually rescued and sworn to secrecy by his mother, Peter grows into a street-smart fourteen-year-old who has an overwhelming desire to get to know his biological father. After his mother quietly arranges a month-long visit with his father, Peter heads to Chicago where he begins unveiling his biological history. As Sweet Peter Deeder II introduces Peter to fine cognac, expensive dinners, and his luxurious condo, Peter is provided a glimpse into the lavish lifestyle of a big-time pimp. Now known as Lil Sweets, Peter begins a journey through the world of pimping that leads him from Chicago to West Africa to Spain and back again as he explores his options and contemplates his future.

    In this multi-layered urban tale, a young African American on a quest for the truth must decide whether to embrace his unusual destiny or return to his old life.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchway Publishing
    Release dateJul 23, 2014
    ISBN9781480808751
    Lil’ Sweets: An Egungun Controls a Lot of Spirits
    Author

    Odie Hawkins

    Odie Hawkins and Ralph H. Vernon, the co-authors of "Lady Bliss", have fused their life experiences to distill the story and characters for their collaboration. Hawkins is known for previously published novels -- An alumnus of the Watts Writer’s Workshop, he has been the author of twenty books since his "Ghetto Sketches" was first published in 1971.Ralph H. Vernon was lead singer of the "Morroccos" He toured with Ray Charles, Chuck Berry, Ruth Brown and others. He went from the stage to the Marine Corps and then to the aerospace industry, where the idea of building an artificial woman was born. The artificial Woman Hybrid Organism Robotic Experimental.

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      Book preview

      Lil’ Sweets - Odie Hawkins

      CHAPTER ONE

      WELL, HERE I AM, Lil Sweets, the son of Mr. Sweets … . . out of Justine LeBeau-Wright, a fast stepper from down yonder in deepest Louisiana. The great-grandson of Duke Mansion, grandson of Sweet Peter Deeder The First, all internationally known Master Pimps.

      That’s correct, Master Pimps, in the ol’ fashioned sense of the word, with no attachments. Now, I have some idea of what automatically pops up in a lot of square heads when they hear the word pimp. I have to sympathize with some of them because the word places them in a down spin, like calling a conscious African-American a nigger.

      The word pimp, like the insult-word nigger, have a lot of baggage on it. Now you can just imagine how loaded the gun is when you say nigger-pimp. But I’m not going to go there in this discussion of pimp bloodlines, my pimp DNA, if you want get scientific about it.

      According to the family legend, starting ‘way back, when my first pimping ancestors were whipped off the slave ship, pimping was in effect. And it was done with deliberate malice aforethought.

      One of the reasons I’m saying all this is because I’ve gotten the impression from reading lots of books by African-American and Euro-Americans, that the enslaved Africans who were whipped onto the port-docks of New York, Vera Cruz, Port Au Prince, Savannah, Havana, Bahia, wherever, were simply pawns in the game.

      It was like they were simply whipped on board the ships and whipped off the ships, without a sensible notion working anywhere in their fertile brains. Even before my folks started encouraging me to disregard the Euro-historical accounts of our history, I knew that there were other levels to explore.

      For those who have read my Daddy’s story, Mr. Sweets, some of what I’m saying will be redundant, but I feel compelled to spell a lil bit of this background out before I get into how I became Lil Sweets, one of the first robo-hoe pimps on the planet.

      Sweet Peter Deeder the First, my grandfather, laid the game out in front of my Daddy, Mr. Sweets, made him understand that he was from a pimping dynasty. The way Daddy explained it to me was like, "‘Listen up, Sweets … we were jerked off the boat and started pimpin immediately.

      I’ve heard rumors all my life about one of our ancestors snatchin’ up a page from a newspaper and teachin’ himself how to read, and the next thing I heard is that he … started takin’ money from the ol’ slave master’s wife. That’s cold-blooded pimpin’ at it’s best.

      Naturally I can’t give you any one hundred per cent validations on any of this stuff, but I have to believe that there’s got to be a lil’ fire up in there whenever you can find that much smoke, you know what I’m sayin’?’ "

      This was a world that had no place on my reality screen until I was ten years old, the year that Katrina blasted New Orleans to bits. Up until I was ten, life in the Big Easy was just that for me, easy. I might even say that I was well on my way to becoming a nerd, a computer geek. I have to give the man who was raising me, the man I thought was my biological father, credit for introducing me to the computer, to the cybernetic/robotic world.

      Melvin Wright, my Dad was almost a complete geek, a rare bird in our Ninth Ward neighborhood at that time.

      He made computers, fixed computers, sold computers and read everything he could get his hands on about computers, cybernetics, robotics.

      Early on, he was making a pretty decent living for me and Momma -— B.K., Before Katrina, I think, for the rest of my natural life, I’ll always have to divide my life into two halves – first half, before Katrina and after Katrina.

