Louisiana Rain

Another Day in The Big Easy

  I work up the next morning around nine forty five, took a shower, then put on a clean t-shirt and underwear.

  I tried not to linger long in the bathroom. No one was in there at the time. Everyone in my room appeared to be either gone for the day or still sleeping off a hangover.

  Public restrooms and locker rooms are absolutely gross to me because in my opinion they are almost never cleaned properly, especially men’s rooms. I worry about all the fungus, molds and goos covering the walls and floors that I might touch while trying to get clean.

  After putting the dirty clothes in my car I went to the front porch of the hostel and found Jackie waiting for me smoking a cigarette. I asked, “How’d ya sleep?”

  She replied, “Much better. The tube of anti-itch medicine that Tamika gave me helped a lot. What are you doing for breakfast?”

  I commented, “I haven’t gotten that far yet in my thought process this morning. I guess I figured I’d find something to eat at the corner deli.”

  Jackie then told me, “Tamika gave me a cheese sandwich and some fruit cups from their refrigerator when you were in the bathroom. I actually ate it a few hours ago and have been waiting for you to wake up since.”

  I pointed out, “I thought you said that you needed eight hours of rest to not feel sick in the morning.”

  She smirked and said, “Well, sometimes I don’t need eight hours and feel OK with less. I only sleep that much if I’m tired.”

  Jackie and I headed for the corner store. I bought a liter sized bottle of diet coke, two bagels and a package of Slim Jims.

  Jackie blurted out, “Slim Jims are gross. Maybe it’s the name. I look at them and think of a guy with a slim pecker and what the taste of their cum might be like in my mouth. Yuck! Could you buy me a pack of cigarettes?”

  I ignored her comment about the meat sticks and asked, “What kind of cigarettes do you want?”

  I bought her a pack of Marlboro Menthols and she thanked me. Walking back to the hostel she inquired, “Can I have a few sips of your cola while you eat your food?”

  I snickered and said, “I knew you’d ask me to share. That’s why I bought a liter size instead of a twelve once can. She smiled.

  .

  Jackie smoked another cigarette and sipped Coke while I ate my makeshift meal on one of the front porch benches. As I picked at my food I inquired, “Do you have any relatives nearby or on my route back home?”

  She flashed me a suspicious look and asked, “Why?”

  I replied, “It’s pretty obvious you have little or no money and your sleeping accommodations here are not exactly stable. I think you should consider staying with a family member somewhere else if possible. It’s probably a lot safer than the streets. You might then be able to get a job and earn the money you need to eat regularly, get some better clothes and when you are back on your feet save something towards your travel plans.

  Hitchhiking your way to California is dangerous. I’d feel horrible if I read in the paper that they found your abandoned dead body in a ditch along a desert highway somewhere in New Mexico.”

  She gave me an oblivious confused look then thought a while about what I said while I finished eating. She reluctantly said, “OK,” after a few minutes contemplation.

  She confessed, “My grandmother lives in Cincinnati. It’s probably not a bad idea for me to stay there while I figured things out more.

  I sighed and then told her, “I’m planning on heading back North tomorrow morning.”

  Jackie grinned then responded, “Great then that means we still have a whole day for me to show me around the City more!”

  When I was finished eating Jackie noted, “We still have a several more rides left on the trolley pass. We should go to the French Market first, to look around.”

  I asked her, “Where’s the French Market?”

  She replied, “Downtown by the River and French Quarter.”

  I then asked, “What’s the French Market?”

  She answered, “A huge farmers or flea market where people can buy just about anything. I like to people watch there just as much as buying stuff.”

  It sounded interesting so I agreed and we walked to the trolley stop.

  The French Market

  We arrived at the French Market shortly after noon; there were lots of people, smells and sounds. It was bustling with lunchtime traffic from surrounding businesses along with tourists. Jackie made a beeline right to the open air flea market section. I followed and watched her from a short distance.

  Most of the people tending the wares looked pretty shady to me. My gut feelings did not trust them. At that time of my life I was uncomfortable with negotiating prices at these kinds of venues. If the cost of something was not clearly marked I got suspicious. I wondered if the item was stolen or the person was trying to screw me out of my money. I was clueless and did not understand that if I was assertive enough I could actually get a good deal.

  People who were missing teeth, talked with weird accents and dressed in weird outfits were supposed to be avoided not engaged in any conversation what so ever unless I wanted to risk getting robbed. To me, places like this were great for observing crowds but there was no way in Hell I’d attempt to buy anything because I was not familiar with the appropriate or associated rituals. I was fascinated though how what at first glance appeared to be two people arguing was actually a purchasing transaction in the works.

  Jackie started looking at a table with cheap plastic sunglasses and leftover Marti Gras beads. From there she went to some racks of homemade tie die t-shirts. Several vendors called at her to look at their stuff but she just ignored them as if they were not there despite their aggressiveness.

