His body depleted
from the long run and almost refueled by the rich, flavorful breakfast of fried eggs,
buttery, peppery grits, and andouille sausage, his heart kept strong and tender by
the series of odd interactions that morning, T settled back into the broad iron
chair. He closed his eyes and let the banjo music wash over him along with the
cool breeze. Background noises of car horns, bicycle bells, early Bourbon
Street revelers breaking into drunken song, and that same classical piano
filtering in from the hotel lobby… all of it combined into a perfect spell. He
inhaled the chicory coffee, the flower vines, the pool chlorine… a pleasant
gumbo of fragrance that kept him seated in that perfect moment.
His email messages
had put him at a crossroads. One job offer was to hop on a plane that evening
and fly to London to do a candy bar commercial, but the script was tainted with
a homophobic undertone which was extremely offensive to T. Man, I pity the fool who thinks that stuff is funny, he had thought
to himself after reading it. Thankfully, his agent’s assistant, Carin, had
given him a good warning about that. Another job offer tempted him out west to
Los Angeles to make an appearance at a Derby Dolls skating bout. That would
be fun, and he had some good friends out there named Gen and Julia who could
talk all night about books and would probably take him to eat at Umami Burger.
But every intense detail of this city, of this small neighborhood that was its
own universe, made the choice easy. He was staying a bit longer. Two days in
New Orleans is never enough. And besides, he had offers here too. He treasured the freedom and flexibility of his profession.
T swallowed the
last of his pulpy, sweet orange juice and dabbed his mouth with the thick cotton
napkin. He thanked his server and made sure to leave a generous tip which would be billed to his hotel room. He made
his way to the sidewalk, wanting to hear the end of the musicians’ set right up
close, then dropped a handful of quarters and dimes into the open banjo case. They
thanked him in heavy, mysterious Cajun phrases, smiling and bowing and dancing,
blessing him with their particular street magic as if he had laid down a
hundred dollar bill. He did not resist the grin this time. T even danced with
them a little, shuffling his high-top sneakers on the sidewalk and letting that feather earring swing. Then he nodded goodbye and turned back to the hotel. He had some
emails to send before showering and getting on with his day.
********************
Reluctant at first
to abandon the coffee shop and leave unanswered the question of her weird message
being delivered, Olivia needed very little time with Carly to feel not only
distracted but completely fascinated. She had never really seen the Quarter in
daylight, much less in these misty morning hours while a whole new slice of the
city was getting started to work, and she was rapidly falling in love with it. Why do I keep feeling this here? She
wrestled silently with her constant swell of romantic inclination in this city.
From the dark, handsome stranger who had kept her awake all night though he was
in a different hotel, to the instant communities that formed at every street
corner for various reasons, Olivia felt knitted to this place. Drawn to it for
her own reasons and craved by it all at once.
Carly was dragging her
now past the restaurants and narrow alley ways, a few blocks away to an
expansive stretch of pavement and flat rock, a walkway laid like a dangerous
wide ribbon between two spiritual lakes. On one side stood the bleached white,
vaulted cathedral called St. Louis, an historical icon that instantly cast
shadows onto Olivia’s heart. It pointed to an emptiness in her lungs, an old hunger she had
forgotten about. On the other side, just at the edge of the lush and
meticulously kept Jackson Square gardens, the cathedral’s antithesis: A string
of mismatched chairs and folding tables, umbrellas, and hand painted signs all
populated by men and women who could be gypsies. Or vagrants. Or mystics from
another realm, most of them holding mangy but smiling dogs on leashes: Fortune
Tellers Row. At night, this place was packed with people, mostly risky
tourists, but this morning barely a dozen souls lingered at the park benches
and not one street performer had taken up residence yet. This patchwork of fortune-telling
characters and their piercing eyes sent inky black tendrils of fear onto the flat,
wide walkway, snaking coldly toward Olivia, sucking all the noise out of her
ears despite the growing activity around her. She had never felt such a distinct
spiritual fear before, and to feel it at a moment when she was enjoying so much
romance and possibility was very much like being splashed with cold water from
behind.
She stopped walking
and pulled back a little, asking Carly, “Uh, what are we doing here?”
“We’re gonna have your
palm read, silly! Let’s see if Mow-hawk Man is the one!” Carly giggled and huddled in close like they were old friends
at a slumber party. Like they were just opening and folding a little boxy paper
fortune teller, for fun. Olivia enjoyed the smell of Carly’s patchouli and
noted the odd mix of it with her own expensive perfume.
“No, that’s okay. I
mean, I don’t have any cash on me anyway.” She lied. Olivia was stiff now, once
again adjusting her call cap and hugging herself, and her senses were on high
alert, all of the romance quickly draining from her veins. She caught herself
glancing around for an escape route and felt ridiculous. In every direction,
rationally, there were only lounging people and leashed dogs. Plenty of space
to bolt if she needed to. Wide open air and daylight, what could happen? Still,
that icy snaking feeling of assault wouldn't go away. And her companion was
oblivious.
“No problem, Ben
here owes me a read.” Carly was aiming them toward a guy perhaps in his twenties
with a scratchy four-day beard, a yellow and red knitted cap, and a
sun-bleached trench coat covering up an old Madonna t-shirt. Like a prayer? Yeah right! Olivia thought. He wore a stack of
plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck, and Olivia judged how dicey they
looked, how unnatural, compared to the stunning jewelry T had worn. She suddenly
missed him, this man she barely knew, and wished he would appear to help her
out the way he had protected her from the drunken collision last night. Then
she worried that Ben could read her thoughts, especially her lie about having
cash, and decided she had better shut up.
“No, seriously, I don’t
want to.” In a rare resolute moment, Olivia stood firmly on her high-heeled
boots and thrust her skinny arms down to her sides, and shook her head. “I
really, really don’t want to. I’m sorry.”
Carly was
dumbfounded, “What? Why?” She giggled again, this time trailing off a bit as
she realized her brunette friend wasn't kidding. Carly's long, colorful skirts were swishing
around her legs from the brisk walk. “Hey, are you okay?”
Olivia glanced around,
trying hard not to look directly at Ben for fear of him casting a Stephen King-style curse on her, and said in a high-pitched voice feigning casualness, “Yeah,
I’m okay, I’m just… hungry. You know, you did eat most of that spinach croissant.”
Maybe a smile and a joke would trick Carly into forgetting about her abrupt
halt a moment ago. It did not.
“Okay, whatever you
say. But I’m telling you Ben is the best palm-reader in this town. You ought-ta
try him out.” Carly wrapped her cozy arm around Olivia, pretending to only be
warming her and not chasing away her obvious fear, and they turned back the way
they had come.
“See you latah,
alligatah!” Ben called out after them in
a booming voice with no trace of a Cajun accent. Phony. Then he threw a bright green puff of chalk dust or something at the concrete in front of his table. The women squealed a
little and broke shamelessly into a run.
This episode is dedicated to Carin, sweet and creative blogger at Artfully Carin.
who recently told me a story about the REAL Mr. T
declining a candy bar commercial in Great Britain
because of its offensive homophobic undertones.
This episode is also dedicated to my little sister Gen and my literary mentor Julia,
who both skate with the Los Angeles Derby Dolls and have all my love from Oklahoma!
Finally, it is dedicated to my husband who always thinks it's hilarious
to peer-pressure me into voo-doo type activities
when we visit my favorite city in the universe.
Rude.