      Dad was on a trip up north, in New York to check out an exhibit of the latest robotic/computer technology when Katrina hit. I can remember the frantic calls that we exchanged just minutes before the world changed shape. I thought the world was going to come to an end, that’s the vibe I felt.

      We suddenly went from living in a nice house in the Ninth Ward, to being a couple of desperate animals clinging to the chimney on our rooftop, trying not to drown. For those who can remember the images of people isolated on their rooftops, holding onto stray pieces of lumber, the people living through the madness that happened in the Astrodome, to the bodies bloating and floating around, Katrina was like a catharsis.

      I think that catharsis thing is what made my Momma open up to me in a way she had never done before. Maybe Momma wanted to leave this life with a clear conscience or something, who can say? But there we were, in the middle of the night, thirsty, hungry, clinging to this chimney, surrounded by mile of dirty water when she started telling me the story of how she first met Mr. Sweets, my Daddy. I thought she was hallucinating at first.

      Peter, listen to me close ‘cause I may not be able to repeat this again. Melvin Wright, the man you call your Dad is not your real father.

      I have to admit, that information didn’t exactly cause me to loosen my grip on the chimney.

      Your real father, your Daddy is a man named ‘Mr. Sweets’. His real name is Peter Mansion, but they’ve always called him ‘Mr. Sweets’ when he got into the game. Or sometimes ‘Sweet Peter Deeder II’ His father was ‘Sweet Peter Deeder I’.

      Please keep in mind that the United States of America had basically abandoned us, ‘specially the drowning Black people in the Ninth Ward, and here is my mother spooling out some kind of genealogical chart. And talking about some game. What kind of game? And so what?

      Maybe she missed my skeptically-what-the-hell-expression in the dark, or maybe she was simply determined to tell her story, no matter what.

      I was sixteen, babysittin’ this lil’ eight year old boy, the man who eventually became your Daddy . …

      Whoaaa! I have to admit I perked up on that one, dirty water be damned. But I didn’t loosen my grip of the chimney. I was sixteen and he was eight, but that didn’t stop him from seducin’ me.

      A light beamed in the distance, was somebody coming to rescue us? An eight year old seducing a sixteen year old? I didn’t see anything incredible about that. I felt pretty sure that a couple of my teenaged girlfriends were out there, swimming around, looking for me. But that was my story.

      It may sound weird now, but I just fell completely in love with him. It was like he had put a mojo on me or somethin’. He was the kinda boy that always wanted his own way.

      Where had I heard that one before?

      It reached the point where his Momma couldn’t handle his lil’ ol’ mannish ass, so she sent him up to Chicago to be with his Daddy. Now I don’t know whether that was a big mistake or not, dependin’ on how you want to look at it.

      I saw something that looked like a snake as big as my thigh crawl up on the far edge of the roof, but no, thank God, it was just a tree limb snagging …

      ‘Mr. Sweets’, Peter Mansion’s Daddy was a big time pimp and he was the one who was responsible for takin’ ‘Sweets II’ into the game."

      What’s the game, Momma?

      She didn’t answer me for a few minutes, but the night was alive with strange sounds; people calling to each other -— Ella Mae! Ella Mae! Y’all out there?! Something making weird sounds over there, stuff drifting by. I prayed that we wouldn’t be gobbled up by a stray alligator.

      The game is what they call it when some men make they livin’ off of women.

      You think that’s a bad thing?

      Once again she was silent for a long time.

      I don’t know, I can’t say it’s a great thing or a bad thing. I guess a lot would depend on how you look at it.

      We had been on the roof for two whole days and nights, without food or water and we were both very, very tired. Maybe she was telling me this story to keep her mind off of our predicament or, like I said earlier, maybe she just wanted to leave this life with a clear conscience. I thought we were going to die, I really did. I just couldn’t see any way possible for us to survive without food or water, with this dirty, stinking, slimy water all around us, as far as the eye could see.

      "His Momma sent him up North and I didn’t see him for quite a spell, not ‘til his Momma was on her deathbed. By this time I had gotten married to Melvin, the man you call your father, and I had suffered through two miscarriages, other than that things was goin’ pretty well. I was now Mrs. Justine LeBeau-Wright, my husband was off into computers ‘n whatnot, makin’ nice money and I guess I was about as happy as a woman was ‘sposed to be, under the circumstances.

      Who knows what might’ve happened if Melvin had been in town when Sweets come down to see his sick mother.

      What can I say? When a woman is weak for a man, she just weak, ain’t no if’s and’s about it. The minute I laid eyes on him, my love came down on me, heavy.

      And that’s what caused you to get here. It all happened, right over yonder in the Hotel Deauville, in the French Quarter."

