Left Turn On Red Alvin King

He’d gone into the gallery with half a beer in a to-go cup and a lit cigarette. And the attendant had noticed him immediately. Ryan gave him a quick, vague look then moved over to the paintings on the walls. Alright fat ass, come on, say something stupid, he thought, looking at the portraits.

“There’s no smoking in here. No drinking, either, for that matter.” the man said as he approached.

“This stuff is pretty cool.” Ryan said. When the man got up to him, “You the artist?”

He wanted to be here in the gallery amongst the art. The art wasn’t real art, just art for the masses, but it had been a long time since he was amongst anything remotely like it. He’d never felt much about it in the past and now he had a definite disdain for it and things like it. Phoney ass shit. But still he felt relaxed here. Safe. Pretty objects. He’d become an “art critic” like so many other things of which he was now critical. Safe art. Bullshit. But he’d give anything to be here than there. Rather, he’d take anything to be here than there. Take his shit! is what they’ld say. And he did. Plenty.

“You’re going to have to go outside with that.” the man said as he passed Ryan going towards the door.

Ryan wanted to stay focused on the people on the walls. Judging them was easy and would have been fun but the gallery attendant now standing at the door holding it open

could not be ignored. Ryan’s compulsion to turn to the man was automatic and instantaneous.

“You must want your ass kicked.” Ryan said to the man.

“You’re drunk.” the attendant said.

Ryan moved towards the man. “Cause I’m a bad mother fucker.”

The man just stood there holding the door.

“You’re a drunk mother fucker.” the man said.

Ryan looked hard at the man feeling the overwhelming desire to take his shit then drained the cup as he moved through the door and onto the sidewalk and headed down the street without looking back.

That faggot just doesn‘t know how close he came to it. He puffed on the cigarette with determination while white hot thoughts and images mingled with red ones and orange ones. Bricks through the display windows, barstools down over their heads, 50 cal. tracers at their exploding then falling bodies, his boot on their arms, the attendants arm, a quick burst to their chests, their deflating bodies. Take their shit! …… Jesus Fucking Christ! It was exhausting. Get some more beer. He walked down Royal St. towards the A&P.

It was a cloudy afternoon in New Orleans and Ryan had been drinking since the night before. He’d been in bars all over the Quarter and Marigny in the last three days. Three days ago they docked in New Orleans and along with about three thousand other marines headed home he and his boys hit the town. Starting off with his boys three days ago he was now down to just himself. Everywhere he went in his periphery or in direct line was a soldier or group of soldiers, many familiar faces, every now and then someone he knew from his battalion. Marines, to a marine, are unmistakable no matter how they’re dressed even in civies and a cap hiding their haircuts like he had. But the last thing he wanted was to be amongst his brothers. He loved them all, each and every one of them, even those he didn’t actually know. But he wanted to be as far away from them as possible and would be if he could.

The corner the store was on was full of civilians listening to musicians playing some folksy blues type thing on the street. The musicians looked a little hippie like with some cartoon hillbillie mixed in, some a little more beat than others. Fat, tired tourists in summer time tourist garb, dressed for the heat and humidity that they never believed could be worse than they’d heard, mingled with more vigorous ones apart from which stood many eye magnetizing beauties. Ryan stood there listening and ogled. An old man with no teeth, placated skin and a withered small body, nodded at him. Ryan nodded back. Then a younger version broke from his band of total down and outers and came over and asked Ryan for 50 cents.

“I don’t have it.” Ryan said, even though he did.

“Got a smoke?” the younger asked.

“Don’t smoke.” Ryan said and he turned away and went into the store. A guilt pang washed over him. Images of his dead came and automatic as his M.16 his hand went into his pocket for his pack of Malboros. He stuck one in his mouth.

“You can’t smoke in here.” the cashier said.

Ryan didn’t respond to the woman and walked quickly to the rear of the store where all the beer was kept. He left the cigarette dangling from his mouth as he looked over the cans. Not many people were in the store so when footsteps came up from behind him he turned quickly as the security guard passed him. The guard just looked back at him and continued down the aisle. The first thing Ryan noticed was the .38 magnum Colt. The man himself was nothing but an insult. It started to rise up. Fucking clown. He’d shit his pants if he were there for 10 seconds. Ought to make him eat that gun. Hell, just a Bud, get the 16 oz. Ought to pop it open and drink it right here. He took the can to the cashier and put it on the counter. The cigarette still dangled from his mouth. She pressed some keys.

