Say Goodbye

After Friday with no message or calls from les girls—I was pretty sure there were Wanted posters with my face in them all over the Quarter, or that I had made some horrible faux pas over the mango salsa—I was pretty disconsolate.

I sat in the courtyard in the waning sun, texted Keith and heard nothing, then called James, went to bed, as I mentioned, early, at 8:30 p.m. and fell asleep about an hour later. James called back at 10:30 from a comedy club where he had just bombed, and said he’d call again when he left. I told him not to bother, as I was already asleep.

On Saturday, I had agreed to go to breakfast with Scott and Beth. Had some strawberries and half a stale croissant from the fallow girls’ night loot I’d bought at Croissant D’Or, and Beth called. They walked over to the guest house while I was caught in a very entertaining hustle/conversation with one Malcolm, supposed percussionist for the Rebirth Brass Band. He claimed he had started a new band of underpriviliged siblings, boys and girls, and needed money for their instruments. Lots of pictures were produced, promises to send CDs, a great spiel about the seven principles of community. Scott went in for five bucks and we agreed the story was worth it. Rachel was leaving the Bohemian Armadillo as we walked out, and since we were all going to Stanley, we walked over together.

It was crowded—a beautiful Saturday morning—and there was a wait, so we decided to eat together if Rachel couldn’t get a spot at the counter. With a half-hour wait, Beth and Scott and I took a stroll around the square. Ran into James, who wanted me to take him to dinner for my last night.

Could not break out of my Eggs Stanley habit—I need those little fried oysters in the morning. Lycia and Leslie called while I was eating, and I figured Leslie wanted the birthday presents people had sent to Sans Souris, so I agreed to meet her at Erin Rose, where she and Jeff were spending their day off over Irish coffees. The day was really warm now, and I was in jeans, boots and a cashmere tunic, so uncomfortable, with a closet of pretty floaty dresses I hadn’t worn because it’s been so chilly. I raced back to the guest house, gathered the gifts, hoofed it back up to the Erin Rose and had a drink with Leslie and Jeff. Then I left, strolled down Royal where the Road Testd food thingie was happening—a billion vendors out in booths with food samples for sale, and on the upper part, the 300 block, an attempt to construct the world’s longest po’boy, with various restaurants adding their spin to each section. I got a coconut snowball from Plum Street and ate it, walking in the sun, and stopped to watch a few numbers by the band in front of Rouse’s.

Called Lycia again—we kept missing each other—and finally decided to see if she’d be at the park for to switch bikes between Jeff’s tours. Just as I rolled up, Lee called me from Lycia’s phone asking where I was—I could see the truck—and they said they’d been texting me for the past three days and getting no response.

It’s funny, because I could receive calls, I thought my phone worked fine. What I didn’t realize is that only half my phone worked, and that everyone texts anyway and no one had actually cut me off. So weird.

I was relieved to see them, and they looked gorgeous in pretty dresses and sunglasses with flowers in their hair. Me still in dingy winter cladding. We took off just as Jeff’s rival, some guy who ripped off his tour, was embarking on his route, so we followed him indeiscreetly, three girls crammed into the front seat of a cab truck, pointing and yelling, “Pull over!,” “No, go!,” and “Did he turn?” Finally, we decided it was kind of unprofessional—stupid route; he just made a loop anyway—and went back to Lycia’s to drop off the bikes. Lee is looking to rent half of a double shotgun three doors down from Lycia, so we harassed the lady who owns it—well, we politely asked the neighbor, who turned out to be her nephew, if she was home and he called her on the phone, to our chagrin—and she let us in, looking rather peeved. It’s a beautiful space with a huge backyard and enormous oak tree out front.

Then we split in search of a nice place with a patio to sit outside and get a drink. We tried Feelings Café, where I’d been in May, thanks to Ray’s string-pulling, but it doesn’t open for lunch except Sundays. We drove around and ended up at the Country Club, a beautiful wooden mansion on Louisa at Royal where Ray and Kim went almost every day to swim naked with other men and to eat the excellent food, presumably not naked. We sat on the wide front porch and I took off my jeans, in Country Club style. The bottomless mimosa offer was about to run out, so we hurriedly ordered three and some salads and had a very lovely, ladylike time on the shady porch with sun blooming through the Bywater. Lee made plans, if she gets the place, to host a gloves-and-hats croquet party when Tom and I come back and the weather is fine.