      So, I was the son of Mr. Sweets, but I didn’t feel like celebrating. What the hell was there to celebrate? We were going to die from dehydration, starvation or drowning. What the hell was there to celebrate? Well, I couldn’t celebrate, but I would drown knowing that my father was not my Daddy. My Dad was Melvin Wright, computer nerd, and my Daddy was Pete Mansion, A.K.A. Mr. Sweets," master pimp.

      Clutching the rain soaked, water logged chimney stack, I did a mental replay of my genealogical chart; I was the great grandson of Duke Mansion, and the son of Sweet Peter Deeder the Second, which made me Sweet Peter Deeder the Third. I don’t know why but that particular piece of information seemed to boot up a lot of courage in me.

      Momma said a whole bunch of other stuff during the course of our survival time, but nothing she said came close to what she had told me about who my real father was.

      Funny, strange things started happening to us at the dawn of our third day on this roof top. Number one, we were still alive and number two, people in boats of all kinds, even helicopters started rescuing people. It was suddenly like the White folks started remembering that we were part of the United States too. Thanks, Bush, for sharing . …

      Our saviors took us to the hell of the Astrodome; and in Heaven, I will never forgot the evil stench of stale piss and ol’ shit and the way we were stacked up in there for days. It would be really hard to describe what went on in there during the few days we were forced to spend time up in there. After studying a little of our history, I think the best description of what it was like was like the slave ships.

      It stank, it had to stink, with hundreds, thousands of people pissing and shitting all over the place. But we were alive. I had the experience of seeing, hearing, feeling some of the most incredible emotions I would ever know anything about. I could call myself a child of Katrina.

      Strangely, the minute we were rescued by the people in this rowboat, Momma kept whispering in my ear -– Don’t tell your father what I told you. Don’t tell your father what I told you.

      It seemed like she was giving me needless advice. Why would I want to tell my father that he wasn’t my Daddy? I was ten years old already, I had heard the saying -– it’s always Momma’s baby and Daddy’s maybe. In the New Orleans of my time, that was almost a Mantra.

      * * * * *

      Dad made his way back down to us in Katrina torn New Orleans, whilst we had busloads of people being relocated, Father Wright made it back onto the scene and said -– We ain’t goin’ no damned place, we’re stayin’ right here in New Orleans. There’s lots of work to be done here yet.

      And that’s exactly what we did. It was really rough for a couple years after Katrina, but he re-located his computer stuff to a shop in the French Quarter -— It’s higher ground and they take care of their own. And he figured, correctly, that it would be unavoidable for them to take care of us too, if we were right there amongst there.

      My Dad was a shrewd dude, I have to give it to him. Funny, when I think back on it now … but I always had a feeling of being distant from him in some way. I didn’t know enough about genetics at the time to doubt that he was my father. Momma was a typical dark walnut complexioned Creole woman (they ain’t all ice cream tinted) with semi Japanese eyes and Japanese straight hair, what they used to call good hair.

      And Dad was a chocolate skinned man with nappy hair and proud of it … it ain’t what you got on your head, it’s what you got in your head that matters.

      So, with my beige complexion, almond shaped eyes and semi-curly hair I didn’t have a lot in common, physically, with my Dad. That was pretty obvious, but I didn’t even give it a lot of thought. Now, after her revelation to me, it seemed fairly logical for me to assume that Mr. Smith was my Daddy.

      The dripping drama was on. I played my mental tape back and forth a few times to determine that I had met my Daddy a few times in some restaurant or other. We were always running into Mr. Smith/Johnson. He and Momma would exchange a few words, he would look me over real good, say something nice and be gone, just like that.

      What made me pay attention to this? Well, my Dad had always taught me to pay attention to details. And I couldn’t help but notice – B. K., before Katrina -— that Momma had slipped and called Mr. Smith Mr. Johnson once or twice. I was about eight or nine when I noticed this. So, how could he be Mr. Smith one year and Mr. Johnson the following year?

      And it didn’t take a whole year of me looking in the mirror, combing my hair to determine that I looked a helluva lot more like Mr. Smith/Johnson than I did my Dad.

      I think the thing that puzzled me the most is that he was friendly with Momma, but he wasn’t part of one our circles. You know what I mean?

      He wasn’t a friend of the family. And he didn’t really seem to be one of Momma’s close friends. He was just sort of a mysterious guy who popped up from out of nowhere now and then. In addition, I couldn’t help but notice that he wore expensive clothes with lots of jewelry. And whenever we ran into Mr. Smith/Johnson Momma would find some reason to be off for a couple days, to visit her Aunt Mamie in Mount Bayou. Or her sister in Shreveport. And she would be singing and smiling when she got back home.

      Dad didn’t pay any attention to stuff like that because he was always traveling. Or if he wasn’t traveling doing his computer business, he would have his nose up against the computer screen and his hand on the mouse. I’ve never known anybody who loved technology like him.

