Stutterstep

Prologue

The dreams. They were always there, intertwining with reality. In and out, in and out. Not that he minded. Oh no. He loved them.

Like most dreamers, he was a ship sailing to an unknown port, reality a distant speck on the horizon, a mirage just out of reach. Whatever direction he sailed, he came no closer to what he so desperately sought. His destiny. But unsure where to find it and disheartened by the search, hope died. The future became a never-ending ocean too large to navigate, so he hid in his dreams.

One

August 1976. A Thursday in New Orleans, at dusk . . .

Dubby stood at the base of the levee that keeps the Mississippi River from overflowing into the low delta where the people on the west bank live. Across the fast-moving river lay the French Quarter where the St. Louis Cathedral stood sentry, its spires dominating the skyline in a fashion the newer and taller and antiseptic buildings near Canal Street could not match. Like its sister buildings in the Quarter, the cathedral’s personality is its age.

Dubby looked at the church a long time; then he walked closer to the water, stopping near one of the countless groves of willow trees that line the banks of the muddy river. He scanned the batture before spotting a large oak not more than 15 feet from the water’s edge. At its base, he dug with his hands. When the hole was about a foot deep, he tossed the bundle in, then covered it. Finished, he stood up and noticed how the silhouette of the cathedral glistened in the river. In the shadows a tugboat passed as it doggedly moved toward the mouth of the dark river, and for several minutes he looked across the water to the great city only a few hundred yards away. Slowly he turned and retraced his steps to the top of the levee, anxious to reach home before his three friends arrived.

At 6 foot 1, Dubby is the tallest of the group. He has long black hair combed straight back, blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard. A former athlete beginning to put on weight, he is health conscious to a fault. At 27, he is the oldest of the four and easily the most respectable, the most reliable and the most organized. In fact, organization was born into Dubby. Truth is, if cleanliness is next to godliness, Dubby will certainly be the Big Fellow’s chief custodian in the hereafter. For example, Dubby is one of the few living humans who can wash his hands without allowing so much as a drop of water to splash onto the top of the basin. Ted, who is jealous of this gift, says it is this perfection that makes Dubby such a pain-in-the-ass.

In fairness to Dubby, however, it is his organization that makes him indispensable to the others, especially Rusty, who splashes water on the basin and who is generally a slob. But back to Dubby. He can be relied upon for plans. On Thursdays when ideas for new exciting escapades lack the necessary imaginative depth to sustain the group’s hunger for adventure, it is Dubby who always has an alternate plan ready. And it is at his place that they meet, the group subconsciously admitting that only Dubby will at all times be prepared to accommodate them when someone forgets his booze or runs out – Ted usually forgets; Rusty runs out – for Dubby always has some handy.