  I’ve always wondered why most women feel the need to look at and touch almost every piece of clothing in a display. It’s so annoying to watch them systematically pick up, spread out, caress and admire each individual article as if they really wanted to buy it yet in the end they just put it back and move on to the next one and do the same. Jackie spent ten to fifteen minutes doing that then moved on to a vendor who was selling jewelry and used cassette tapes.

  After looking at three or four silver rings and glancing over the titles Jackie asked, “Do you want to see what local people eat around here?”

  I answered, “Sure.”

  She then led me into a nearby building.

  The warehouse like structure we entered had a generic smell of fried food and pungent spices. Food dealers lined both sides of the building for a few hundred feet. Jackie took my arm and dragged me over to a booth.

  She joyfully asserted, “I want to show and tell you about all the different foods being served here.”

  Our first stop was at a table where ‘Esther’s Crackling Corn Bread’ was being pandered. Jackie grabbed two free samples and gave me one. I looked at the napkin and inquired, “What’s so special about these Johnny Cakes?”

  She pointed out, “They look and are made different. Lard and pieces of pork are put in the batter to change it up some.

  Eat the piece I just gave you. You’ll see what I mean.”

  I tried it and thought it was not bad but nothing I’d go out of my way for. It basically tasked like cornbread with bacon in it.

  The next place we passed sold Turducken sandwiches with sides of collard greens and Cajun dirty rice. I asked Jackie, “What the Hell is Turducken?”

  She replied, “They make it by putting strongly flavored stuffing inside a deboned chicken, which is placed inside a similarly prepared duck carcass and lastly a turkey then baked all together.”

  I thought about the combination a minute and said, “That actually sounds kind of good.”

  Jackie then warned me, “Don’t try anything from that stand because they didn’t do the recipe right. I think their recipe uses butter and lard. It’s way too greasy and the spices aren’t done r
ight.

  You’ll be very disappointed and there are many other better places than that one for a first time taste.

  I said, “OK.”

  We moved on to another spot.

  Naturally Jackie found more free samples. This vendor had a menu of all the different kinds of sausages they sold such as andouille, botifarra negra and boudin balls. Jackie tried one that looked like it was made with brown rice and gave me one that looked like blood sausage.

  I was not so sure about mine, smelled it then pressed my tongue on it to see how it tasted. It was actually good and more like sausage than I thought it would be. The constancy is all that seemed different because it was not as chunky feeling and did not require as much effort to chew. We quickly ate the first batch of samples. She want back for seconds.

  When Jackie came back she joked, “I can’t tell you how many times in the past that the samples offered here were the only food I ate during a day.

  Security won’t let drunks, people who look homeless or known panhandlers into the building so I had to do something to work around that obstacle. I figured out the obvious and learned to hide in plain sight.

  All I had to do was make sure my clothes and I were basically clean, dress like a college student or tourist then mingle with the crowds. No one ever noticed me because I blended in.

  As we passed a seafood po-boy hawker, Jackie said, “Yuck! The idea of a submarine sandwich made with fried, breaded shrimp makes me want to puke!”

  Our final destination was someone selling two kinds of jambalaya (creole and red) and gumbo, all of which made me want to throw up. While she was snagging more than her fair share of Dixie cup sized samples she observed my reaction and insisted “You’re crazy! Jambalaya and gumbo taste wonderful. I love it all and how all the flavors and textures dance on my tongue.

  I like it so much that I could eat it for three meals a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year!”

  I replied, “That stuff all looks like barf to me. I’d need to be real drunk to try it.” (Which is exactly how I did eventually come to try and like it several years later.)

 

  An entrance to the Farmers Market portion of the French Market was nearby.

  Once Jackie was through savoring another two slurps of gumbo she told me, “I want to see if there were any free desert samples in the next area. Sometimes people put out tastes of the pies, cookies and jellies they are selling.”

  The smell of the Farmers Market was overwhelming. It mainly smelled like rotten fish and produce. Visually though it appeared to be a Technicolor rainbow.

  The building was set up similarly to the one we just left. There were not as many people shopping here as the other two sections. I assumed that this bazaar was busiest early in the morning when the food being sold is freshest. There still appeared to be plenty of fully stocked stands and vendors though.

  Jackie paused when we entered and started scanning the distance for something. I also looked around to see what was being sold.

  It seemed like there was more of a variety of foods here than at the farmers markets back home. Yes, there were the standard displays of broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, beets, onions, potatoes, yams, apples, bananas, oranges, peaches, pears, several varieties of melons and some in season berries but what I saw so much more here and it was all fresh looking versus travel worn from being shipped North on a train or truck.

  There were also a number of people selling greens other than spinach and lettuce such as kale, collards, dandelions mustard greens and Swiss chard. Back North it seemed like there was only a limited selection of tomato and pepper strains whereas here there were at least a dozen kinds of each.

  I saw exotic fruits I’d never heard of at the time being peddled such as longan (dragon’s eye), carambola (star fruit), cherimoya, ugli and passion fruit. Strange vegetables like okra, rutabaga and cassava root were also there. I thought that this place would be a haven for restaurant cooks.

