The Tragic Flaw (25 page)

Cicero soon finishes his drink and drops three-hundred dollars for his meal and departs from the Quarter's upper-middle-class eatery.

Choosing not to partake in the night's revelry, Cicero returns to his accommodations at the Ritz-Carlton, strolling past pagans and idolaters, rummies and unofficial women of the night.

Once in his room, Cicero hangs his suit jacket in the cedar closet and slides over to the spacious parlor with the cushiony soft armchair adjacent to the bed. He rests his elbows on his thighs and leans forward, placing his face in his brown hands, ignoring the sight of the suite's fantastically high ceilings.

Muffled shouting creeps from outside into his room, as does the lunar gleam. The Cuban and Jamaican housekeepers were able to turn down the room and replace the linens and the fifteen-dollar tube of toothpaste from the mini bar.

The Ritz-Carlton's signature scent entertains his nostrils. And he gently leans back into the plush chair and closes his eyes, folding his arms against his chest.

Without words or further actions, Cicero slips into a deep sleep.

 

The sun is amazingly brilliant by the poolside. Cicero dons only swimming trunks as he reclines on a long chair made entirely of mint-green and off-white plastic straps. His skin is darker than usual, a golden tan.

Joining him are an unidentified man and woman. They appear to be a couple. They enjoy similar dark-red drinks with similar canary-yellow paper umbrellas. Smiles never once leave their faces.

The blue pool waters swoosh back and forth due to a steady breeze. Palm trees tower in the distance above the ranch-style home where the threesome are enjoying their day.

“This is the life,” Cicero thinks out loud with his eyes shut.

But just as he does, the day's breeze turns cooler and large clouds sweep into the sky. Strangely, two clouds appear to clash. Like titanic feather-stuffed pillows, bumpy and rough to the eye, they bounce off each other with mammoth softness.

Cicero stares up at the collisions of the gentle giants as does the couple next to him. There are no other clouds in the sky except these two, and yet they manage to collide, like two rams butting heads.

The clouds are stationary against the breeze, and each time they softly collide, they recoil, then collide again. It's an extraordinary sight.

“Do you guys see this?” Cicero asks the couple, as he looks to the heavens.

“Yea. It's weird. These clouds are right above us just bumping into each other,” the man says. “I've never seen anything like this.”

He too is tan, but much thinner than Cicero is.

But the rarity of clouds fighting soon takes a backseat, when the cloud in the west is apparently defeated and begins to fall to the Earth.

“Oh shit,” Cicero gasps.

The thick silvery gaseous mass plummets to the Earth with extreme velocity. It's nearly a mile in length and about half a mile wide, and it appears to weigh immeasurable tons.

Cicero jumps up from his outdoor recliner as the falling titan gets closer and closer to smothering everyone in this part of the unnamed West Coast city.

Without giving them a chance to escape, the enormous cloud lands on Cicero and the sunbathing couple. Not incredibly heavy, the cloud has the weight of a king-sized mattress, but it is suffocating them.

Cicero struggles for air from under the vast cottony structure. He and the couple scratch and claw for each breath. It completely surrounds them.

Then, unexpectedly, the cloud splits and breaks in half, right over the pool. It splits, freeing all three of them from its stifling confines.

They gather themselves and stand to their feet, only to find an angel child sleeping comfortably on her belly inside the cloud.

Tiny white wings protrude from the small chubby back of a baby, whose head is down, corralled in her own arms.

“Oh my God, this can't be real,” utters Cicero in shock and panic. The angel child wears a lavender linen cloth wrapped around its waist and midsection. The man and the woman gawk in awe.

“I can't believe this. That can't be an angel,” the woman says. Without warning, the man reaches into the broken cloud and retrieves the angelic babe, who stirs at his touch.

He pulls the female child out. She appears to be around two years old. The man quickly sits down on the patio chair and as he does, the angelic child opens her eyes.

Her skin is the color of bronze, and her hair is a silky bright blonde. Her eyes are a radiant royal-blue, and she smiles at them.

The woman stares at the beautiful angel child and is struck by the facial similarities between the babe and Cicero. Then it hits her.

“This child is an angel, Cicero,” the woman exclaims. “This child is your daughter.”

Cicero is stunned and yet, an uncommon emotion he's never felt overcomes him. He feels blessed.

 

And then he awakens, still fully dressed, lying in the armchair with his black ensemble and Italian loafers on.

“What the fuck did that mean?” Cicero rhetorically questions his dream. “That shit was crazy.”

The intrusive morning sheds natural light on the suite's exquisite interior. Awakened and stirred from his dream, Cicero stands up and stretches his arms and legs.

“Fuck,” he grumbles, scratching his crotch and yawning, looking scruffier than ever. He unbuttons his black shirt and tosses it on the still-made bed and grabs a lemon-yellow short-sleeved sweater from his suitcase.

A sweeping second hand politely passes earth-made treasures on his platinum watch. It's a little after six a.m. Many of last night's partiers are still in the streets, just now making their way to hotel rooms and friend's floors.

Cicero peeks out the window of his corner suite.

“Look at these idiots,” he states. He then slides away from the window toward the marble restroom where he thoroughly brushes his teeth in a rapid vertical motion. Water fills the basin as he spits, rinses, then repeats.

Once his teeth are polished, Cicero changes his pants, socks, and shoes, opting for a more casual look with his gator boots. He picks his room key up from off the nightstand and begins to head for the door when his cell phone rings, playing a familiar rap tune. He quickly grabs it from his hip.

“What's up, dog? Why you awake so early?”

Hip-hop blazes from the other end as the caller begins to cough profusely.

“A, man, that bitch is tryin' to leave town with our shit,” Kameron says in a low, raspy, weed-affected voice.

