Saved at
Last
.
Yesterday, the
Department court ordered that the body of one, Gaston Thibeaux, be
exhumed from
its grave, illegally dug at the bottom of the levee near the curve in
the
river, and reinterred in hallowed ground. Catholic by birth, and as
tradition
has it, an altar boy along with his brothers, Frederic and Darceney,
when
Gaston finally came of age and took his place in society his manias and
behavior had changed – for him the better, for us the worse; but then
that
really depends on who you are. Pimp, thief, pirate, card shark,
burglar,
bigamist, impresario, embezzler or murderer, these were the stages he
passed
through and ever returned to.
With poor parents who
eked out a living insufficient to feed and house their three sons in
clean
surroundings, despite their rundown neighborhoods, and schooling an
eccentric
affair at best, Gaston did what he could get away with whenever the
chance
arose and whenever he made that chance his own.
Quick to seize on new
possibilities, whether of female flesh or the green that spells
“dollars,”
Gaston prospered or seemed to. The latter distinction he earned by his
wiles,
yes, but also by his talent in masking; quite simply, expressing
virtues he did
not in fact possess or believe in. Appearance being the arbiter of
taste and success in business, Gaston’s business, however that
might
turn, rarely let him down.
Within or outside of
the law, his projects gained the kind of prosperity that he could
indulge in.
With lavish parties thrown for friends, sailings into the Gulf of
Mexico on his
yacht, which at 46 feet was just long enough and antique enough to
envy,
especially by those he had yet to invite, his social standing rose,
placing him
squarely in harm’s way. Make no mistake, money and prestige – which he
adored,
however they came – did offer shelter from the storms that blew through
the
city, social and natural.
From his girls he had
gathered a bank roll that opened uptown doors and poker stakes, and all
their
cigar and gin-mixed winnings. Add in what he stole from different safe
deposit
boxes, whose entrance codes he filched, and there you have it. Exactly
how he
got the codes was not something he ever revealed. As a gentleman,
though, who
appreciated irony, he always replaced what he took with counterfeits so
poorly
rendered that their falsity was clear. No one could say that he left
those
boxes empty of the bonds they formerly held; however unusable they
were.
From the real bonds,
of course, money flowed as the city grew, soggy plains on which to
build small
plantations as quick collateral against potential losses. Then there
were the
several men and women he killed by bullet and blade, a necessary
consequence to
protecting his stash.
And this went on for
quite a while until complaints from gilded families, patchworked though
they
were, hit pay dirt with the mayor, gearing up for another election. No
matter
that Gaston had played them all, mayor included, and did it so well
that they
enjoyed losing -- a rare conclusion to a
finely tuned game. But then Gaston was a pro in the art of the sham, a
cheat in
whose refinements his victims found their pleasure. Avarice was one
thing; the
fun of winning another, and yet another the despair found in losing,
which
Gaston also used to keep the entire affair from crashing too soon. He’d
have a
winning streak, lose some then win again – without fail.
When the police finally
arrested Gaston, he went to jail willingly. He knew he’d come out on
top
however his trial went. He’d blast his way out of the courtroom if it
came to
it – easy enough in those days – then vanish among the islands, large
and
small, that stretched out from the coast for a final getaway south.
Of course, the police
caught a minority on their run to Venezuela or Columbia, where
extradition
treaties did not exist. But the majority were rarely heard from again.
The
living they bought from their new country, if similar to what they
fled,
offered richer amusements. Led by endless supplies of sexual mates,
heterosexual, homosexual, young, old, fat skinny, willing or unwilling,
the
latter the better to violate, the former impassioned enough and free
enough
with their passion to violate them – premiere inducements – vied with
power
hungry avatars set to consume their holdings the moment they could. The
two
groups kept them sharp enough to savor an ebullience they sometimes
shared.
Gaston, not having the
heart to follow along blindly, prizing above all his sense of self, the
luxury
he deserved by way of it, and gaining in excess what he needed to feed
his
desires, out lasted them all.
When in his late 80s
he keeled over and died one hot, humid July afternoon, the city
devolved to a
potent mix of sweat and bitters, Gaston had not a cent to his name.
A year earlier his
gambling debts, which were themselves quite enormous, and a stock
market crash,
flattened his accounts. When he lost his several mansions and the
acreage he
had accumulated in different high-stakes crap games, that was that.
Having
enough in surplus to pay what he owed, and save something of the
respect that
others gave him, he thereafter lived on the largess of friends, who
found to
their delight that they could give as well as take, not having suffered
too
much from this or that scheme that Gaston thrived on.
As a corpse, Gaston’s
escapades, once a magnet for conversation after the usual diatribes
about race
and patrimony, faded off quickly. Laid there in the city
morgue,
just another slab of meat, it was time to forget him. Nonetheless, in
deference
to his wit and joie du vivre, those same friends who had come to his
aid when
he needed it, decided to save him from the crematorium. They took his
body by
stealth, dug a shallow grave at the base of the levee, rolled him into
it, and
covered him with enough dirt to keep the vultures, dogs, and other
scavengers
at bay.
Then the late summer
floods came and swept away the dirt above him; his right foot jutting
up from
the mud with just a bit of flesh hanging from the metatarsals -- a
mangey
blossom from a former time when Gaston called the shots.
Are we any the worse
for playing along with Gaston as he wove his cunning webs, which we
weave as we
can – taking his amusements for our own – however wealthy or poor we
are, with
those we love or hate or, more simply, live with, fearing the solitude
of
living alone?
I think not.
Although Gaston did
not in the end field a foolproof magic, in terms of morality or
conduct, the
grandiloquence with which he did it drew admirers and antagonists both,
as much
to drink from it as to magnify their own or lack thereof; his
narcissism
elevating theirs, his vanity a perfect excuse to try their luck at.
What could be better
in this world of feints and shudders that makes us bleed, and in
bleeding bleed
to death?
You first.