Chronicles - Bob Dylan [83]
There was still a light drizzle outside, and you could hear it softly on the tin roof. New Orleans was beginning to pull on me and I was feeling the weight of the line. I looked through the window past the hanging baskets of ferns and white flowers, tried to see beyond the wisteria vines on the patio. Part of the sky was clear, but the light had a greenish glow at the edges.
“Sea of Love” came on the radio. It felt like I must have been cast off somewhere and it was time to go back and that if I had come out of New Orleans with any bitterness or hostility, it ought to be dead by now. “There used to be racetracks and stables around here,” he said. “A hurricane came through about a hundred years ago, water twelve feet high. Two thousand people gone — lost their lives. When the storm comes, you beg the Master, ‘If you just keep me from getting killed, I’ll do anything you say.’ ” He picked up a can of varnish from a old newspaper that was spread open on the floor. “Whom the Master wishes to kill, the Master kills.” He dipped a small brush into the dripping can and began to paint strokes on one of the side rails of the chair. Then he stopped himself and laid the brush down across the top of the can. There were varnish splotches all over the newspaper, but you could still make out certain stuff, certain faces in the news. “That’s a weapon,” he said, pointing to the newspaper. “I just use it to protect my floor. It’s a weapon in the hands of bad people. Miserable devils. They don’t know beans.” He picked up a long file with a wooden handle. “There’s no equality down here. Some of us are special. Some of us aren’t. Some down here are tougher and smarter than others, some are weaker and less wise. Can’t help it. Can’t help how you’re born. Some down here make better doctors and some are better victims. Some down here are better thinkers. Some down here make better mechanics and better rulers. No one ’round here is a better carpenter than me, but I couldn’t be a good lawyer. Can’t read law. We’re not even equal in our own races, some are at the top and some are at the bottom.” He paused and picked up an oily rag. “I think all the good in the world might have already been done.” Sun Pie talked in a language you couldn’t misunderstand. “Bruce Lee came from a good family and he defeated them all, all the babies, all the greedy criminals, the ones with clawing hands, powerful men but worthless. They couldn’t stand up to Bruce Lee. Their consciences, God help them, were vile and depraved.” Sun Pie was one of the most unique characters, the kind of guy who would be the center of a procession in a parade, or maybe he’d be the nucleus of a mob.
My wife, who had been out on the patio reading her John le Carré book after wandering around in the store, had come back inside and was using an eyebrow pencil over by the window. We didn’t have to communicate at all to know it was time for us to go. Sun Pie knew she was with me and he says, “What are you doing, man? You want to stay for supper or what?” A train whistle blew in the distance and brought me to my senses. There was something pleasurable about hearing it. I said I wasn’t too positive we could do that. Sun