Human Spines

Dumaine and Chartres-I

Emmeline

        He's sitting on top of a rusty black trashcan on the corner of Dumaine and Chartres. I've been watching him for twenty minutes. I've never seen him before, but that's not exactly surprising. I've only been in New Orleans for four days. I've only been conscious for two of them.

        Dozens of musicians play all down the streets. Solo guitar strummers, paired violinists, whole bands with singers and drum sets, and even a parade of horns marches joyfully down the street. But I've only stopped for this one.

        He rocks back and forth, consumed by his own melody. His black, beat-up accordion rests on his leg as he bends over it, watching his fingers dance about the keys and all but forgetting his other hand shuffling away at the buttons. He's precise and rhythmic.

        He's also rather filthy. A layer of dirt coats his face and clothing. A beautiful maroon hat with a black and gray feather that droops down on one side covers his head, but it's not enough to contain his dark blond mess of hair. It just touches his shoulders in thin, free-formed dreadlocks. His legs swing back and forth, and his dark brown boots, two sizes too big, are laced overly tight so they won't fall off. His black jeans are rolled up to the tops of his boots. I can see gray timeworn sleeves that try to fall past his fingers. He is mesmerizing.

        The gothic tune he's playing ends, but he doesn't lift his head. He hasn't looked up since I leaned on the pole across from him to watch. I want him to look up. I want to see his face. I want to see if he would believe me. But first I need to make him look at me.

        I dig in my backpack, looking for something, anything, to get his attention. My hands pass a water bottle, a hair band, a toothbrush... and a wallet! Approaching the boy, I toss two ten dollar bills into the accordion case at his feet. But I seem to be the only one to give him a tip. Nobody around us has even noticed him. The only thing in his case is an old tan coat. Something's not right.

        I'm inching away when he finally looks up. Brilliant blue eyes smile at me. Dusty pink lips curl upward as he whispers a thank you. Gentle cheekbones and a slightly pointed jaw. He can't be older than sixteen, yet he's here in the middle of the French Quarter, alone, trying to make money. There's something off about him. Like he isn't supposed to exist, a glitch only I can see. His wide eyes are waiting, fingers idle over the keys. I'm going to tell him.

        "There's a Demon down the street that's been stealing from me every day at lunch time. It's going to do it again in a few minutes. You probably can't see it though, and you won't even notice what it does, but it'll happen. I hope you believe me, but if you can't it's okay. Well actually it's not okay, but you can just ignore me if you can't understand. Thank you for listening." I smile politely, trying to look as sane as possible by swiping the hair away from my face, maintaining eye contact, and keeping my feet still.

        He's silent, watching me, tilting his head. Finally he speaks, his voice kind. "How old are you?"

        My jaw clenches at the question. It's always the same one. I keep my voice calm as I recite my answer, "I'm fifteen years old, but I've only been alive for seven years."

        His expression stays light, and I'm not sure if he understands what I said, but his voice is utterly serious as he responds.

        "Do you need help?"

        My lungs swell, amazed at the genuine concern in his voice. Not in four years has anyone ever thought I was serious. Not in six has anyone asked if I needed help. I wish I could take this moment to tell him how much his question means to me, but I can hear the Demon now. Its breathing crackles like popping joints, its feet are two mutated ice skates, the steely blades grinding up the cement beneath it. It cuts gracelessly through the street, surging closer.

        I whip my thoughts back to the accordion boy. "Yes." I swallow, answering his question. "The thief's almost here. It'll want to get food but I'm gonna need you to say I promised to have lunch with you and then I'm gonna need you to follow me and ask as many personal questions as possible but try to not give away any of your own information because I don't know if it can use your words against you." My eyes can't help but flash toward the rapidly approaching Demon. "I only know that I've never had any consequences of it physically harmi—"

        I've had this moment planned out in my head for years. But I can't get the words out fast enough.

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