The price of empathy and compassion were weighty for his thirteen-year-old brain. The final effect on him was a general indifference to God and man.

Ray tried to avoid answering but fumbled, accidentally pushed the accept button instead and dropped the phone on the floor at Monica’s Feet. “Ray? Ray?” his wife called. Monica picked up the phone and handed it to Ray. “Who are you?”

The Buick parked on the side of the store by the dumpster. A man with long hair got out of the passenger side and lit a cigarette. The driver, shorter and with an afro, got out and made a joke to the passenger. They both laughed. The diver spotted Brother Ben, pointed up to him and said something to the long hair. He replied with a remark, blew smoke and they both laughed again.

Roland looked at Paul entertaining two older women at the party. “So he asked me if I’ve been down to the beach lately,” Paul said, “I’ve been doing a little beach combing. Gotta be combing something.” Paul paused for dramatic effect then rubbed his bald head, rolled his eyes and let out a belly laugh. His entourage cackled out loud over their strawberry margaritas.

Their house was a gray-green shotgun on brick piers with a poured concrete stoop. Momma was working late, but he could smell something good. Grams must have cooked. He could hear through the screen window her loudly saying her evening rosary in the living room. Softly he parked his bike out back by the kitchen. The kitchen screen door was covered with little white moths drawn to the light. He quietly opened the door. Moths flew in, circling the overhead light.

It was the dog days of summer — highs in the upper 90s, the humidity made the air thick, and life was moving slower than Bayou Vermillion. I was a twenty-something vegan, driving a VW van, and a practicing yogi. I lived in the hip part of town, the St. Streets, at 929 Azalea. I was enjoying cannabis daily and putting in motion the build-out of a commune in Leonville with friends. My devout Catholic parents thought they had lost me and prayed the rosary every day to “get me back.” It was all so apropos for a Southern artist in the 60s.