15) End of the Beginning

Gorilla B. is at my front door with a few lbs. of black calle buds, has even packed it in a businessman’s suitcase, says, “Here’s a present to take to The States for heat in that icy North Dakota & do not worry about customs – they’ll let you in.”
So we party all night & deep on toward morning, a lot of the district circling through, no cracked up sex, just pot smoking, beer drinking, dancing, lingering, farewell.
“Gorilla B.,” I think, “I have no treasure for you,” so this morning, I give what’s left of the herb to Kristi-blue-eyes, say, “Bring some to May Lee & F.M., O.K.?”
“Sure thing,” she promises.
& I don’t know shit about trusting others, but this woman’s promises are made to be kept, never to deceive, & the uniform coming toward me at the New Orleans Airport has a nasty secret in the pit of his eye. Says in a voice that seems too loud, “Mr. Brown?”
I say, “Yeah.”
He says, “Please, sir, follow me.”
So I do, feeling extremely glad I’d left that suitcase with Kristina. Uniform marches me beyond the x-ray & asks to see my passport. Meanwhile, every other passenger from my flight is having baggage searched, purses & pockets searched, attitudes searched. They are even looking inside people’s hats. I almost blurt out, “I know what you’re looking for, but I already got rid of it ‘cuz I’m no Limey-fucking-Neil!”
Uniform briefly glances at my photograph, says, “Thank you very much, Mr. Brown, sir. Your connecting flight to Minneapolis departs from gate 7 in 25 minutes. Follow me, sir. I will escort you there.”
& he does. Then, he walks quietly away.
Two weeks later, F.M.-rubber calls & Mary Beth answers. I’m just standing, listening, throat a-grip like I’m catching the flu right now. They laugh & chitty-chat & say they miss each other, “Oh, the kids are great. I’m glad to have John back home. How are you all? What’ve you been up to? No, the snow’s all melted.”
I’m without air now, waiting for disaster to occur, but it does not. Ten minutes of howdy-hi-girls & Mary Beth hands me the phone, pleased to have had a little Belize memory.
F.M.-rubber-clubber-nubber needs $800 to get Corrina-slap-slap-lost-&-found across the border in El Paso. Says Kristi went & found her with help from Gorilla, but Gorilla doesn’t know that he helped her.
& I don’t know shit about immigration, but I put it on a credit card, tell her, “Bring Corrina-povertina over.”
“O, Mistah-Fuckah-sweet-boy. May Lee say hi & come home soon. We love you. We ready!” & that’s when she tells me that Gorilla B. is at Marlin’s Side Street Bar with a patio built above Haulover River when he hears the joke of how I outsmarted myself with his customs man at the airport in Louisiana.
According to F.M.-rubber, Gorilla B. laughs so hard the whole deck is shaking, just keeps shrieking, “...donkey Fu-ckah!...donkey Fu-ckah!...” & he’s pounding his fist through coughing fits, shatters the glass table-top. His chair capsizes, pitches him into May-Lee-bye-bye, & Bye-bye, all flailing,
beer still in hand, explodes through the railing, flies backwards off the ledge, her shoes now birds a-wing, still trying to guzzle the beer as she falls.
“When she body hit that river, Mistah Fuckah, it throw up one, crazy girl splash!”
& I don’t know shit about families, but the last thing F.M.-birdie-chirp tells me is, “May Lee, me cousin.”
“What?”
“Sue Sue, too.”
“Sue Sue?”
“& Patricia & Lizzy.”
I’m stunned, need to take the rest of this no-Mary-Beth-ears conversation out to the backyard.
“Everybody?”
“No, Debbie, me sister.”
“Sister?” I cry. “So, what about Kristi?”
“Kristi me niece.”
“Niece? F.M., you’re two years younger than Kristi!”
F.M.-rub-rub, loudly twittering now, replies, “Welcome to Belize, Mistah Fuckah. Gorrila B. is me & Debbie’s nephew.” Cheep, cheep, cheep.