      I’m not going to check a box or place a red circle around the day it first came into my mind. I couldn’t do that because it was a gradual thing. But I do recall it was one of those days when me and Momma ran into Mr. Smith/Johnson in the Cajun Café’, over yonder on Rampart.

      My goodness gracious, Ms. Wright, that boy sho is growin’– he’ll be taller than you in another year or so.

      You got that right!

      I stood back and took a hard look at Mr. Smith/Johnson, whilst he and my Momma were talking to each other and winking at each other with their off eyes. This dude is my Daddy, my f’ real Daddy, that’s what my gut told me.

      Of course I had no way to confirm that feeling, that is, ‘til Momma made her confession on the rooftop. I wonder what would’ve happened if Katrina hadn’t blown in on us?

      * * * * *

      Girls were beginning to hit on me before Katrina hit. It seemed like I couldn’t turn around without having some girl up in my face. I also spent a lot of time in front of the computer because I found the technology fascinating, but the minute I took my hand off the mouse I was putting my hand on somebody’s thigh, or their breasts, and sometimes under their skirts.

      I was nice looking, no doubt about that, with my pretty brown skin, my almond eyes and my good hair, but that wasn’t the total drawing card for me. I mean, New Orleans, then and now, has always had some fine women, everybody knows that. But it’s always been a placed filled with pretty boys too.

      I can remember a few friends of mine that looked like exotic models or something. One of them was damned near vanilla colored with big bow shaped lips and pepper corns for hair. Another one was dark chocolate with green eyes and straight hair.

      No, it wasn’t the looks alone that drew the females. If the honest to God truth be told, I couldn’t really put my finger on what it was that drew them to me, that made them want to take me to the movies, give me money, let me have my way with them.

      Momma took notice of what was happening too, but she couldn’t do anything but caution me.

      Now, Peter, you gotta behave yourself, I don’t wanna see you … uhh, doin’ nothin’ you shouldn’t be doin.

      I could tell that she really wanted to yang on me about the girls because of the relationship she had (was having) with my Daddy, Mr. Sweets. I could see that she wanted to go there, but it would be a useless trip; what was happening to me was just something that was blessed upon me, it wasn’t something that I spent my time running after.

      * * * * *

      I think that my experience of living through the hell of Katrina -— winds blowing at one hundred and seventy five miles an hour, flooding, seeing dead bodies everywhere, being stranded on a rooftop for two days and nights, without food or water -— and then the Astrodome really did something to me.

      It was like I had died at the age of ten and been brought back to life. I was what somebody called a Katrina child.

      I couldn’t honestly say that I knew what a Katrina child was supposed to be. But I would have to say that my mind had been influenced a helluva lot by what had happened to us. Maybe I had a bit of a schizophrenic thing going on.

      On one hand I was heavily into the computer/techno side of things because of my close relationship with Dad.

      Robots are the future, Peter. The Japanese are already way out there. I could see that and I was a willing student for all he had to teach me. But then, by this time, having the knowledge that Mr. Sweets, the big time pimp, was my f’real Daddy, left me feeling that I should get to know something about his world too.

      CHAPTER TWO

      BY THE TIME I was fourteen I was beginning to feel this overwhelming desire to get to know my biological father. I wasn’t content with this accidental meeting stuff, sharing this dirty little secret we had. By this time Momma had told him that she had told me that he was my Daddy. That really didn’t make a whole lot of difference in our relationship, he wasn’t Mr. Smith/Johnson any more, but we hadn’t really had the gravity time needed to bond with each other.

      I came close to threatening Momma with blackmail if she didn’t arrange to bring us together.

      Peter, you don’t understand, this man travels a lot, he’s so busy . . .

      My father is busy and travels a lot too, but that doesn’t keep him from spending some quality time with me.

      Why should it be any different with my f’ real Daddy?

      I’ll contact him and see what can be arranged.

      I think the perfect time for us to hook up would be during school vacation.

      Oh, so you wanna spend a week or so with him?

      I’d like to spend my whole three month summer vacation with him.

      Momma gave a nasty look. I knew she was a bit pissed off by my request, but she had no choice but to go for it. Like I said earlier, I had a little undercurrent blackmail going on. Momma did not want Dad to know that I was not his son, she did not want that at all.

      First all, I really think that she truly loved Melvin Wright. But she just seemed to have to have herself a little taste of Mr. Sweets every now and then.

      Number two, Momma liked her lifestyle, she didn’t come from some kind of upper middle class background or anything like that. Her people my Aunt Mamie in Mound Bayou, my Aunt Bessie in Shreveport and my Aunt Mary in Chicago, Grandmother and Grandfather Le Beau lost their lives during the hurricane, they came from a regulation hard scrabble background.

