Toulouse Red on the Tracks

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Those were the carefree hippy days. Before the chase began. Before the scooter trips through the French Quarter at all hours of the day and night. The absinthe bottles. Henri tied to the tracks as the Amtrak Superliner approached. (It stopped before reaching him and reversed course, a giant blue and white killer whale, rejecting the prey for being too small.)

Those were the days when Toulouse Red looked wistfully into the distance, imagining what might be, what had been, and what was to come in days ahead. Of course she couldn’t know in advance about the furious Red Tape Assault on Henri, the twisted turns of bureaucracy, the likes of which make Kafka humdrum. During such trials, time advances like Louisiana molasses flowing uphill. (As if there were a hill in New Orleans, but I digress.)

Those were the days of infinite patience, carefully laid plans, and bigger things to come.

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