Posted: Dec 30, 07 2:17pm

I've noticed over the past several years that many fiction writers, or perhaps their editors, have done away with quotation marks to indicate dialogue. Cormac McCarthy is one example, and EL Doctorow's "The March" is another, and I'm sure there are plenty others. As a reader, I've found that, while it's sometimes difficult to follow at first, once I've identified a character's voice the reading experience is much more invigorating - almost musical. So in my latest novel I thought I would try eliminating the "he said, she said" quotations, but I am wondering if it's too hard to follow. Would y'all mind having a quick read of the first chapter of my most recent novel and let me know what you think?

Bury Me With My La-Z-Boy

Part I - Tee

1

I ain’t dyin’ in this goddamn bed, all propped up with this goddamn needle in my arm these goddamn tubes up my nose, godamnit. It ain’t gonna happen, you’ll see.

The old man had been in Rm. 313 for two weeks already and he gave me the same song and dance every time I went in there to change his pans.

It’s not that I don’t wanna die. Hell, I’m ready. I been ready for years. It’s just that I can’t die like this. It just ain’t goddamn proper. I got to have my chair, you see.

His voice was starting to sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal, and it was getting to me.

What if I just unplugged you and walked away? I finally asked him one rainy afternoon.

You could try that but it ain’t gonna work. Besides, they’ll throw your black ass in jail if you pull the plug, which is probably where you belong anyways.

It was getting to the point where jail was sounding not so bad, and I know the nurses and doctors were fed up too The old man was getting on everybody’s nerves. Every time you walked in the room to check on him you’d swear he was dead – all gray and ashen, a few strands of white hair strewn across his blotchy skull, milky eyes staring off into nowhere, mouth half open in a creepy, toothless grin. But that heart just kept on beating, weaker by the day but still beating sure enough. Just when you thought he was gonna flatline, the old garbage disposal would rev up.

Y’all want me to die, I know it, and I can sympathize, goddamnit. I’m just here takin’ up a perfectly good bed, all set for some old bastard like me to lay down meet his goddamn maker. But not me. I got to have my chair.

Finally one of the doctor’s broke down and bought the old man a chair from a second hand store – a dark brown leather La-Z-Boy recliner just like the old man described it, complete with cigarette burns in the arms and a slightly crooked footrest. We hauled it out of the back of the doctor’s black Suburban, schlepped it into the service elevator, then slid it down to Rm. 313.

“We found your chair”, the doctor announced as I slid it into the corner next to his bed, facing the TV on the wall. Then I dialed up the old man’s bed so he could get a good look at it. He lifted his head off the pillow and appraised the chair for what seemed like an hour. I thought it looked pretty good sitting there in the corner, even if it was a little cramped. It lent some warmth to the hospital puke green, and some kind of heft, as if it was waiting for a king to sit down and make some important decrees. I was tempted to give it a try, maybe kick back with the remote and channel surf for a few hours.

Finally the old man spoke. That ain’t it. That ain’t my chair.

I thought the doctor was gonna strangle the old bastard right then and there. His face turned all red and his jaw muscles tensed up, a big vein popped out on his forehead and he clenched his fists. Then he turned on his heel and spun out the door without saying a word.

Good work, you old coot, I said.

Fuck you. That ain’t my chair. I know my chair when I see it. You assholes try and trick me again and I’ll…I’ll…hell, I may just never die. You’ll be stuck with me ‘til kingdom come, goddamit.

Feelin’ lightheaded, I sat down in the big La-Z-Boy.

Seein’ as it ain’t your chair, I guess you don’t mind if I take a load off for a sec.

Be my guest, but you’re gonna get your lazy black ass fired if you don’t tend to your business.

The old man’s probably right ‘bout that, I was thinkin’, but I was also thinkin’ that if there was one way to be a hero in this situation, it would be to find the old bastard’s chair. Truth was nobody in the hospital knew shit about the old man, but we all figured he came in one on of the buses from NOLA with the rest of the old white folk getting out the way of the big hurricane. I didn’t see too many old black folk on those buses – they just left them down in the ward to learn how to swim, I was guessin’.

Okay. Where’m I ‘sposed to find this chair of yours?

I was feelin’ pretty lazy in that old LA-Z-BOY right ‘bout then, watching the evening sun settle behind the refinery smokestacks, thinkin’ ‘bout my little girl cross town and wondering if she might have something sweet for me when I got off my shift. Then I heard the old garbage disposal.

You know Bayou LaFourche?

I’ve heard of it. Ain’t never been there.

It’s a godforsaken shithole, fulla gators and cottonmouths, crazy niggers with bones in their noses, tin-roof shacks with chillens nobody know who they belong to.

‘Zat where your chair is?

I ‘spect it’s down there. My kin wouldn’t let me take it with me when they put me in the home, those thankless sons of bitches. I figured they wanted to burn it, once they got rid of me. But they said oh no we’ll have it here for you when you come home. Assholes. They knew I weren’t comin’ home. They wouldn’t let me come back, once they got me in the home. I asked. I pleaded. Why you want your old granpappy in here with all these crazy folks with their teeth all fallen out, messin’ their pants, howlin’ nonsense? They just said okay, we’ll see ya next week. Peckerwoods. So I says then bring me my goddamn chair. At least get me my chair!

Then the old man’s skull plopped down on his pillow and his eyes rolled up in his head, and I thought he had finally worn himself out completely. I see that his heartbeat has just ‘bout stopped, and I get up fast as I could from that big LA-Z-BOY – you know those chairs ain’t built for quick exits – and press the big red button for the nurse to come quick.

2

I wasn’t lyin’ when I said I didn’t no nothin’ ‘bout Bayou LaFourche, and I can tell you now that if I did know something I never, ever, in a million years would have gone down there or Honey Island Swamp to look for the old man’s chair. But I did and that’s the story I am about to tell you. But I gotta warn you too, there’s some shit that went on down there that you’re likely to turn your nose up at – things that happened that I can’t hardly believe myself happened, as if I was dreaming the whole damn thing. Things I heard talk about – wives tales, campfire stories, that kinda thing.

Now you may wonder why I took it on myself to go find the old bastard’s chair, and I’ll admit I don’t rightly know, ‘cept when he came to after that last near-death experience he gave me a look that gave me chills all over and shook my skinny ass right down to the tips of my toes. It was creepy like I never had creepy before. I could hear his garbage disposal voice in my head when I went to see my baby that night, and it scared her half to death.

Little girl, I swear, that old man ain’t human. Maybe he’s a ghost, a witch doctor, a voodoo prince. I dunno, but I hear him tellin’ me things in my head.

That is what I said to her.

Come on over here and have a drink of this here Kentucky bourbon, she said. You all worked up about nothin’. I cooked up a nice chicken for you, and if you just set down and have your fill you’ll feel right again, I swear.

Honey, I can’t eat. I’m all churned up. My guts is squirmin’ like it’s fulla worms.

Well then have a drink.

I loved that little Creole girl. She take such good care of me. But, even after a couple of strong bourbons, that old garbage disposal voice was still in my head, rattling like the chain on the gate of my mama’s house the night Katrina blowed in.

I can see it, says the old man in my head. I can see my chair all covered in brambles, sinkin’ into the mud of the Honey Island Swamp. Go get it for me, son. You’ll be rewarded in heaven, or wherever it is you black folks go. You go get it for me so I can die in peace.

I tried my best with my little girl that night but it was no use; the more she try and comfort me the more squirrelly I felt. Until the old man had his peace, I would have none.