Dizzy
by Jürgen Fauth
The moment I get off the streetcar, I see the red and blue lights reflecting off the white walls of the Jewish Community Center across from my house, and I know they are there for me. I've been picking pockets in the Quarter all day, and I feel tired and hungry and crabby, in no mood to be arrested and have my life change forever quite yet. It's never good to get arrested on an empty stomach.
So I stuff my hands deep down my pockets, keep my head low, and walk straight past my house where three NOPD cars are pulled up on the lawn. Across the street, Jewish kids are screaming in the pool. I don't dare look up to see if the cops are inside. I hurry past, turn on Prytania, then down all the way to Magazine, to Guy's Po-Boys. A po-boy is exactly what my delirious stomach is longing for, and only after I devour a fully dressed oyster on French can my head begin to deal with the fact that at least six of New Orleans' finest are digging through all my belongings right now waiting for me to return home so they can carry me off to jail, and from there, Angola.
I count my earnings: 340 dollars, 1000 francs, and some American Express Travelers checks in German marks that won't do me any good. Seven credit cards that might still work for another day or so. A handful of drivers licences but none of them remotely look like me. A card for the Englewood, New Jersey public library. What the hell did I keep that for?
"Hey Osmo," somebody says. I twitch. "You coming to the show tonight?" It's Kermit Ruffins, the trumpeter. I'm a regular at his Wednesday night gigs at the Bon Temps. Kermit swings hard.
"Sorry, Kermit," I say. "I think I'm in a bit of trouble. Gotta blow town."
Kermit puts his fingers to his lips, pretending to puff on a joint, rolling his eyes like Satchmo. "Reefer trouble?"
"Worse than that," I say. I'm flipping through my stack of stolen cards as if they are a tarot deck.
"Sorry to hear that," Kermit says. "Where're you gonna go?"
I hold out the deck of cards, and Kermit cuts it. Englewood, New Jersey.
"That's where Dizzy died," Kermit says.
So I stuff my hands deep down my pockets, keep my head low, and walk straight past my house where three NOPD cars are pulled up on the lawn. Across the street, Jewish kids are screaming in the pool. I don't dare look up to see if the cops are inside. I hurry past, turn on Prytania, then down all the way to Magazine, to Guy's Po-Boys. A po-boy is exactly what my delirious stomach is longing for, and only after I devour a fully dressed oyster on French can my head begin to deal with the fact that at least six of New Orleans' finest are digging through all my belongings right now waiting for me to return home so they can carry me off to jail, and from there, Angola.
I count my earnings: 340 dollars, 1000 francs, and some American Express Travelers checks in German marks that won't do me any good. Seven credit cards that might still work for another day or so. A handful of drivers licences but none of them remotely look like me. A card for the Englewood, New Jersey public library. What the hell did I keep that for?
"Hey Osmo," somebody says. I twitch. "You coming to the show tonight?" It's Kermit Ruffins, the trumpeter. I'm a regular at his Wednesday night gigs at the Bon Temps. Kermit swings hard.
"Sorry, Kermit," I say. "I think I'm in a bit of trouble. Gotta blow town."
Kermit puts his fingers to his lips, pretending to puff on a joint, rolling his eyes like Satchmo. "Reefer trouble?"
"Worse than that," I say. I'm flipping through my stack of stolen cards as if they are a tarot deck.
"Sorry to hear that," Kermit says. "Where're you gonna go?"
I hold out the deck of cards, and Kermit cuts it. Englewood, New Jersey.
"That's where Dizzy died," Kermit says.
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Author's Note
A short short from my New Orleans days, featuring the trumpeter Kermit Ruffins. Original published in Vestal Review.
The photo on flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/muckster/140455546/
Other stories by Jürgen Fauth
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I want more of this ode to New Orleans. Oh, to have your cards cut by Kermit.
I could go for some gumbo and a po-boy in New Orleans right about now. Thanks for posting this flash.
Funny and sad, my favorite combo.
Great shape: wide, circling to a point and disappearance. Sort of like the way a Muslim knows their tongue touches heaven (the roof of their mouth) every time they say 'Allah.' The realization is in the gap.
I like the dialogue in this piece. Very well done.
I was thinking he was going to turn himself in, so it was nice when he declared Englewood as opposed to Angola! Fun piece.
i like the attitude of the piece. "in no mood to be arrested." i think that captures it.
I'm flipping through my stack of stolen cards as if they are a tarot deck." Great!
Anyone who's walked the streets of NO's Quarter will dig this Micro. The closer has a twist that begs for a reread -- AHA! There it is in paragraph three: "A card for the Englewood, New Jersey public library. What the hell did I keep that for?" Very clever writing.
Is this an excerpt of a larger piece? Reads like it. Good stuff would like more and yes please oysters on french bread please
Thanks all! You're much too kind. I wish there was more, Melissa, but it's a stand-alone thing.
This is a very good piece, Jürgen. I really like the use of dialogue here. Good writing.
Favorite line: "It's never good to get arrested on an empty stomach."
Just put this character right inside my head.
Very good, sad, kind of, and funny.
Always cut the cards... I like it.
Englewood hold on to your credit cards, !!! great piece.
Great piece! the images and voice are so strong I really like the narrator.
Great stuff! My character Mirko resides in Bratislava but he has much in common with and much to learn from Osmo.
You sure you don't want to return to Osmo in other pieces?
I love the inclusion of the library card. That was what pulled me in the strongest.
I'm a jazz enthusiast myself and I love the City of New Orleans. Somehow this guy belongs there and his voice emerges quite naturally from the Quarter, mixing right in with the sounds of jingling and thumping and raunchy trumpets and gut buckets and washboard wizards grooving in the streets. You capture a guy and an attitude and a City here in a few deft strokes.
First sentences in flash fiction are important, I pay attention them. This one drew me in. The rest held me, but the first one got me into the story with immediacy, as in whiplash, as in a flash.
Have you been to Englewood, Jurgen? Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to Angola? Loved every word of this. I'm late to this party. Only saw it because my friend Lapham commented the other day. Fave.
Great images and flow, is this an excerpt of a larger story?
Timely! Didn't the mayor of NO recently ask the Feds to clean house at the NOPD?
Testing. Ignore..
good
Nice ending. And Kermit is good! And Rudy Van Gelder moved his studio to Engelwood Cliffs from Hackensack.
Love the bluesy street-sense feel to this and Kermit. "8"
Vivid writing. Are there more stories featuring this protagonist? You've whetted my appetite for more.
Interesting character plus a terrific feel for NOLA. Said so much in so few words.
A nice flavor to it. Being a local Jersey boy, the image of a Jewish center and an Englwood library card, made me think, for a second, that he was already in Englewood.
Cool this reminds me ... when I was living in New Orleans it's nice to see a piece about New Orleans even though it's kind of a scary thing with the nopd involved yikes really scary ratchet in my attention! Salud! I believe this as if it did happen. Did it? I wonder.