E.A.P.
The dark oak antique clock on the mantle struck twelve. It was now the year 1910.
A whole decade gone, Jim thought.
The small damp living quarters where he sat was silent. He was alone this night. The living room was a lonely place; New Orleans was a lonely place. And in this dark, drab shack of a dwelling is where Jim Foster, the once great vaudeville actor, celebrated the New Year.
A small wooden box adorned with ivory engravings depicting a valiant cavalry charge sat to his right on a small end table. The end table was beginning to rot from the humidity of the city, but Jim took no notice to this whereas before his “vacation” he would have thrown out the table and bought a new one the same day. A half empty decanter of Bourbon dangled from his bony hand. He looked straight ahead from his seated position out onto the veranda where he could hear the far off blasts of a jazz marching band, hooting and dancing around the Quarter. His thoughts then drifted elsewhere…to her.
She was the light of his life, the spark in his career. But she had left him high and dry because she had found another man while he was…away. She took Caroline as well, the one ray of hope in his dreary existence. Caroline was only six, a small gentle creature to say the least. But he knew she would grow up strong and have all the things that Jim could never have gotten her.
He remembered her shiny blonde curls, twisting their way down her back like beautiful snakes. He remembered the time they walked through the French Quarter, admiring the church garden. She asked him all sorts of questions, and he gladly answered everyone.
“What kind of flower is that, daddy?”
“That’s the Magnolia, dear.”
“What kind of bird is that, daddy?”
“That is the thrasher, my child.”
Caroline enjoyed the outings with her father, and he in turn loved to talk and teach her about everything in the world around them. She was a willing student, and his grandiose approach to every detail only encapsulated her attention, making her yearn for more descriptions of the lovely plants and animals. He was an actor anyways, with a tremendous ego and short temper, and to astonish the precious little girl with his sense of theater every time was something he took great pride in. He loved to wow the crowd.
He sat up quickly from his chair and walked to the bookshelf where the Bourbon was kept. The parole board had given him a small shelter for his rehabilitation, but he hated this place. How can a great actor like me be here, in this hell? He thought.
After pouring the Bourbon he took a swig and then sat back down. He ran his fingers over his clean-shaven head, a head that once had a fine mane of long brown hair. On his first day in prison he had to shave everything off, as it was the rules. The hair went to make wigs and such for the rich, a class that Jim was once apart of.
He peered at the ivory box and then quickly looked away. It was a terrible thing he did, and he paid a fine price for his temper. His beautiful wife and child; gone. His once great career; gone. All he had left was his thoughts. The tuba and trumpet music outside grew louder, and Jim could make out the tops of the instruments, making their way down the street, heading toward the wharf. They were right outside, strolling happily down the cobblestones, jumping and singing with joy for the brand new year. The music was loud, loud enough to drown out anything at that particular moment.
Jim opened the ivory box and removed the small pistol inside. He took a deep breath, and in one swift motion he loaded a single shell into the chamber and placed the muzzle to his temple. The silence of the room shattered, blending in with the outside noise of the musicians. The gun fell to the floor.
The clock struck one.
