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DEATH
AND THE FOOL
by David Murov It was a fine day for eating a nectar snowball. I was sitting at a small wicker table on my balcony in the Garden District of New Orleans. A genteel summer breeze blew the steam off my first cup of coffee. My empty mint julep glass was still sitting on the table from last night. A dead June bug was resting in peace at the bottom of the glass. I had just taken my morning medication when my cell phone rang. It was Mother Nature. She said, “Charlie, it’s too beautiful to work today. Come play with me.” When Nature called I listened. I called in well at work and got the day off. My boss was very understanding. I worked for my dad and he was retired. After coffee I changed into shorts and my Abita Turbodog T-shirt. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and slipped on my sunglasses. I fluffed my black curls while practicing my dog smile, where I raised my upper lip to expose my top teeth and sort of grinned. I looked good for a thirty year-old nut. I was ready for inaction. I took the streetcar to the Latter Library on St. Charles Avenue. My plan was to check out a book, walk to Magazine Street, grab a snowball, and head to the bank of the Mississippi River at Audubon Park. At the library I wanted something light to read so I grabbed an eighty page novel from the condensed section, which was crammed between science fiction and fantasy. The book was The Mighty Sparrow by B. DeBellevue. I approached the librarian stand with my book and library card in hand. A woman approached the stand at the same time. She was dressed in a black linen suit and had Veronica Lake blonde hair. She had the aura of a new age Junior League type, if that was possible. She smelled like potpourri. The librarian took the woman’s books the same time as mine. “I’m finished with this one,” Blondie said. She handed the librarian Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller. “And I’d like to check this one out,” she said, looking at me coyly with the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen. She handed the librarian a slim volume. I glanced at the title: Death and the Fool by Hugo von Hofmannsthal. She had a thing for death, I guessed. Maybe she’d like to take a romantic stroll with me in nearby Lafayette Cemetery. I could play dead for her. She gave me a second look and I gave her the dog smile. She winked at me. I thought, “Your crypt or mine?” As the librarian checked out her book, I decided to ask Blondie to join me for a nectar snowball. Before I could ask her, Blondie reached for her book and library card and brushed against me, literally taking my breath away. “I’m late for a funeral,” she said and swept out the door. Her scent tightened on me like a noose around my neck. I couldn’t breath. I gasped for air, my hand at my throat, watching her go. “Here’s your book and card, sir,” the librarian said. I took the card first and glanced at it. The name on the card was “Datura,” no last name, like some kind of celebrity wannabe. I caught my breath. “You gave her my card,” I said. I rushed out the door after her, leaving the librarian holding the book. Outside Blondie or Datura was nowhere to be seen. She’d disappeared fast. I even looked on both side streets but she was gone. I went back inside to fetch my book and walked into some major commotion. At a table some old man had keeled over reading a book on better sales techniques. There was a crowd of people around him. I went to take a look. “How Gothic,” I thought. “Ms. Morbid Curiosity should have stuck around for this.” “That’s strange,” a man at the table said. He pointed to three long, white fluted blossoms, which lay across the open book the stiff had been reading. “I’ve been sitting here the whole time and I’m sure those Datura blossoms weren’t here before.” The little hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I felt a bad moon rising. Against my will, my eyes shifted to the name on the library card again: Datura. My head followed with a mental tap dance: Dead salesman. Datura blossoms. Death of a Salesman. Datura. Murderess. She has my library card and name. Datura. Serial killer. Death and the Fool. Dog smile. Fool. Me. I’m next. I’m a dead fool.” My heart and stomach clenched alternately like fists. Grace under pressure was not part of my psyche; psychosis was though. I shifted into panic mode. I fled the library like an extra in a Godzilla movie. I ran into the avenue and blocked the path of a United Cab. I tore open the rear door and hurled myself into the backseat. “Take me to City Park,” I barked like a mad dog. The seasoned cabdriver adjusted that little switch on his rearview mirror from day driving to night driving to raving maniac in the backseat. Then he put his foot down hard on the gas pedal. My ex-girlfriend, Jill, worked for the Botanical Garden in City Park. She had seen me through many “episodes.” Unlike me, Jill was well-grounded. I found her digging in the Rose Garden. Her long, red hair was tied in a ponytail. “Hey, Fool, what brings you here?” “Don’t call me that!” She studied me for a half-second. “Whoa, Baby, what’s happened to you? Are you making flight plans