Then we drove to Tete’s, the bar Lycia wants to buy, found the owner drinking with friends in the garage next door, and took a tour. It’s perfect for her and she is wild to find a backer. It would break my heart if she doesn’t get it. The area’s not great for, like, walking around, but it’s on an intersection that’s a hub of popular and neighborhood bars, and the ’40s lounge she’s envisioning would be unique in that area. Plus, as former bartenders, they know a lot of people who have followings and would create a core group of regulars as they built up a constituency. The best part was seeing them ask to go behind the bar and pace it professionally, feeling the coolers, testing the floor, murmuring about where the liquor should be stored and whether the lighting was right.I love finding out how people’s work works, watching dedicated professionals involved in the minutae of their craft.

Lycia went back to the park to wait for Jeff’s tour to return, and Lee and I walked over to the guest house to finish off the last of the white wine I couldn’t leave behind. We had a nice hour of chat in the sunny courtyard (they moved the garbage cans; hurrah!) and then she left so I could shower and change.

Finally got the girls’ night out. Went to the Apple Barrel, went to Molly’s, went to the Alibi. I didn’t pack until morning.

On Sunday, I met Lycia for coffee at La Peniche and that was that. Wish I could record all of the incidental conversations I got into or overheard, wish I’d kept this thing up more carefully and had time to slow down and talk about details of the city—like the fact that everyone in every neighborhood paints their addresses on their garbage bins, but no one worries abut bikes being stolen—but without Internet for six days, I got so behind and it became all, then I did this, then I did that. Sorry.

The city kept up its music-blasting, friendly, eccentric, intoxicating magic right up to the airport. Tom met me at the airport, which was a first. Home to cold weather, which will be getting better soon, and very freaked out cats. Slept and read all day and we watched “The Princess and the Frog” over dinner, a little coda to my month.

Closing In

Lycia and Jeff planned to have me over for dinner on Wednesday, so I slogged through a day of work as planned and got kind of bogged down. Called Lycia—I had offered to come over and help her clean up the house for Jeff’s parents’ visit, or do whatever was needed for the business—but she and Lee were on their way to the West Bank to do tons of exciting errands like buy toilet paper in bulk and such. I was welcome to come along, and declined.

As it happens, they could not have fit me in the truck along with the bags and boxes and pallets and piles of crap they bought. I cabbed over to their double shotgun in the 8^th Ward around 7 and Jeff was hard at work setting up the web site for Reecy’s tour—the Rebirth Ninth Ward Tour—so I poured myself a whiskey and soda and sat on the porch with Danny, the neighbor/tenant, and watched the drug dealers next door do their work. He said when I pulled up in a cab, he thought I was “looking to buy,” which I couldn’t understand for a minute until I saw the dealers doing their thing. Black kids; white clients. Nice.

Made him an Old Overholt and soda as well, since he’s a cook at the Country Club and was at the tippy end of his paycheck. Finally, Lycia and Lee pulled up, parked on the banquette and proceeded to unload the truck full of dry goods. We wanly offered to help, but they were quite stalwart about hauling the stuff inside. Danny told me that they had asked him to help load their newly bought, newly dysfunctional lawn mower into the truck to get it fixed or return it, and promised him a six-pack for his efforts. Then he saw Lycia and Lee easily tossing the thing in the back seat, and there went his six-pack. That’s why I made him a drink.

Lee mixed up a batch of Pisco Sours, found them wanting, and poured them out. Out came the egg whites again, and she produced four lovely drinks. We moved on to iced tea vodkas while blues played on the iPod and I chopped ingredients for a mango salsa. Lycia pan-fried salmon steaks and roasted asparagus, and we ate happily—even Jeff, who had come out for the food—and had a good time. Jeff passed around the bacon praline he’d bought at Cochon for our dessert. Lycia drove me and Lee home and I went to bed, having forgotten to tape “Top Model” again.

