Read Online South of Haunted Dreams by Eddy L. Harris - Free Book Online Page A

that the waitress reminds me of someone, a young ballerina I once met in Washington, D.C. I had gone with a friend to fetch her from the airport.
    â€œDid you have a good flight?” I asked her.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    She was about nineteen, about the same age as this waitress, very pretty, and like the waitress, much too polite.
    â€œYou’re from the South, aren’t you?” Even without the accent it was evident.
    â€œYes, sir,” she said. “From Mississippi.”
    I wanted to ask her if in Mississippi they always called black men “sir,” but I preferred to imagine that she had been raised to be polite to all her elders, to call all men “sir,” and to say “yes, ma’am” to all the women. It was nice. But she made me feel old.
    â€œYou don’t have to say ‘yes, sir’ to me,” I told her. “I’m not that old. Okay?”
    â€œYes, sir,” she said.
    The South.
    When I had finished eating, the waitress came and cleared the dishes away.
    â€œDessert?”
    There was nothing on the menu I wanted.
    â€œNo. I’m quite satisfied,” I said. “Unless…”
    â€œYes, sir?”
    A gush of air escaped my nose, a little laugh.
    â€œYou don’t have a coconut pie stashed in the back somewhere, do you?”
    â€œNo, sir. We sure don’t. Sorry.”
    She left the bill. I checked her addition to make sure there wasn’t a mistake. Sure enough, there was.
    I debated, but not long, whether to point it out. The mistake was in my favor.
    When she came back to collect, I pointed out the error.
    â€œIt seems,” I said, “you forgot to add on my salad.”
    â€œSssh,” she whispered. “I didn’t forget. But you looked hungry and real beat. I thought I’d treat you.”
    She smiled. I’m sure I was frowning.
    There is something about unmitigated generosity that brings out the paranoic in me. It is not much different from unprovoked hostility. At some point you sit up, you look around, and you wonder, Why me?
    Was it her, was it me? Was it the full moon? Or something in the air?
    When I finished my lunch, I went back to the square and lay on the grass. The ground in the shade was cool and damp. I put my jacket down, lay on it, used my helmet as an uncomfortable pillow. I lay there looking up, watching the sun shift in the sky, watching the branches part in the slightest breeze and come together again. The bright light sneaked at odd intervals between the gaps in the leaves. Shadows crossed my face. I covered my eyes with my left arm. It wasn’t long before I had fallen asleep.
    I don’t know how long I lay sleeping in that square, but I awoke stiff and not much refreshed. In fact I was just as tired as when I had started the nap, maybe more.
    On the bench near me a man was sitting, watching me. He startled me. I sat up quickly and stretched. He watched me awaken.
    â€œI never like sleeping on the ground,” he said. “I never get comfortable.”
    â€œI don’t like it much either,” I said. “Bugs crawl on you and you start to itch.”
    â€œYeah, that’s it all right. You wouldn’t think something so tiny as an ant could irritate you so. Then you get a blade of grass in your ear and you think it’s a big bug going for your brain or something. The slightest things start to drive you crazy.”
    I laughed.
    â€œExactly,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean. I’m a city fellow; I have to be really tired before I can do it, before I can sleep on the ground.”
    We laughed together, old friends already, sharing something as simple as itching and scratching.
    â€œThen you must have been mighty tired,” he said. “The way you were snoring.”
    I giggled, put my finger to my chest and put on that Who, me? expression. He nodded.
    â€œI guess I was.”
    He was funny the way he just sat there.
    I stood up