Cicero feels his heart pounding in his chest, and he is speechless. He knew he'd made a mistake.

Kameron laughs. It is a chuckle of disappointment.

“So how did she get it anyway? What's up with Mr. Micheaux?”

Cicero is silent, and Kam recognizes the meaning.

“Oh yea? Like that? Oh well, fuck him,” he says from the other end. “Anyway, that bitch is running her mouth about bouncing to Atlanta, dude. I guess she tried the shit and fell in love with it,” Kameron says with a giggle, before inhaling a mouthful of cannabis smoke. “Yea, cuz, runnin' her mouth. What you want to do?”

Kameron marinates on his futon, staring blankly at his massive Samurai portrait, smoking his breakfast.

Cicero turns cold.

“Man, I'll be there Wednesday evening. Don't tell anybody I'm flying in. Keep an eye on ole girl, but I want to look her in the eyes before she tastes eternity. That's real talk.”

Kameron smiles. His eyes are narrow and tight.

“That's what I'm talkin' about. Not a problem. See you then, dude. Be safe down there, cuz.”

The call ends. Cicero stares at his cell phone momentarily, then returns it to his waistline. He makes his way to the elevator and down to the lobby, passing the gargantuan floral arrangement on his way out of the hotel.

The stench of piss and vomit persists on the warm February day, as C walks deeper into the Quarter in search of breakfast. Groups of twos and threes help each other stay upright in a fight against firewater and ale. While walking up Canal Street, Cicero happens upon a young college kid intoxicated beyond all U.S. legal limits, passed out facedown on the filthy curb. Digested chunks of corn cling to the side of his mouth and slowly ooze down his chin.

He's wearing a University of Southwest Louisiana sweatshirt. His sandy-brown hair is dirty and messy. Cicero gazes at him with a frown, then he chuckles.

“Damn. Better you than me though.”

Right at that moment, a stray mutt scampers up and begins to sniff the kid's ass, which is partially exposed by his sagging Eddie Bauer khakis.

Cicero continues to walk, looking back at the kid and his new companion, when he bursts into laughter.

“Life is fucking stupid,” he says, smiling nearly ear to ear.

Once on Bourbon Street, the smell of French toast enters the aromatic battle with urine and liquor. The mixture is strange and almost sickening to a starving Cicero, but he presses on to find the location of the more attractive scent.

A few couples sit outside at a sidewalk café. Tiny wood tables and chairs match the oak brown windowpanes divided into sixes. Soft canary-yellow siding contrasts with the traditional colors of the Quarter. Cicero eyes the couples enjoying crepes and fresh strawberries and carafes of orange juice and decides that's where he needs to be.

He crosses the street, stepping over broken purple, gold, and green beads, empty white paper cups, and numerous leaflets in reds and blues announcing everything from parties downtown to church services in Lake Charles.

The café is quaint and alive with the chatter of the ornery. Cicero slides in and seats himself at a small round table, quickly grabbing the thin menu stuck between the salt and pepper shakers. One yellow rose sprouts from a tiny white porcelain teacup at the center of his table.

He gazes at the simple menu, then peeks briefly over the top at the rose, noticing it hasn't been dethorned. He ignores it and sighs, returning the menu back to its space between the salt and pepper.

The waitress then sluggishly ambles over, trying to smile and not appear as if she was out until just one hour ago, which she was.

“Good mornin'. Can I get you a drink?”

Her hair is pulled back in a rough and hurried bun. Her blue eyes are thick and puffy.

“Yea, water with lemon. And I'll have the French toast.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

“All right. It'll be right up.”

“Thank you.”

Cicero sits scanning the few other tables and persons seated at the sidewalk café. He thinks for a second about Lana but decides not to ponder the situation, which would only enrage him. Old beer and puke stink the atmosphere of the Quarter, as trampled doubloons lie crushed and even more worthless on the black asphalt. Other favors of amber plastic and gold paper, inscribed with various krewes' insignias, and names, add to the waste in the street.

On this Lundi Gras morning, a Kansas City native assesses eating food at a modest restaurant in New Orleans, Louisiana.

“Here's your water. Your French toast is almost ready,” the waitress says.

“Thank you.”

Cicero takes a sip of water and sees his tired waitress has forgotten his lemon.

“Of course,” he grumbles. But he's not in the mood to bring it up, so he sips more water, while a shouting match intensifies over his right shoulder.

Upon their table rests a circular cake of purple, green, and gold. “Look, if you want to fuck the bitch, then just fuck her,” a woman with straightened hair screams. It's dyed the color of a bright California Merlot, and her nose, eyebrows, and lips are pierced with rings of silver and studs of twenty-four-carat gold.

“Man, why are you wiggin' out? You said it was cool, like, fucking five months ago,” her companion states. His arms bulge out from under a semi-small T-shirt, yet he is portly and fairly unattractive. Thick black-rimmed spectacles sit on his face, inching down his thin nose.

“Fuck off! I bet you guys fucked the other day when I passed out on the couch,” she says, again screaming and attracting the stares of other groups and individuals at the outdoor eatery.

The stocky man frowns, as his left hand begins to fiddle with a fork. It wiggles rapidly between his index and middle fingers as his face shows he's becoming more and more agitated each second she scowls at him.

“I didn't say that shit when you fucked my brother,” he loudly retorts.

“Damn,” Cicero says to himself in a low voice.

The woman appears shocked. Her lips, with their dark-blue lipstick, open ever so slightly. A ring in the middle of her bottom lip begins to quiver.

“What? What are you talking about? I never slept with—”

“Shut the fuck up! You're such a fucking liar. You fucking whore!”

Suddenly, the man jumps up and jabs his fork into her collar, causing the restaurant's patrons to gasp and causing her to yelp in pain. Blood flies from her thin body.