For Thursday, we planned on a girls’ night out at my place, so I woke up early and went to Croissant D’Or for croissants and a petit baguette. Ran into Lee on the way to Rouse’s (she was going to work at the Faulkner House) and she said she’d be at the Spotted Cat to see Sophie around 6:30. I got some nibbly bits, cheese, Zapp’s, sausage and strawberries.

Worked all day and texted Michelle to meet me. I got to the Cat around 6:30 and Michelle showed up. We watched Sophie sing and  … that was it. No one else came. I felt so lonely. Texted Lee and Lycia but heard nothing back (still haven’t). Weird night. I didn’t sleep for shit and woke up around 5, unable to stay in bed.

Today, I had to vacate the apartment to make room for Scott and Beth, a couple I’d met in Pirate’s Alley last year. He’s a professor at the University of Indiana; she’s an artist whose work is really good. I offered them Sans Souris, since it was my last weekend, and they gratefully and kindly offered one of Beth’s paintings as payment, which was more than sweet.

Got up absurdly early, packed my stuff, humped it over to the guest house, then went back for another load. Stopped at La Peniche for a Bloody Mary and told Tyrone I’d give him the leavings of Jeff’s friend who had stayed in my place for that one weekend as a late birthday present.

Horrible morning; got no work done. I scrubbed the apartment, went to Jackson Square and fed the pigeons, stopped in at Faulkner House to buy a couple of books and chat with Joe, bought a box and some tape at the French Quarter Postal Shop, replenished toilet paper and paper towels, did a couple of loads of laundry, then took over the last of my stuff. Brought Tyrone his gift, sat outside at La Peniche and read a new translation of “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” It’s fantastic! I had no idea.

I ate some lonely cheese, bread and sausage, packed the box and dropped it off back on Bourbon, then stopped in at the Golden Lantern to say goodbye to Jimmy—he’s off to Florida for the weekend—and went back to the guest house to read some more. A couple of hipster types sitting on the steps of the Bordello Room invited me to hang with them, so I did. Katie and I don’t know what his name was. They are friends of a friend of Jeff’s whose getting married this weekend. They made me a rye and ginger and we hung out, taking in the scene. They were fascinated by the woman in tight curlers and a bright blue sweat suit mowing her lawn next door. He got surreptitious pictures and showed me an awesome video that a director friend of his in Portland did for a band called Red Fang. We were discussing LARPing because it’s Pirate Weekend. The pirates were massing at R Bar in preparation for a parade to kick off the weekend.

Beth called from the airport so I went inside and futzed around until she called again, then went over to meet them. They are as enthusiastic and fun as I remembered, and loved the apartment. I showed them around, agreed to meet for a late breakfast tomorrow, and came home to sit in the back yard and listen to Rachel have what sounds like a really fun party in her house in the back, I guess the slave quarters.

The parade came by just now—a shit ton of people dressed as Jack Sparrow and his wenches—so I went and sat on the Bordello stoop and watched. I raised my glass whenever a pirate looked over, and a girl ran up to me and said, “I see you lurking in the shadows” and put seven strands of beads around my neck, which I am wearing now. Tiny pink dice are involved.

Tomorrow, nothing on my plate but packing and leaving.

Pig Parts

Worked, worked, worked, feeling good. The weather was fine, and all day I held in my head the vision of a pig-centric piggy feast at Cochon.

I dressed up in my finest—LBD and the furry pink capelet I had bought the week before—and Jeff and Lycia picked me up. We stopped at the AT&T store so Jeff could get a new iPhone, and I called Spike from the truck. He loves Cochon and it broke my heart to go there without him. But he told me to order the part of the pig that most reminded me of him, so I said pork cheeks. Wish I’d thought of the ears, on retrospect, but as it turns out, they weren’t offering pig’s ears that night.

Sophie Lee joined us and we ordered appetizers and one entrée. When will we learn not to fill up on an entrée? The pokr belly was just ok last time, and this was a rabbit and dumpling stew, a little heavy for the season and so deeply flavored it sort of numbed the effect of the appetizers, which were insane. A cone of roasted cauliflower with a buttery-spicy dipping sauce; boudin with hot grainy mustard; shrimp with red-pepper chow-chow; ridiculously delicious alligator in sauce; pork cheeks for my pookie, which may have been the highlight; a plate of pork ribs whose flavor shifted as you moved down the bone, with crispy, intensely smoked edges; something else, maybe. We forgot to get the shrimp and deviled egg gumbo, and swooned when a nearby table ordered it. The ladies split a bottle of Willamette Valley white and after we got a shot of Catdaddy moonshine to split and two desserts, a strawberry shortcake and a lemon-buttermilk tart. The tart took it by a lap.