again?” “Nothing like that, Jill. Quick, what do you know about Datura blossoms?” She laughed and said, “Well, they’re also called angel’s trumpets. Why?” I looked over my shoulder and then said, “I think I’m being stalked by a serial killer.” I told her what happened at the library. The accuracy of Jill’s intuitions was uncanny. Her predictions of impending doom rang true time after time. Countless times she had saved me from sour deals, bad bets, and me, mostly. I watched now as she went inside herself to consult her inner oracle. When she came back, she made a big deal of crossing herself. “What? What is it? Tell me everything’s okay, Jill.” “Brace yourself, Charlie.” “Tell me!” She took my hand. “Okay, here it is… That lady is no serial killer. She’s the Angel of Death.” The blood drained out of my face. I was frozen stiff. She laughed. “Charlie, I’m kidding. It’s a joke.” “No, Jill. It makes perfect sense. Her supernatural good looks. Her fascination with death. The dead salesman. The Datura blossoms. My gasping for breath after she brushed against me. Her sudden disappearance.” “Oh, no,” Jill said. “Charlie, believe me. I was messing with you.” “No, Jill, it’s no joke. This feeling is real. She’s the Angel of Death.” “Charlie, believe me, it’s your paranoia talking,” Jill pleaded. “The Angel of Death is my stalker. I’m dying young. Only the good die young. I’m not good.” “Stop it, Charlie. You know you see things that aren’t there. Did you take your medication this morning?” I didn’t want to argue with Jill. I took a deep breath and became remarkably calm. Jill had done all she could do for me. Now I needed professional help. But from who? My rabbi? A voodoo practitioner? Then it hit me. I remembered the ad from television: Psychic Good Buddies. My pal, Snake, read Tarot cards in Jackson Square. He was into the supernatural and odd things like angels and crystals and strippers named Tiffany. I said good-bye to Jill and thanked her for all her help and advice over the years. “You’re being silly,” she said as I turned to leave. “We’re still on for next Saturday at my place. Eight o’clock. Okay, Charlie? You bring the beer.” I left Jill in the dirt and took a taxi to the French Quarter. A few blocks from Jackson Square my cab got stuck in a traffic jam, caused by a jazz funeral. I sat for five minutes but I was so antsy I paid the fare and got out. I pushed my way through the second line of gyrating dancers and tuxedoed musicians. One of the trumpet players purposely bumped into me. I caught a whiff of potpourri. My heart skipped a beat. It was the smell of Death, the killer blonde, Datura. I turned and looked her in the face. I shuddered. She was so horribly beautiful. She touched me on the shoulder and I felt her chill, the chill of Death. She said to me, “What’s the rush, Fool?” Then she was gone like the wind. I had never been so close to Death before. I ran all the way to Jackson Square and arrived out of breath at Snake’s card table. My friend, Snake, had long, black hair and wore an old, collapsible top hat wrapped in a long red and blue scarf. He was sitting alone, idly flipping Tarot cards over from the deck. The moment I arrived he flipped over the Death card. He looked up and said, “Yikes, C-Dawg.” That’s what Snake called me. “I know. I need your help, Snake.” He adjusted his hat. “Spill it, C-Dawg.” I told him about my two encounters with Datura and about Jill’s uncanny call. “What do you think, Snake?” He looked grim. “You know, maybe it’s a case of mistaken identity,” he suggested. There are a whole lot of angels out there. All different kinds, dude, good and bad. He pulled a box of cards out of a bag. “Take a look at these, man.” “What are they?” I asked. “Angel trading cards,” he said. I took the cards and examined them one by one like they were mug shots. There were both major and minor angels in the deck. Gabriel. Raphael. Clarence. Halfway through I came across: Datura, Angel of Death. “It’s her!” I screamed. He took the card from my hand, flipped it over, and read the back of the card. “Ouch,” was all he said. I felt dead already. I said, “How much do I owe you, Snake?” He shook his head and said, “This one’s on me.” Snake and I said our good-byes and he hugged me. “C- Dawg, see ya later at that big Dead show in the sky,” Snake said. “Say hey to Jerry, man.” From Snake’s table in Jackson Square I walked up Decatur to Canal Street, past the Canal Place Cinema. I had to laugh: Dead Man Walking was playing at the matinee. There was no need to hurry now. I even rode the streetcar home. That afternoon in bed I wrote my last will and testament. The only time I ventured out was to return a video, which I didn’t bother to rewind. Around six o’clock my doorbell rang ominously. I assumed it tolled for me. My pulse quickened. Was it Death? I went gently to the front door and opened it slowly. To my surprise, lying on the stoop was a bouquet of Datura blossoms with a card attached. I detached the card from the flowers. I took a deep breath and opened the small envelope. Inside were my library card and a note reeking of potpourri. The note said, “Sorry, Charlie. It’s some other fool’s time.” |
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