I grabbed a clipboard and notebook, slung my camera across my neck, slipped on my ski jacket and dashed downstairs. As I opened the front door I gulped a blast of cold air that nearly paralyzed my lungs.
Being President’s Day weekend, the hospital staff was operating on a skeleton crew, which worked out well for me. No one questioned me when I waltzed in with my clipboard tucked under my arm and my camera hanging around my neck. I had learned in my journalism class that a clipboard will take you anywhere.
As I passed the nurses’ station I could hear Dixieland Jazz, and recognized the familiar sounds of Pete Fountain’s clarinet. My dad was a big time Dixieland fan so I listened to it whether I wanted to or not. He insisted I’d appreciate it later in life. And now that I’d met Quinn and was going to New Orleans, Dixieland had a whole new meaning.
The closer I got to Oil Can’s room the louder the music became. His door was open, but I knocked, and then stuck my head in. “Pete Fountain,” I said. “Cool.”
“Hey there, Girlie. Haven’t seen you for a few days. Have you been sick?”
“No. I’ve just been busy at school and stuff.” I pointed to the old boom box. “Where’d you get that? Looks like one I had centuries ago.”
Oil Can screwed up his face. “This fancy doctor came in to check on me. We got to talking and I told him how I used to be a musician in the French Quarter.”
“Yeah?”
“And ya know what? Seemed to believe me. Nice fella. Don’t know the last time someone believed me. Anyway, he comes back a couple of hours later with this boom box and some Dixieland CD’s. Wish I’d remember his name.”
Oil Can closed his eyes. His head bounced gently. Then he smiled and said, “I can’t wait to blow this joint, hop a freight and head back down to New Orleans. That’s where I belong.”
“No! You can’t leave. New Orleans is always going to be there. You’re not well. You need…you need to get fixed.”
I set my stuff on a cart, peeled off my jacket, but kept talking. “Do you have any idea where are you going to stay until you go back to New Orleans?” I ran my fingers through my hair. Scary. I sounded just like my mother, Mrs. Logic.
Oil Can’s eyes widened “Settle down, girlie. I’ve got time before I need to think about those little details. That doctor fella said I’m not going anywhere for at least a week.”
Oil Can jiggled the IV stuck in his hand. “You should see all the pretty little pills they’re giving me. And would you believe they hid my clothes? Looks like I’m at their mercy, unless I want to escape in this cute nighty. It’s so darn boring here. No one to talk to.”
I felt like I’d been handed a gift certificate. “You know if you want to talk, I really want to listen.” I explained my social studies assignment, my whole predicament. Oil Can looked very interested when I came to the part about going to New Orleans.
Then he cocked his head. “So, after I tell you my life story, what’s in it for me?”
I was stunned. “Well, it’s not exactly like you’ve got a lot of other stuff to do right now. And you’ll be helping me out. Grandpa and I helped you out.”
Oil Can looked only slightly shamed. “I think you’re up to something.”
“Here’s what’s in it for you. If I can work it out with my mom and dad, you can stay with us for free. Food and everything, until you’re strong enough to go back to New Orleans.”
He squinted. “There’s got to be more. What’s the catch?”
“Nothing … exactly. I told my dad that you were a master mechanic and maybe you could do some work on his old Vette. I don’t consider that a catch. You’ll be bored out of your skull if you don’t have something to do. And, don’t hold me to this, but we might be able to get you a part time job so you can earn some money.”
“Money?” Oil Can’s eyes lit up. He stroked his chin and was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Tell you what. Since I’ve got nothing else to do in here, I’ll help you out with your assignment. But here’s the deal. You gotta believe what I tell you no matter how farfetched it seems. There might not be too much good about me, but the one most important thing you need to know is that, Oil Can never lies. We gotta trust each other. Deal?”
Oil Can stuck out the hand without the IV. I grabbed it. “Deal,” I said.
I slid a chair next to his bed, sat down and opened my notebook.
He squinted at me. “You gonna print my story in the newspaper?”
“No.” I laughed. “I told you, it’s for a school project.”
“That’s fine. But before we’re through, you might want to put it in the paper. I’ve led a pretty interesting life and I’m not washed up yet.” Oil Can cleared his throat and sat up like he was going to be on TV. “That little thing hanging around your neck a camera?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose that means you want my picture. Move over there. Never take a portrait straight on. And you better turn off those overhead fluorescents. I’ll look green. Flip on that little lamp on the nightstand. Soft lighting’s better.”
“Holy cow,” Oil Can. It’s only a snapshot.”
Oil Can scowled. “Nothing worthwhile is ever only something. You gonna click that shutter, make it right.” He turned his cheek. “My best side.”
I moved around the room and took the picture from several angles. “It sounds like you’ve had your picture taken a lot. Were you famous or something?”
“Of course I was famous. Now, prepare yourself for the life and times of Oil Can Henri. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I’m prepared,” I said, but wondered if the medication was talking, or if this was the real guy.
Thirteenth Chapter
“Have you completely lost your mind, Matthew? I’ve been home for the entire weekend and you wait until this morning to tell me the sad tale of a transient that Madison and Grandpa rescued. Then minutes before I leave for school, you lay it on me that he’s being released tomorrow, and you’ve offered to let him move into the guesthouse. Great timing.”
Mom tucked the last of her papers into her laptop case and zipped it shut. I was standing in the hall, next to my parent’s bedroom. The door was partly closed but my mother’s words couldn’t have been any clearer if I’d been sitting on her lap. Dad and I had agreed it would be better if he approached Mom and let her think Operation Oil Can was his idea. Maybe it was a mistake. Nevertheless, I edged closer and peeked into the battleground.
Mom was pacing like a crazy woman from a black and white movie. “Let me get this straight. You want to bring this New Age Hobo, as you so lovingly describe him, to live at our house?” Her voice raised another octave. “He’s a derelict, Matthew!” It sounded like bullets were flying out of her mouth.
Dad stuck his hands in front of his face. “I don’t know where you get such ideas. You haven’t
