Brewed Black

Like an old wooden ship high up on the waves, that van sailed into New Orleans. The gas in its tank was the finest wind caught and harnessed by the sails, the bow creaking as it dropped above and below the ever moving horizons. There could be no doubt, no doubt at all. These were pirates, sailing the seas. Found in their lostness, lost in their fondness of loss. Sneering and laughing at the people who had produced them, their van, their Redwing boots, torn up t-shirts, and grunge cassette tapes. Their hair was long, back when long hair meant something. Cut free from possession and chained up to the graves of Kerouac, Hemingway, Thompson, maybe Blackbeard, Black Bart, or One-Eyed-Willy. All but trying to figure out what it means.

It's a stop at a diner on the edge of town, and a crazy side-eye from the hostess. It’s spare change thrown on the bar counter, for a few cups of coffee, free refills, and dirty looks. One hastily thrown quarter chimes and spins like a globe. Cream and sugar? The sparkling red bar seats are torn and showing their yellow foam guts. I like it black as night. The coffee brews black in some ancient machine that you’d see thrown out back in a small town alley. It’s all coming together slow, real slow. From the orange lines on that coffee maker stretched out to the cracked and melting tarmac outside. Some old tunes are playing off the radio set up in the corner, real old. Hank Williams? It reminds them of their grandfather’s homes way up north. The fresh coffee is good, you can feel the warmth through the mug.

It’s pirates laughing with each other, looking desperate and sleep deprived. They only have enough money for toast, with some jam to share. A group of old men in the booth look over at the young men with sharp disdain, doused in morning sunlight reflecting off their old man glasses in direct spite of their old man hats. Their eyes are yellowed like the pearl-snap buttons on the plaid shirts they wear. Each line in their old hands and in their old faces are burdens thrust upon others or burdens they will carry to their moss covered graves. The real royalty of the South.

It’s back in the van and over to some cheap gas station with old pumps. The smell of exhaust hits your body with the fresh southern air. Between the station and the car shop, they light up a few Camels, fire up a smelly thin joint, and watch the cars roll by. One of them sees a burgundy Ford pass, just like the one his mom used to pick him up in from baseball practice. He had loved driving home, sweaty and grass stained in the Crown Victoria. They would sing the songs on the radio. He had shorter hair and didn’t think too much about things then. She died a few summers after those ones. He keeps a letter and all his pictures of her in an army backpack. He drags his smoke until his head is too foggy to think about old wagons or watching the green trees sway in the fields. It’s never foggy enough to obscure mom.

It’s sailing down the roads to find Bourbon Street. Good old Bourbon Street. You can almost taste some of the Professor's red beans if you try hard enough. Instead, it’s finding parking somewhere, but not having money for the paid lots. They bicker about it while Dylan wonders who killed Davy Moore through the halfway busted speakers. They finally settle the beast down on some shady street a little off the French Quarter. It’s not much of a walk, so they take what they can and lock her up. Maybe one of them looks back just to make sure the van is good. Nobody has anything of value, so there isn’t anything of value for anybody to take. That's how it would seem. Tied to the port, the anchor dropped.

It’s getting to Bourbon Street. The smell of piss hits your body with the fresh southern air. Stains on the ground that are unidentifiable to man. Although each is slightly disappointed, they laugh and cuss and pretend. This may not be what they are looking for, but if you listen close, some tunes lift through the air. The smell of sparked grass wafts over. A hand lifts a sealed pack out of a back pocket, and a golden lighter lights a fresh smoke. There are women out dancing under the bright lights that make French patterned shadows. Off in the distance, two men are yelling and shouting. A bottle breaks, someone takes the shot. The city starts rolling, a spirit starts brewing.

It’s later, after much debauchery, stumbling and sputtering back to the van. It’s dark now, and the warm street lights are on. The pirate boot steps echo off the old homes. One of them carries an empty bottle, another feels the black jack pressing cold steel against his foot. They are uneasy back to the port, back to the ship. There’s a street light broken, enveloping the van in darkness. It gives off darkness the way the others give off light.

It’s getting up to the van and realizing that all the windows have been busted out. A drunk panic. Shattered glass sparkles off of some distant light like diamonds. The alarm isn’t going off, the battery is dead. Feeling around in the dark, they realize what's been taken. It’s realizing, for one, that he just lost all he had. Just an old army bag full of dirty clothes, some weed, a few pictures and a note from his mom. The world is still. They stop panicking and sit in the van for a while. All on a dark, empty street in New Orleans.

It’s driving back, wind rushing through the windows. You couldn’t hear someone talk, but no one is talking. It is still more silent than it ever will be, even with the wind blasting through the half-assed tape job over the windows. It’s going to be a long trip back to Fayetteville. They stop at the 24 hour diner they were at earlier, and get out quietly. They share a last couple of cigarettes and go in. Different hostess, same eye. This is what the pirates have found in their searching. Someone buys a coffee, and they watch, tearless, as the waitress lets it brew. Black as night.