      My Dad gave Momma a sweet life. He made pretty decent money and she had a nice car, the house, the credit cards, the whole nine yards. But, like I said, she had to have herself a little Mr. Sweets from time to time. Obviously she didn’t want so much of him that it would mess up her marriage, but she was willing to taste the forbidden fruit whenever the opportunity presented itself.

      School was about to let out for the summer vacation (June, ’07) and I was beginning to feel a bit antsy. Me and Momma hadn’t talked about me going to spend time with my f’ real Daddy since the previous April. I didn’t really want to bug her about this, but I was bound and determined to get my way. I was just on the verge of doing that when she asked me to go shopping with her one day, it was May 15th, never will forget it. Dad was in the middle of a battle with a stubborn virus that was threatening to ruin the known computer world.

      Mel, you want anything special from the market?

      Yeah, bring me a retroactive firewall.

      How ‘bout some shrimps for some gumbo file?

      That’ll work.

      I had to smile at the exchange between Momma and Dad. She could barely open her e-mail and he was designing software for major corporations, programs for aerospace engineers. The only conclusion I could reach about why they were together had to do with pure love, ‘cause they definitely didn’t seem to have a whole lot in common computerwise. We were barely out of the driveway before she began to run it all down to me, very calmly, but with a little edge to her voice.

      Now, Peter, I want you to listen to me real careful, o. k.?

      Uh huh.

      I got in touch with your Daddy about you spendin’ your vacation with him.

      My heart suddenly thumped a hole in my chest.

      He say it’s cool with him. The only problem is that he’s gonna be outta town ‘til August, he won’t be able to spend the whole summer with you o. k.?

      Uhh huh uhn huh.

      "I told him that August would be awright. So, here’s what I’ve done. I got in touch with your Aunt Mary in Chicago and she’s gonna cover for me. It’ll be like you’re goin’ up there to spend some time with your cousins’ n stuff.

      But actually you’re gonna be with your Daddy, you understand? Uhh huh."

      If Mel should decide to contact you, Mary can always say you’ve gone to the zoo on somewhere …

      Momma, if he wants to reach me he’ll e-mail me.

      And then what?

      I’ll e-mail him back and tell him that I’m at the zoo or whatever.

      How you gonna do that?

      I’ll take my laptop with me.

      Oh …

      O’ Momma, she wasn’t ol’ fashioned or anything like that, but it just seemed that the Computer Age had by passed her . She was still buying stamps at the post office and taking photos with an old fashioned Kodak. But she definitely knew how to construct an air tight lie.

      By the time we got into the supermarket parking lot she had covered 90% of the bases.

      "Now Peter, I got to say this to you, straight up. I don’t want you to fuck my marriage up, o. k.? I’m takin’ a helluva chance by lettin’ you do this because I think it’s only right that a boy should get to know his Daddy, I wouldn’t wanna keep you from that.

      But I have to tell you, I really love Melvin Wright, we been through a whole lot together. Remember he came back down here for us. …"

      I love him too, Momma.

      She looked startled and pleased.

      He’s a good man.

      I know he is, Momma. He’s a great father, but he ain’t my Daddy.

      But we don’t wanna hurt him or anything.

      Momma, you don’t have to worry about me, I know how to take care business.

      Once again she gave me that pleased, startled look.

      Peter, you know something? You are just a lil’ rascal, do you know that?

      I gave her that little cute boy, lopsided smile that I had practiced in front of the mirror.

      Yassum.

      Here, gimme a hug!

      I leaned across and hugged my Momma with sincere good feelings. She smelled like jasmine flowers and she was going to make it possible for me to have a month long visit with my Daddy.

      * * * * *

      From May 15th, 07 to August 1st, 07, I was a bundle of nerves. Dad thought I was having a nervous tic in my left eye from spending so much time in front of the computer.

      Pete, you gotta take a break every now ‘n then, son. You don’t want to go blind before you’re fifteen … . hah hah hah.

      Momma shared smiles with me, she knew what was happening. I was suffering from anxiety. The coast was clear, Momma had seen to that.

      Mel, Peter is gonna go spend the month of August with Mary, up in Chicago. I think it’s time that he got to know some of his cousins. And it’ll give us a chance to take a lil vacation somewhere by ourselves.

      Whatever you say, Justine.

      So, there it was done, a done deal. I was taking the train, the Pride of New Orleans, straight into Chicago’s Union Station. Momma gave me instructions about where to go from there.

      You’ll be pullin’ in late tomorrow afternoon. First thing you do is call your Aunt Mary to let her know you’re in town. Then you call yo’ Daddy and he’ll come down to pick you up. How you feelin?"

      Excited!

      Good! Now you go head on and have yourself a good time, but don’t get up there’n start showin’ yo’ ass or nothin’ or else you gonna have to answer to me. You know what I’m sayin?

      Yes M’am.