“$1.75”

While he separated a dollar from a wad of crushed bills and dug for quarters he looked at the cashier every few seconds. Damn she’s good looking, he thought. Long dark hair, dark eyes, I guess she’s Cajun. Bagging the can she did not look at his face though he was now looking steadily at hers. She’s just what I need. Say something. Looking at her face had inspired so much tenderness he let himself feel as if his guard were completely down and completely open. He wished she could see who he really was and he stood a little too long there at the counter trying to project all his internal beauty towards her. With her head still angled more down than level she suddenly raised her eyes up to his.

An intent, puzzled look then quickly to the customer who’d come up to the counter behind him.

“Can I help you?” she said to the other customer.

Ryan hadn’t even realized someone was behind him. He was more startled at that than disective of the cashiers response. He took his can and left the store.

Outside the younger was not far from the entrance. Ryan walked over to him and took the cigarette from his lips and handed it to him.

“Thank you, brother.” the younger said in a shredded voice.

A spot on the curb across from the A&P entrance is where Ryan sat to sip on his beer. He sat between tourists listening to a washboard highlight. I could take her home to momma. That would make momma happy. That would make it up to her. I would tell her how sorry I was for not writing for so long, then tell her I have a surprise for her.

I wish I had a surprise. I’m sorry momma. He stared at the stores entrance. He thought of his mother in Mobile and knew that his sisters and brother were taking care of her. Both sisters were older than he the oldest by eight years. And his younger brother two years younger than himself was his mother’s favorite. Ryan was twenty two and though he knew his lack of communication with his mother caused her an amount of stress he believed much more would come from the change a mother could spot in her son especially the kinds of changes that had occurred in him over the last year. Not now. Not right now. Later. When things are better. His emails to his sister should be enough information for the family. They know I’m still alive anyway. Sorta’.

Look at all these fat asses. He looked around at all the tourists, the musicians, the locals in their black and white, shopkeepers hanging out of the gallery doorways. Even the homeless have no idea. Phoney ass shit. Some of these cab drivers do though.

Hunger was coming on so Ryan decided to go this place on Frenchmen St. called Mona’s. It served Mediterranean food. So he got to his feet with his beer, went

to the door of the A&P for a last look at the Cajun girl, whose back now to him, displayed just how long her curly dark hair was. Maybe later, he thought. Then he sauntered down Royal St. to get something to eat.

A couple more beer stops along the way and he got to Frenchmen St. with nothing but food and sleep on his mind. After food then sleep, if he could. Sleep was a problem these days. Hopefully he’d had enough beer and with the food would take care of that.

This was the Marigny and the streets were very quiet compared to the Quarter. All the bars were closed. A couple of people sat in front of a coffee house. Each after looking up as he passed quickly looked away. Weak asses. A block further and Mona’s Café.

It started the moment he walked through the door. The walls were painted in a mural of THERE. The open desert across which so many of them came and its yellow earth which soaks up all the blood. The low storied buildings with their flat roofs and dark windows from which anyone’s fate could fly and often did. The only things missing in the mural were the cars and the people. The people were there though in the restaurant. And all their eyes told him that they knew who he was.

He moved along the front window and sat at a corner table with his back to the wall. A cigarette was already in his mouth and he lit it.

Damn, what am I doing here. Looking out at the room, I’m the only American here. Definitely the only marine. A young arab man was at the register. A couple of arab men sat together at a table. At another table sat an asian couple. Through the window to the kitchen two more arab men. What did you expect.

Fuck that, this is America and he smoked and pulled the menu out from between the salt and pepper shakers and tried to concentrate on it. The whole time his attention was split between reading the minds of the men, what in the place could be used as a weapon, how fast could he get to the exit and when is that asshole who keeps staring at me going to come over and say something about this cigarette.

They know I’m a fuckin’ marine. They know where I’ve been. That stall where Williams got it eating some fucking candy. Head hanging by half his neck. Six of there own even, in a crowded market. Carl in a market too. No more food from them. Too easy . Your guard’s down. They paid though. Took thier shit, too. These motherfuckers know who I am. They know where I’ve been.

Ryan could sense the young man leave the register and walk towards him. He knew where they all were.

The young man reached the table and Ryan looked up from the menu. “Would you like an ashtray?” the young man said. He had a sad-tired look in his eyes but polite unguarded. “Yeah. Thanks.” Ryan said, and the young man put a small aluminum ashtray on the table. “Just give me a Bud.” Ryan said, “And could you call me a cab.”

When the young man returned with the beer he told Ryan a cab was on its way. Ryan paid and went out to wait for the cab on the sidewalk. Jesus Fucking Christ, and he took a very deep pull from the bottle. Momma, it may take a while.