Stuffed, we reeled to our respective homes in time for “Lost.” (We had made an early-bird old folks’ reservation at 5:45.) James called around 8:30 asking if I wanted dinner at Coop’s, which I certainly did not, but I went over anyway and drank a glass of wine while he attacked a plate of panneed chicken. Walked around the Marigny again and I went home.

Finally, Enough Food

Betook myself to Coop’s for lunch on Monday—reading over this, I realize how little I had been eating over the weekend. Got the two-piece fried chicken with rabbit and sausage jambalaya and coleslaw and a Miller Lite. I couldn’t finish it—I find their jambalaya a little dense and sticky—and went home to work.

Lycia texted me in the evening, saying they’d be at Tujaque’s for red beans, so I went up to meet Keith, John, Michelle and Ernie. John had pictures of the foal one of his horses had just had. She is beautiful and looks healthy but is not drinking mother’s milk. They have her on bottles. I asked whether she was just stupid and he said, yes, it’s possible. There’s something called “Dummy Foal Syndrome” and it’s sort of like turkeys who keep their mouths open in the rain and drown. One of the symptoms is lack of suckling response. They are worried about the poor thing; his daugheters, who ride, particularly.

Had half a glass of red wine and started to get sick from the tannins, like have to walk outside in the fresh air and open my coat sick. Finally, I couldn’t take it. Got halfway through my dinner—eating while standing up and feeling nauseous is no fun—and betook myself home.

But I felt better later, and caled Lycia. They were at Molly’s, so I went over there and had a jolly time. Keith, John, Jeff, Lycia, Michelle and Ernie. It got loud and raucous, and finally I left and headed home to read the tippy end of “Yellow Jack.” We made plans to go to Cochon the next night.

Shrimp and Grits

Finally got my shrimp and grits at EAT on Sunday and, William H. Macy on a cracker, that shit is delicious. The day dawned bright and beautiful, so I walked up Dauphine to Dumaine and went right into the sunny front room and took up a two-top. The “bowl” of shrimp and grits is about feeding-trough size for maybe three horses, and comes with a biscuit as big as a lumberjack’s fist. Drank iced tea and looked out the window and it was a perfect morning. They do put mushrooms in their broth, though, which is a little weird. I would have preferred green peppers. Couldn’t finish half of it, so I left, panting slightly and clutching my belly, and started my day.

Lee had told me about an awesome novel called “Yellow Jack” by Josh Russell, so I went to Faulkner House to buy it. Saw James talking to his “new best friend”—some grizzled, homeless-looking old guy—and he said he’d tried to call me the night before. (Wrong prefix: He prides himself on his memory and had called 701.)  I laughed at him. He is entertaining as hell but not quite worth making an effort for, since he sees that as a weakness and a game like that doesn’t interest me.

Spent the entire day reading “Yellow Jack.” What a novel! What a waste of a day. But totally worth it.

I betook myself to dba around 6 to see Sophie Lee’s husband’s band (one of his bands; the other is the renownd Jazz Vipers), the Palemtto Bug Stompers, and just as I was bellying up to the bar for a glass of pinot noir, he did call. He came by and we watched the band, then left for R Bar, which has Abita Strawberry this time of year. Girly beers in hand, he took out an envelope and read out loud a “play” by his new best friend, Buzz Wright, in which he, James, was contracted to play “The Ghost of James Dean.” It wasn’t a play, just a narrative with directions, and only three pages long, and involved the hero going to see the Roches at the John Anson Ford Theatre in L.A., then driving Maggie Roche through Malibu to a lost-in-time roadside joint where ghosts of various American heroes, from Dean to John Wayne, appeared, played by cutouts as various classic-rock numbers (Buddy Holly, Elvis) are being played on the jukebox, skipping like mad as the songs reach their emotionally tormented climaxes. It was like a demented puppet show. “It’s just a treatment,” he said defensively.