      I definitely knew what she meant. Momma could be real loving. But she wasn’t one to hesitate whipping my ass with Dad’s big leather belt, if she thought I was getting too far out of line.

      I don’t give a shit about all these so called modern rules ‘n what not. I brought you into the world’n I’ll take you out. You can get crazy ‘n call the po-lease if you want to, but I guarantee you, your l’il’ ass will be dead before they get here.

      Dad made sure I had a pocketful of money and my laptop. Enjoy yourself, Peter. And if you need anything just e-mail me.

      One final wave from the window of the train and I was off, going to the Windy City, going to Chicago, to hang out with my f’ real Daddy.

      * * * * *

      I stared at the landscape flashing by for hours. My first flight out of the nest. I felt like I was grown. People, Black and White, trotted up and down the aisle, giving me that special little shit eatin’ smile that grown ups reserve for teens that they see traveling alone. I ignored them, I didn’t feel like participating in their patronizing bullshit. I stared out at the fields, nodded off from time to time, had dinner in the dining car and came back to sleep some more.

      Nightmares in the day time, riding on a fast moving train are really weird. I can’t remember how many times I re-lived Katrina. I would nod off, with the trains doing this gentle rocking, the soft clackety clack underneath and then suddenly this wild, crazy wind would be whistling through my mind. Blowing trees down, tearing rooftops off, pushing mountains of water in front of it.

      We floodin’! We floodin! Get to high ground! We floodin! Get to high ground! People screamed …

      I woke up, once again, drenched with sweat, stared at the land sweeping past my window. Get to high ground.

      I mopped the sweat from my face and smiled at the thought, Get to high ground. Hell, there was no higher ground in the Ninth Ward, not even in the upper Ninth.

      After the wind, which seemed to howl and scream for days and nights -— a deadly calm, the sun glazing the flooded areas. Hot, scared, tired, thirsty, hungry. But more thirsty, than anything else.

      Peter, don’t drink none o’ this water, it’s got dead people in it, it’ll make you sick and you’ll die.

      How long is a day? How long is a night? How long was two days and two nights? Time will never be that long again.

      I sipped from the bottle of water at my side, what was the line in that poem? Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink.

      I’m sure Katrina must’ve aged me a few years, and then being forced to endure the Astrodome for a week must’ve put grey hairs on my head.

      The memory of all the desperate people milling around in the huge stadium caused him to squeeze his eyes shut, to try to blot out the images. But with his eyes closed, the images were mere vivid. Women going around, half crazed from the pain of seeing their babies suffer from hunger and thirst. Always the thirst.

      He took another sip of water.

      Here, Peter, take this knife and if anybody, man, woman or child try to take this bundle -— stab the shit outta ‘em! I’ve gotta take a lil’ nap.

      After two days and nights on the rooftop, surrounded by the dirty water, how long did we stay in that nasty, filthy stadium? Well, the storm went on from the 23rd of August ‘til the 30th of August. A loonng ass time.

      Grandma and Granddad Le Beau were gone, swept away like so many others. Neighbors swept away, gone, some dead, some re-located. Friends gone, re-located. Dead.

      I couldn’t focus on all of the ugly stuff, it made me feel really sad. And I didn’t want to feel that way.

      * * * * *

      The minute I got off the train in Chicago, in big ol’ busy Union Station, I raced to call my Aunt Mary, just as Momma told me to do. I knew she would be checking.

      So where you at now, Peter?

      I just got in, I’’m down at Union Station.

      Your Daddy is comin’ down to pick you up, right?

      Aunt Mary sounded exactly like Momma’s sister.

      Yes m’am. I’m going to call him as soon as I finish talking to you.

      Awright, you do that. And call me right back to let me know if you’ve made contact with him or not. We don’t wanna have you hangin’ ‘round Union Station. They got lots of perverts ‘n whatnot hangin’ ‘round down there. O. k.?

      I’ll call you back as soon as I connect with him.

      Good. I hope we get a chance to see you before you go back down home.

      You will, Aunt Mary, you will.

      Next, Daddy. I felt like a major league businessman, taking care of business, except that my heart was thumping like a drum each time the ‘phone rang. Once, twice, three times O my God, don’t tell he’s forgotten about me coming. A real low woman’s voice answered on the fifth ring. Wrong number?

      Hello?

      Uhh, hello, my name is Peter Wright and I’m calling Mr. Sweets, uhh, my Daddy …

      There was a slight pause on the other end, like she was trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about.

      Uhh, just a moment please.

      A couple minutes went by before Mr. Smith/Johnson’s silky smooth voice came into the ‘phone. Mr. Sweets, my f’ real Daddy.

      So, you made it, huh?

      Uhh huh.

      Good, I’m looking forward to seeing you. You got your bags?

      Two small bags and my laptop.

      Laptop, huh?

