Iko Iko [part iii]

Continued from part ii.

There's no commonsensical reason whatever that I should, at my age, be struck with teenage shyness at the prospect of telephoning a boy, and so I only hesitated a nanosecond before calling Kapp. He's lived in San Jose for six years. Surely if we're to expect rioting on Tuesday night, he would know, and would not have made plans to walk a mile across downtown with only a tall redhead for protection.

The phone rang twice and the answering machine picked up. I heard the opening chords of Public Image and the gravelly voice of John Lydon singing "Hello, hello," and then Kapp picked up the phone and said, "Hello?"

"Is Keith Levene there?" I asked.

Kapp burst out laughing. "You're only the second person ever to get that," he said.

"Clearly you don't have enough musical snobs for friends," I said, and I wished he could meet Ken Clean-Air System. "So, I'm here at my neighbour's, and I mentioned to her that I was planning to go to the Poor House on Tuesday, and she kinda freaked out on me. She seems to believe that there will be a riot and that my life will be in danger if I venture out into the streets."

"Aw, I was hoping to surprise you," Kapp said.

"You mean it's true?" I asked.

"Well, I wouldn't use the word riot, but yes, it's true," he admitted.

"This is San Jose, right? Big suburb that has delusions of being a city? Inferiority complex because there's a real city just up the road? California cuisine, whatever the fuck that means, taquerias, Mexicans, and flip-flop wearing blondes? Did I miss an exit somewhere? We're talking about Mardi Gras, not Cinquo de Mayo!" Kapp grew up in Michigan and spent most of his adult years in Austin, Texas, so it's OK for me to make fun of Californians with him.

"It's like this," Kapp explained, "About four years ago a bunch of the bars on Second Street got together and advertised a Mardi Gras party. It was very successful. Too successful. It got a little out of hand, so they never did it again, but for whatever reason the gang bangers have adopted it as hoodlums night out, and the city has been trying ever since to stop it, but they can't."

"Gosh I'm so happy I moved here," I said. "So do you still want to go out on Tuesday?"

"Oh yeah, it'll be fun!" Kapp said. "Don't worry, we'll go early and I'll have you home by nine."

"I'm sure my neighbour is comforted by the knowledge that I'll be protected by a libarian," I said, more to Nadine, who was listening to the conversation, than to Kapp. I'm not easily frightened, and I had no intention of backing out of our non-date, but I could tell by the pallor of Nadine's face that she thought I was insane.

On Tuesday morning I cut through the library on my way to the university, and nearly tripped over an enormous sign standing in the middle of the foyer, announcing that the parking garage would be closing at 9:00 that night. When I arrived in my office there was an email from Kapp suggesting we meet at 5:00. I replied see you then, and I'll be wearing my biker jacket, just in case.

As we walked along San Fernando in the direction of the Poor House later that afternoon, the police were already out in full force, and just beginning to set up barricades on the cross-streets. Nadine had told me to be sure to get home early, and to carry my I.D., because the police won't let people through on the roads, even if they live there. I've known her for two months now and she still doesn't remember that I don't have a car here. There was no sign of hoodlums.

"They don't show up until about 11:00," said Kapp. "And they come straight down here to Second Street. They don't even know about the Poor House, so we're not likely to run into any trouble."

"And if we do? You're packing, right?"

Kapp is about an inch shorter than me. Not what I'd call short, man-wise, being freakishly tall myself, but he's not an especially big guy. He's Scandinavian blond, with floppy hair in need of a trim, and he's wearing khakis and a non-descript light jacket. Mild-mannered in appearance, like, well, like the librarian that he is. But he's armed with sharp wit, so if we do run into any hooligans I'm quite sure he'll have them crying for their mommies in a few sentences.

If they don't kill us first, that is.

The Poor House Bistro was jam-packed and bopping with authentic Mardi Grasers. We lucked into the last high table near the bar, and the band was about ready to start. The singer was a hep cat with a short, pointy beard, wearing a beret who reminded me of a character in that episode of The Flintstones where Fred becomes a pop star named Hi-Fye.

There were beads galore, and I added to my collection from the bartender's stash. He liked the fact that Kapp and I ordered the New Orleans beer (called voodoo-something) and that we ordered it in quantity. I believe in the when-in-Rome philosophy of eating, drinking, and partying and one of the reasons I like Kapp is that he does, too. Several of the patrons that night were wearing the kind of beads you can only get in New Orleans; the ones that light up, and are the size of Christmas tree ornaments. At the table next to us were three middle-aged couples, the women all wearing feather masks and full-length sequined gowns in peacock blue, purple, and emerald green.

It was a great party.

At 9:00 on the dot Kapp said, "It's time to go." The streets near the Poor House were quiet, but as we approached Second Street we could hear, then see, roving packs of drunken, loud teenagers in hip-hop gear straight from the 'hood.

"They don't even know what Mardi Gras is, do they?" I asked.

"They don't have a fucking clue," Kapp confirmed. Then he said, "The next bus isn't for about twenty minutes. We've got time for one more beer at The Loft."

I like the way he thinks, but when we arrived at The Loft it was closed. Six big guys stood in a row in front of the windows, with their arms crossed. "We had our windows broken last year," one of them explained to us.

I did a quick mental calculation of the cost to replace the windows, weighed that against the cost of lost business on a night when the place would have been full, and marvelled again at the city that I now call home. I've never missed Toronto more.

"I've got a couple of beers at my place," I said. I led Kapp back the way we'd come to South Street, and the back entrance of my apartment building. He admired the courtyard which was, thankfully, deserted.

Upstairs, I opened my last two Beck's and offered one to Kapp. He was crouched on the floor, rubbing Pinky's head.

"What a great cat," Kapp said.

"I know. He really is," I agreed. "These are my last two beers. If you miss the bus all I've got after this is single malt."

"I should make it," Kapp said. "I've been riding that bus for years now; I know how to catch the one that I need. And there's one more after this, at 10:30, but it's the last one for the night."

We drank our beers and played with the cat. Kapp admired the built-in entertainment centre in my livingroom, the cabinets that house my record collection, and I knew that as a fellow music aficionado he'd want to look at them, but there wasn't time. In a few minutes he said, "I'd better get going."

I walked him to the elevator and pointed him to the front entrance, which would put him closer to Park Street and his bus, said goodnight, then walked back to my apartment door.

I stepped inside and there was Pinky, sniffing Kapp's bag, which sat on the floor.

To be concluded in part iv.