We walked around the Marigny, he pontificating about architecture, which was fascinating, and the history of the area. I knew some of it from “Madame Vieux Carre,” but it was really fun to see it come alive in his words. His bitterness at the downscaling of Marigny Brasserie was particularly entertaining. The rant about Saltines on the tables alone was epic in its scope and flourish.

Girls’ Night Out

Fed up with no socializing, I sent a plaintive call to Lycia to see whether she was free on Saturday night. She was still sick and working like crazy to catch to Jeff’s business as it’s booming out of control, but she told me to call Lee, who would be getting off work at the Faulkner House soon.

As luck would have it, she was up for a night out. So I dressed and went to her place. She has an apartment in a beautiful building sideways across from Brett’s house on Pauger. I suggested the John or Apple Barrel, but she wanted a Quarter dive, so we walked to Johnny White’s on St. Peter, a dark sports bar full of regulars, and had Jameson and water. Then we went to Johnny White’s on Bourbon, a far superior bar, tiny as a closet, with a scruffy bartender, a couple of sleepy regulars and the view of the line excited tourists outside Tropical Isle hoping for a coveted Hand Grenade. (Full disclosure: I have sipped from a Hand Grenade, and found it a little bit delicious. But come on.) It was pouring rain and the street was all silver streaks of rain, glittering neon and girls in short dresses, a bachelorette party gaggle with purple novelty wigs getting their picture taken with their drinks. It was like being in an invisible bubble hovering over the madness of Bourbon Street without letting it touch us. We spoke of many girly things which will not be repeated here, as well as Russian literature, the travails of writing a novel and more girly things. Hint: Not shoes.

Because I Don’t Know Anyone, Part Deux

Thursday and Friday were social washes, I know that much. I got some brie and strawberries at Rouse’s and ate them for lunch, worked on and off.

Amzie came over in the afternoon with the Bayou St. John painting, which looks fabulous over the couch. I forgot to bring my home checkbook and wrote him a check on my Hancock bank account in a panic, not sure whether I had the money. Still haven’t heard from him, so I guess it went through, but I’ll call before I leave. Picture to come, if I can get this gizmo working again. I killed my iPhoto, somehow.

Couldn’t find anyone free on Thursday so I went back to the Golden Lantern and hung with the boys. I walk by on my way for the papers as they open up and say hi to Josh most mornings, then come in after 2 when Jimmy’s there. He’s young and studly in a Midwestern football-hero fantasy way and the gays adore him. He drinks milk and chocolate milk all day; they must be swooning in their seats. But he holds his own among the queenery.

One regular was having a birthday party and there was a ton of food in the back room. I tried to put a drink for him on my tab but Jimmy said he’d have more than enough friends buying him drinks.

So I sloped off home and forgot to tape “Project Runway” again.

Friday was more of the same. A pot of peppermint tea, a banana, crossaint from Croissant D’Or, the papers, work and a pretty miserable night. I went to the bank to check on my funds and called Tom from Jackson Square. Saw James on the street as I left the park and said hi and kept walking—he was grabbing a camera out of the hands of a member of a group who had just disembarked and was taking their picture so no one had to be left out of it—and he barked “Up!” Wow, just …

I mouthed “Up?” and said he’d give me a call later and was busy and I nodded and tried to leave and he barked at me again to wait and said he was on the clock and I’m like, dude, I’m going to Sidney’s. I’m not trying to talk to you. Also not your fucking mule, Napoleon.

The weather was clearing up—it had been quite cold and cloudy—and Brett had returned from one of his many, many trips. So I met him at Marigny Brasserie and we sat outside over prosecco, catching up. His girlfriend came by, as did three or four friends, and it turned out to be a very jolly evening after all. Brett and the girl were off to dinner at One and then to the Drive-By Truckers show, so we split up around 9:30 and I went home and fell asleep reading “Madame Vieux Carre.”

St. Patrick’s Day

After some very peppy pep-talking from Spike, I got back on the horse and applied myself. Donna from Chez Nous had sent me a Facebook invitation to the block party and parade-watching action at Markey’s in the Bywater, so I invited Matt and Kerri, since they had never seen a parade in New Orleans before.