      Uhh, huh.

      Awright, it’s gonna take me about a half, maybe forty five minutes to get to you. Come on up out of the station and wait for me right in front, right in front of the Union Station Sign. You had anything to eat yet?

      Uhh, not yet.

      Well, don’t eat anything -— we’ll stop and have dinner somewhere when we get back here to Hyde Park.

      O. k.

      Welcome to Chicago.

      Thanks.

      Next, call Aunt Mary back.

      Yes, m’am., he’s on his way right now.

      Well, that’s good. Now you call me back if he’s not there within an hour -— we can’t have you hangin’ ‘round Union Station. I just talked to your Momma ‘n told her that you was here and everything was o. k.

      I ran up the stairs to wait in front of the train station, I didn’t want to miss my pick up. Chicago in August, real warm and humid, even in the evening, tall buildings all over the place.

      I clutched my wafer thin laptop in it’s carrying case under my left arm and straddled my two small traveling bags. I had survived Katrina, no one was going to take my stuff from me.

      I studied Chicago while I was waiting. People moved fast fast fast. There wasn’t a lot of talking and laughing out loud, the way it would’ve been at home. Lots of pretty girls, Black, White, Yellow colors in between. I also studied my watch every few minutes. I knew, if I had to wait longer than an hour, that I would have to call Aunt Mary back because if I didn’t she would find out that I had hung out longer than I was supposed to, and report to Momma. I would have a problem then.

      Exactly forty five minutes later, this shiny, gleaming black Jaguar slid up into the red zoned no parking space right in front of me. My Daddy was here.

      I had seen him before, in New Orleans, for a few minutes at a time, when he was Mr. Smith/Johnson, but now he was himself. Mr. Sweets, and he looked gorgeous.

      I couldn’t do nothing but stare at him as he eased himself out of the car and came to help me put my stuff in the trunk. He was dressed in an ivory White outfit, short sleeved shirt, with a pair of hip looking sandals on his feet.

      He looked like he had an aura around him, like his whole being was surrounded by a White light.

      Well, how ‘bout a hug for your Daddy, my man?

      He had said exactly the right thing. I fell into his arms and hugged him so tight I thought I was going to crush his ribs. Maybe he thought so too, because he squirmed out of my boa constrictor embrace with a smile and a little chuckle.

      Hey, go easy on the ribs. . .

      We were out of the red no parking zone three steps ahead of the parking enforcement cop. I was on a magic carpet. The Jag purred like a kitten.

      This is a nice car, I volunteered, a little overwhelmed by all of the gadgets on the dashboard. Momma and Dad had cars but they weren’t like this car.

      You like the Jag, huh?

      Yeah, I like the Jag.

      Maybe we’ll get you one when you get old enough to drive.

      I swallowed hard on that. I could have a Jaguar to drive when I got old enough. My Daddy had said so.

      Chicago, on the Outer Drive, heading towards Hyde Park.

      I’m taking the long way south on the Drive to show you a lil’ bit of the city.

      It could’ve been a magical trip, so far as I was concerned. There were lights winking and twinkling everywhere. Wonderful buildings, sights -— That’s Buckingham Fountain, lots of people come down here on hot nights to cool off, it’s like an old Chicago custom.

      I recognize it from the ol’ t.v. show -— Married … with Children."

      I’m not hip to it, I don’t watch a lot of television.

      He was real easy to talk to. I thought we would have problems communicating when we got together, but it wasn’t like that at all. He was definitely my Daddy, but within a short time I felt real free with him, like he was my older brother.

      This is Hyde Park, this is the section I live in. You like Chinese food?

      I nodded yes. It didn’t matter. He could’ve taken me to the local greasy spoon and I would’ve been happy. We drove into the underground garage of this hotel, the Hotel Del Prado. We went there several times while I was in Chicago.

      On the elevator going up to the 20th floor he leaned over and said That ol’ bitch Katrina tried to kick y’alls ass down there, didn’t she?

      There was something about the way he said it that made it sound funny.

      You got that right! I responded and exchanged high fives with him. He was cool. I checked him out as the elevator slid to a stop on the 20th floor of the Del Prado.

      A small diamond in his left earlobe, a beautiful haircut that framed his face like a picture, beige skin, about 5’10 or 11, not too tall, not too short, trim, looked good in his clothes.

      Daddy you work out a lot?

      He glared down at me and smiled. Was he pleased because I had called him Daddy? I hadn’t mean’t to, it just came out.

      I do Taichi twice a day as often as I can. I’m definitely not into sweatin’ ‘n groanin’, trying to lift five thousand pounds of steel over my head and all that madness.

      Tai Chi? I know about it, I think I’d like to get into that."

      We’ll start tomorrow morning to eight o’ clock.

      I liked two things about him right away, he was definite about things and he had a good sense of humor.

