Orleanas and Roam

ORLEANAS AND ROAM/David Booth IT FEELS RIGHT naming people for what they are—brigands, some of them, pussies, most of them—even though I sometimes get my ass whipped for naming people after things when I don't quite know what they are. Johnjohn is my best friend. I say to Johnjohn's mom what a dildo-nose she is, and the next thing I know Pa's come and got me and is pretending to be nice in front ofJohnjohn and his mom before taking me home and whipping my ass. Dildo, it turns out, is a bad word, but I swear to god I thought it was a kind of prehistoric bird. When Pa grounds me I go to Mama and say, Mama, I thought Td go outside today, but she's on to me and says, Tell me a story instead. I tell her, No, Mama, I need to go outside. I'll tell a story later—at supper with my father and my sister. She says, You mean my husband and my daughter? You may go outdoors only after you've told me a story. I don't have one today, I say. She says, Impossible. Possible, Mama, and true. She says, What are you thinking about right now? And I get to thinking about a hero who will do what I need him to do—help me get outdoors. I tell her I have a new kind of hero, and she says, I knew you had a story, but please, Son, not another hero. Tell me a true story, one about yourself. I say I don't have a story about myself, which gives her her worried look. There's no need to worry, I tell her, and she gives in and asks, What's the hero's name? Sidney, I say. And what does Sidney have to do with you? She is let down when I say nothing. So what's so special about Sidney? she has the guts to say. I give her the scoop because she's my mama and because I want to go outdoors. He's notjust plain old Sidney, that's for sure. He's Sir Sidney Swordnose because his nose is so razor sharp he keeps it in his scabbard , unless of course he needs it to cut up brigands. Yesterday you were a brigand, Mama points out, and now you have a hero who would cut one up. I wasn't a brigand, I explain to her, but an undercover brigand, and she says, That makes perfect sense. This Sir Sidney, she doesn't know about him, so I tell her. For starters, he's known for fancy footwork. He lives in the snow and in the trees. He is a tree when he needs to be, but mostly a swashbuckler, more 110 · The Missouri Review expert at ambushing and slicing with his nose than any swashbuckler with a regular old sword. How charming, says Mama. You see, I tell her, Sir Sidney can't speak or sing or hardly breathe in peacetime because his scabbard clogs his nostrils, but he has to wear it all the time so that he doesn't accidentally cut a friend. Sir Sidney can't talk or sing? asks Mama. Not without cutting a friend, I repeat. He could talk and sing in war, but who has time for talking and singing when there's fighting to do? Besides, it's pax romana in the Land of Sneed, where Sir Sidney Swordnose comes from, so he hasn't said a word in two hundred years, and he hasn't killed anybody. And the moral of the story is? Mama wants to know. I tell the truth: I don't know if there is one. In that case, she says, you can go outside, but not to play. You're behind in your collections, she reminds me. I deliver the Washington Post to all the citizens of Sneed, but when it comes collection time I hate to ask them for money. It's seven dollars for a month of dailies and Sundays, but seven is a lot, so I put off...