Lew Watts
Arrière-Pensée
Everyone seems impressed that I’m spending Memorial Day at the eastern division’s crawfish boil. But the real reason I’ve driven the four hours from Houston is to fire Boudreau, the base manager. We’ve never met; I only know what he looks like, and that he’s been thieving for years. All the previous directors knew—they just didn’t do anything about it. I’m going to fix that. Thieving is bad enough, but now I’m also mad that he’s keeping us waiting. “He always arrives last,” his assistant, Josie, says as she drips sweat into a large cauldron.
somethin’ stirring
deep in the gris gris sauce
Scotch bonnets
A black Ford Raptor plastered in NRA stickers finally pulls into the compound. Two chigger-bitten legs emerge from the cab and drop to the ground, followed by a large belly. Boudreau sees me straight away—he knows what I look like, too—but takes his time, back-slapping a meandering path between the tables before standing, arms folded, before me.
“What do you shoot?” I ask, in search of something to say.
He looks me in the eye, dead-on. “Anything with a face.”
the lump
in his pocket. . .
laissez le bon temps rouler
About the Author
Lew Watts is the author of the poetry collections Lessons for Tangueros and Tick-Tock, and the novel Marcel Malone. He lives in Chicago.
This is haibun as short story at its best, Lew. Narrative tension, character and scene all work together so well. And I really like the open ending too… there’s a hint of Hemingway here for me.