      We strolled through this wide corridor and came to a door with a plate on it that said -— House of Eng.

      They have some damned good Chinese food up in here.

      * * * * *

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE HOUSE OF ENG, Mandarin style Chinese cuisine, twenty storeys high, swank. I glanced out of the French windows at the moon shimmering on the lake. We had gone from evening to night without me paying it any mind.

      Peter, you want to sit out on the terrace or inside?

      Outside, I’d like to sit outside.

      Good evening, Mr. Mansion, good to see you, I see you have a guest with you this evening.

      This is my son, Peter. We’ll take a terrace table.

      I’m sure I floated to our table, My son, Peter. That’s what he said … My son, Peter.

      Will you have your usual, Mr. Mansion?

      Yes, my usual. And how ‘bout you, my man? What to drink?

      I was tempted to say -— I’ll have what he’s having, but I knew that wouldn’t be too cool.

      Could I get a 7-up?

      You can order whatever you want. Arc d’ Triomph for me and a 7-up for my man here.

      Daddy definitely knew how to feed a fourteen year old boy’s ego basket. My man here.

      A very professional looking waiter popped up at our table two minutes after our drinks were served. He gently placed two red and yellow menus in front of us and disappeared.

      Well, Peter, here’s to life, liberty and money.

      I agree.

      We clinked glasses and took sips of our drinks. He took note of how closely I watched him sip his cognac.

      Peter, you ever had a drink?

      Oh, you know how it is … I’ve had some wine with a few of the older guys from time to time. I felt I could trust him.

      He did a little hand signal and our waiter popped up out of the woodwork.

      Eddie, bring me a small water glass, with no water.

      He didn’t exactly hide what he was doing when he tipped half of his cognac into this small glass, and nobody stared at us. I think the water glass was just used to keep up correct appearances. I’ve had Arc d’ Triomph and a whole bunch of other good cognacs since then, but none of them could ever measure up to that smooth mellow honey, fire that slid down my young throat that particular evening.

      You really need a proper glass to sip … on a fine cognac, but we don’t want to get too outrageous up in here, do we?

      I agreed with a semi-tipsy wink. And then we, or rather I should say, he ordered food for us. For somebody who had been raised on carry out shrimp fried rice, egg foo young, chow mein and stuff like that, the food in the House of Eng was a revelation.

      Egg drop soup, rumaki, glazed this and stuffed that. And in between times Daddy would tip a lil cognac over into my water glass. It was like a dream come true for me, being high up in the sky (in more ways than one), tripped out on the scene,

      People paused at our table to say a few words, or they would exchange cards and stuff like that. I felt that I was hanging out with a movie star. A couple hours later, after we had exchanged news and views about damned near everything a hip, grown man and his son could exchange views about, and I had eaten as much Chinese food as could, it was time to go home.

      The check came to $200.58. I remember the numbers well. He pulled three one hundred dollar bills out of his wallet that was packed full of hundred dollar bills. So, this how a big time pimp lived. I liked every thing I saw. It wasn’t like me, Momma and Dad were po’ down there in New Orleans, but we didn’t go around spending $200.58 on Chinese dinners and leaving fifty dollars tips either. He patted me on the back on the way to the elevator.

      You got a damned good head on your shoulders, Peter, a damned good head. I like that.

      * * * * *

      From the House of Eng to the condo of Mr. Sweets. It was obvious from the moment he opened the door that I was going to be styled to the max. Huge place, huge. The room, if you want to call it that, that we walked into, was as long and wide as a football field.

      And walking through a huge archway was another room, shaped like an auditorium with a big fireplace at one end. And then there was a loft up there near the log beams in the ceiling. And some other rooms back over there.

      Awright, my man, where do you want to bunk, up there or down here?

      I pointed up there, awed by the richness of the furnishing, the way these fabulous wrap around windows gave us this gorgeous view of the lake. He led me up this stair well winding up to the loft. From up there, looking down, it was like being on the second floor inside of the condo. Fabulous.

      I’m going down to jump into some at home clothes. This is your space up here. Bathroom and toilet over there, a desk and chair over there, your walk in closet here. C’mon back down when you get yourself settled in.

      He disappeared over the edge, on his way back downstairs. I sat down on the edge of this huge round bed that had a big blue mirror on the ceiling above it. Fabulous. All of it was fabulous. Daddy was going down to jump into some at home clothes. Well, I guess I may as well do the same.

      After I hung my five pairs of pants and ten shirts up in the walk in closet, there was still yards of rack room for clothes. O well, I was traveling light.

      My at home clothes were a pair of baggy jeans and a White t-shirt. I took a trip to my own personal toilet to take a look and brush my hair.

      Wowww! There was about ten different kinds of expensive cologne on one side of the wash basin, tooth brushes, all kinds of stuff. It was like being

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