They picked me up in a cab and we got some beers. Fortunately, it was a beautiful day, a bit colder than the Saturday parade but still—the crowd, the costumes, the band playing on the porch of the house across the street, people dancing in the street. Didn’t feel cold.

The parade was wonderful and Kerri was charmed by it—the walking crews equally charmed by her. (Note to self: stop going to parades with cute blondes.) I picked up some beads on my own, sime pity beads from Kerri, a green-and-white garter, a lucky green coin or two and the inevitable silk flowers. After a few hours of this and my forcing Matt to dance with me, we cabbed it to Blacksmith Shop and from there to walked to the Funky Pirate to see Big Al.

Kerri loves Big Al. Loves-loves-loves him; she told me about him last year but I never made it up to see him. (The Funky Pirate is on Bourbon Street, at the beginning of the thick of it.)

The place is big and divey, with tables and a long bar down the side. Big Al and the Blues Masters crowd onto a small stage, behind which is the courtyard with tables and a vending machine. It was downright cold by that time. We sat at the bar near the door to the courtyard.

When I say “crowd,” I mean it. Al Carson weighs in at around 550 pounds and does. Not. Move. Then again, he doesn’t have to. Dude is sex on a stick, but it’s all in his face, his voice and his performance. Kerri requested her favorite song and pressed an extra greenback into her contribution with whispered instructions. Apparently, after his centerpiece number, “Strokin’,” he chooses a girl from the audience to carry around the tip bucket for him. She did not want to be that girl.

“Strokin’” is as dirty as it sounds, a mid-tempo blues with lots of let’s-call-them-narrative talking parts in between. It lasts about 15 minutes and is the nastiest, most entertaining time you’ll ever have hearing about a 550-pound man have sex. We were drunk and exhausted; I walked home and they headed to the Marriott on Canal.

Turns out, by the way, the poor pair did take a carriage ride and got stuck with the “OVUH on your left” guy. They should have asked me.

It occurs to me that when I came out last March, I worried about not speaking to anyone but pigeons and bartenders. Among pigeons, I count no acquaintances, but I can tell you the names of maybe 100 retail and hospitality workers, and only two lawyers. It’s like the exact reverse of D.C.

Must Read!!

Ended up not going to Bullets on Tuesday night, but everyone else did. I tried to work all day and did very little, still feeling set back, I guess, and finally wandered over to the Golden Lantern to say hi to Jimmy and the gay boys.

Lycia and I texted back and forth and she asked whether I’d hate if she bailed. I said it was fine. (Anyway, “Lost” was on.) Went home and made another omelette and watched “Lost.”

Yawn.

Mulish

The great thing about being back at Sans Souris is that I get to hear the clip-clop in the afternoon. In the mornings, they’d go by the guest house on their way out of the stables. I could watch them at Donna’s, which has a little porch, but at the Jazz Room, I could only hear them with the doors open or when in the sad courtyard.

The afternoon tours tend to come up Esplanade, usually west, and turn up Dauphine back toward the Quarter. (Sometimes they come from the lakeside, probably on their way from the cemetery.) I know most of the drivers’ voices by now. Brendon, the cute young one in the hat, seems to make the Esplanade circuit most often, four or five times in an afternoon. I can hear him if he’s speaking, in a low, amused voice. Sounds carry around here and the drivers tend to have carrying voices. Then there’s the perfunctory black guy who must be the biggest bore behind the reins. I hear him while walking through the Quarter all the time, and it’s a little bit hilarious. “Now ovuh on your LEFT …” “Ovuh on your RIGHT…” That’s all he does. Poor tourists.

The big-bellied, middle-aged black and white men go by frequently, but I never hear them speaking. Jeff comes by on his bike tour a couple of times a day and his voice precedes him, shouty and strong. Sometimes I pop my head out to watch his little two-wheeled goslings ride by, gazing up at the white mansion on the corner. James I can hear before the clip-clop or the jangle of reins; I can tell it’s him just from the way he shouts “Mule!” One of those tiny little guys with a basso voice, and it projects into the second balcony. The women, Mickey and Maya, never come by here; I don’t know why. Maybe everyone has a circuit.

There goes Brendon now….