Freddie Tibodeaux
Apr 17th, 2006, 07:30:41 PM
Freddie had a view of Wrigley Field from the shop window, if he leaned against the window and squinted. His market district shop was a few decades past its prime, but he'd gotten the lease for peanuts. Considerin all he needed was a fan, an ol' couch, a spice rack, and a booze cabinet, he felt high on the hog.
It cert'nly beat the lower ninth ward, and most def'nitely Angola.
Of course, it wasn't somethin Freddie much cared to think about outside his prayers. God hadn't give him too many excesses in his life, but Freddie always felt like he owed the man upstairs for leavin half of his hand-out to waste.
He'd hitched to Chi-town after his parole was up and spent a season in Memphis just to stay near Big River. There was 'nuff work as a day cook to make rent, and he could gig in any corner dive by pickin hand-me-down delta blues on his acoustic. It wasn't an easy life, but after servin a dime in Angola, you appreciate things more.
The problem with Memphis was the problem with N'awlins. The town stank. It wasn't Big River, and it wasn't the home cookin. That was the stink of death. Both cities were dyin. Dyin in population. Dyin in heritage. Ev'rything seemed speckled by a snowstorm of neglect and filth. Course, as Freddie made his way up the river, the stink didn't so much go away as he got used to it. Even here, ev'rything was grey and brown. Maybe it was crazy thinkin to think he could solve it all with a bus fare and a night's sleep. People is people. The reason why people's that way is between those people and God. Some people's hearts' sick, like a big ol' hole in it, and ev'rywhere they go, life's there to poke holes in it if they let it.
That's the Traiteur talkin in Freddie, and he knew it sure 'nuff. He could talk to God through the intercession of the saints and talk to the Ol' Man himself. His mama's mama was herself a Traiteurs, and she'd give him the gift after God put her in her bed with a stroke. That was the way God told her it was the time, cause once a Traiteur tells the tellin of their gift, it ain't theirs no more. Freddie took his grandmama's gifts and let God do the talkin to him. Now, God was talkin about a great big sick in this city, like the one in Memphis and down the line in N'awlins.
Freddie looked at the inverse of the letterin painted on his big glass window that read "TIBODEAUX'S ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE" and frowned. A Traiteur's callin wasn't a vocation, but a man ain't fit on whiskey and blessin's alone. He'd been scratchin for a life for years, and he hoped God could understand that these be changin times.
It cert'nly beat the lower ninth ward, and most def'nitely Angola.
Of course, it wasn't somethin Freddie much cared to think about outside his prayers. God hadn't give him too many excesses in his life, but Freddie always felt like he owed the man upstairs for leavin half of his hand-out to waste.
He'd hitched to Chi-town after his parole was up and spent a season in Memphis just to stay near Big River. There was 'nuff work as a day cook to make rent, and he could gig in any corner dive by pickin hand-me-down delta blues on his acoustic. It wasn't an easy life, but after servin a dime in Angola, you appreciate things more.
The problem with Memphis was the problem with N'awlins. The town stank. It wasn't Big River, and it wasn't the home cookin. That was the stink of death. Both cities were dyin. Dyin in population. Dyin in heritage. Ev'rything seemed speckled by a snowstorm of neglect and filth. Course, as Freddie made his way up the river, the stink didn't so much go away as he got used to it. Even here, ev'rything was grey and brown. Maybe it was crazy thinkin to think he could solve it all with a bus fare and a night's sleep. People is people. The reason why people's that way is between those people and God. Some people's hearts' sick, like a big ol' hole in it, and ev'rywhere they go, life's there to poke holes in it if they let it.
That's the Traiteur talkin in Freddie, and he knew it sure 'nuff. He could talk to God through the intercession of the saints and talk to the Ol' Man himself. His mama's mama was herself a Traiteurs, and she'd give him the gift after God put her in her bed with a stroke. That was the way God told her it was the time, cause once a Traiteur tells the tellin of their gift, it ain't theirs no more. Freddie took his grandmama's gifts and let God do the talkin to him. Now, God was talkin about a great big sick in this city, like the one in Memphis and down the line in N'awlins.
Freddie looked at the inverse of the letterin painted on his big glass window that read "TIBODEAUX'S ALTERNATIVE MEDICINE" and frowned. A Traiteur's callin wasn't a vocation, but a man ain't fit on whiskey and blessin's alone. He'd been scratchin for a life for years, and he hoped God could understand that these be changin times.