Doobie
French Quarter – New Orleans, Louisiana
Simon Pelissier Dubuclet, a prestigious moniker for a formidable man who preferred others call him by his nickname, Doobie. Yes, like weed. Doesn’t mean he had ever smoked it.
The French Quarter in New Orleans was a bustling venue, of food, drink, and artistic expression. The family-owned restaurant Bayou Savoureux boasted the best blackened redfish available. In the background, the piano and sax player treated the patrons with rhythm and blues. Many evenings, little Simon sat on his Uncle Percy’s knee while his long, thin, fingers fluttered over the piano keys. Simon would giggle and clap his chubby little hands into the air. Percy didn’t mind, it placed more coin in the till.
Simon’s parents, Daphne and Rudy, young and wishful, they longed for nothing more than a peaceful life with each other and their fat-cheeked son. Rudy a virtuoso with food, a consummate chef with the credentials to prove it. Daphne, a product of wealth, a Cajun from Baton Rouge. Her family disowned her when she chose her creole love instead of the family fortune. The 1950s weren’t kind to mixed marriages.
At five, Simon’s parents left the business at closing with him sandwiched between them, holding their hands. The young couple volunteered to deposit the cash into the bank the following morning. The night’s revenue secured inside his father’s suitcoat, they strolled east on Decatur Street towards their apartment near Jackson Square. Accosted by an unknown person with a knife, Rudy and Daphne lay bleeding and dying with their five-year-old son sitting between them in their pool of blood. Simon crawled onto his dying mother’s chest, seeking the security of her love. Tears of terror saturated his cheeks.
Hands gripped his shoulders, he wailed, terrified. A young woman, with a New England accent snatched him away from the grisly scene. The man with her hustled to the nearest telephone booth and called the operator for police.
The couple tried to comfort Simon until help arrived. He screamed and cried for his parents. Simon squirmed and fought the young woman. Loosened from her grip, he sped to them, crawled between his parents, and held their hands. His father’s eyes closed, he turned to his mother, and touched her face. Daphne’s eyes flickered. She smiled. Her last words, “I love you, Simon.”
The police and ambulance arrived. An officer recognized the dead couple on the sidewalk; he removed Simon from the dead couple and transported him to the Bayou Savoureux.
US Marine Corp Emblem
Thirteen years later, Simon enlisted into the United States Marine Corps. While at Paris Island, he met his best friend for life. Chase Faraday, a dark-haired, green-eyed man, whose smile turned the head of every woman. Tall and fit, Chase hovered over Simon’s five-feet-eight frame. Chase would plant his forearm on Simon’s head and lean on him, while toking on a Fat Boy. Chase admired his stogie. “Simon, you remind me of this cigar. Short and stubby like a well-rolled doobie.”
“What do you know about weed, Chase?”
Chase grinned and wiggled his eyebrows. “Enough. Doobie. Enough.”
Assigned to protect and maintain security at the White House, the now Doobie, and Chase, spent most of their time playing toy soldier and attending classes at George Mason University. On their way to their quarters, they hoofed it to University Drive for dinner. Underneath a mature oak tree, a young girl sat reading a textbook. Chase swung his arm in front of Doobie and punched him in the gut. “Stop.” Chase dazed, he sauntered towards her.
Her chin tilted, she raised her sunglasses. “Yes?”
Chase knelt to one knee, his smile bright. “Will you marry me?”
“Think you could wait until the end of the semester? Biology is kicking my ass.”
Chase’s smile grew larger as he sat next to her. “I’m Chase.”
“I’m Christine. Now go away, or I’ll fail this class.”
Chase scooted closer to her. “No you won’t.”
“And why not?” Christine leaned away from him.
“I’ll tutor you.”
“Biology is your major?”
“No. Criminal Science.” Chase read her answer to a question on the study sheet. He pointed at the fifth one. “That’s wrong. The answer is rough endoplasmic reticulum. Smooth ER lacks ribosome and functions in lipid manufacturing and metabolism. Rough ER has ribosomes and manufactures lysosomal enzymes.”
“Smart ass.” Christine slumped her shoulders. “Thanks.”
“I can help you. I’m a wiz at science.”
“But, you want to be a cop?”
“Yes. My dream is to join the FBI.”
Doobie pranced around and sighed. “Can we go, Chase?”
“Hang on, Doobie.” Chase stood and extended his hand. “Go to dinner with us.”
“How do I know you’re not an axe-murderer?”
“I’m a marine.” Chase pointed at Doobie. “So, is Doobs.”
“Great,” her voice streamed. “A trained killer.”
“I guard a door all day. I’m so dangerous. C’mon go with us.”
“I can’t. I’m waiting on my best friend, Anita.”
“She can go, too.”
Doobie’s foot patted the grass into the dirt. “Let’s go, Chase.”
Christine caught Doobie’s attention. “You’d like Anita. She looks like Haley Berry.”
Doobie’s shoulders perked. “I’m in.”
“You’re shallow.” Christine wiggled her nose.
“No, just desperate.”
From the distance a low voice called, “Crissy.”
Christine pointed. “That’s her.”
Doobie turned and running in their direction, a tall, lean young woman, with striking hazel eyes.
The girl ground to a stop. “Sorry, I’m late. Chemistry lab was a bitch. Don’t forget I have volleyball practice in the morning. Grab notes for me in Calculus.”
“Sure.” Christine pointed at Doobie. “Anita, meet Doobie. He’s harmless and desperate. He’s perfect for you.”
Two years later, both couples said their vows in a joint wedding at the Atrium at Meadowlark Botanical Gardens in Vienna, Virginia.
Doobie and Anita produced two sons, Marcus and Dominic. Married seven years, they divorced and remained close.