  The middle sections were dedicated to bulk products like coffee beans, tea leaves, herbs and spices like cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, several kinds of peppers(not black) and ginger in their kernel or unground forms.

  I had no concept of what fresh herbs and spices were. I grew up thinking that salt and black pepper were main spice stables and only occasionally would dried garlic, basil, oregano and cayenne pepper to be added sparingly to dishes being prepared because that was all my mother knew. Yet, here in front of me were huge stacks of fresh basil, cilantro, thyme, parsley, curry leaves and when I walked up to the stands and sniffed the individual plant bunches it was a whole different smell. A smell that stimulated taste buds as much as the nose.

  I began to understand why my girlfriend, who happened to work part time as a cook for a country club, made the comments she did about fresh herbs.

  There was even an individual that sold fresh sugar cane; something I doubt was ever sold further up north because most people wouldn’t know what to do with it.

  I saw shelves in one area selling home canned sweet and dill pickles as well as canned beets. It made me remember my grandmother’s canned beets. I missed the smell and the flavor and wondered if these tasted the same.

  The shelves also had mincemeat and several kinds of jellies and the seller to the right had baked goods like loaves of rye and French bread and three kinds of pies for sale.

  Jackie ultimately found want she was looking for. After she snapped out of her trance she noticed that I had walked away and went looking for me. She found me nearby gawking at produce, tapped my on the shoulder, then told me, “Hey. Follow me. You need to see this.”

  She brought me over to the final section of the farmers market where they sold fresh meat.

  A number of signs and menus were hanging above and in front of both refrigerated and non-refrigerated display cases. Most of the vendors looked like run of the mill meat cutters and sold pieces and parts of beef, chicken and pork as well as a wide range of cold cuts, salted and preserved meats.

  There were also fish mongers with seafood of every type like crawfish, oysters, shrimp and crabs along with regular cuts of fish that included catfish, bass and red fish. Some even did fish fries to order for customers upon demand, where a person could buy a fresh piece of fish from stand then bring it to the fish fryer and ask to have it cooked. It looked like they would also do shrimp, clams and/or whatever type of meat you gave them to cook.

  Those were not what Jackie wanted me to see.

  She brought me over to another place where several of the meat vendors looked like they were dragged straight out of the bayou that morning, right after wrestling a few alligators and hunting opossums all night.

  They were all shouting at each other, laughing and singing in Creole French. Their hair was long, grey and greased back. They wore un- buttoned long sleeved flannel shirts with faded jeans and large rubber boots. Two of the five men had mustaches and all of them looked like they had not shaved in a few days. I couldn’t tell if all their flair was for show to sell more of their goods or if they really meant it.

  Regardless, what they were selling and butchering there was what Jackie wanted me to see. She directed me, “Look at the menu above the counter. Have you ever eaten any of that stuff?”

  I asked Jackie, “Are they for real or are they just acting for show?”

  She said, “Nope. I’m no expert but I’ve known a few Cajuns and Creoles while living in this area and from what I’ve seen those guys are actually holding back some. They don’t want to offend or freak their city folk customers out with their quirky idiosyncrasies and customary nonsense.

  Cajuns are pretty weird in my opinion but you do get used to them after a while.”

  I looked at the daily special list on the chalkboard menu and read the list. It included alligator, snake, pigeon, opossum, frogs legs and turtle meat. I thought to myself, “Wow, people ac
tually buy this stuff.”

  This was also one of the busiest stands in the area. There were lines of people waiting to place an order and the men performed to simultaneously do their work and entertain customers while they waited.

  Jackie pointed out, “Grab some of those free samples. I want some meat.”

  I asked, “Have you tried alligator before?”

  She said, “Of course, yes.”

  I then inquired, “What’s it taste like?”

  Jackie smiled laughed, “It tastes just like what everyone says it does.”

  I retorted, “Are you saying it all tastes like chicken?

  She replied, “Yup, except for the opossum. That kind of takes on the taste of whatever it’s cooked with.”

  I smiled and told her, “I’ll take your word on that one.”

  We watched the men cut up an alligator and tell a story on how they caught it when I noticed some crawfish samples nearby. I went to try one but before I could get to it Jackie slapped my hand and told me, “Don’t eat that crap.

  If you want good crawfish I’ll bring you to a place on the same side of the city as the hostel later on today. You can get a lot more. It’s prepared fresher, tastes a lot better and only costs a fraction of the price they charge for it here.”

  I said, “Sounds good to me.”

  Jackie looked at a clock over one of the exits. It was around 1:30PM. She suggested, “We should take the trolley back the hostel and drive the car around to a few places I want you to see.”

  I agreed. By ten minutes after two we were in my car and Jackie was navigating us to our next location.

  New Orleans Botanical Gardens and Lake Pontchartrain

  I had no idea where Jackie wanted to go but at this point it didn’t really matter to me. She knew her way around well enough and I was open to the experience.

  She directed me to St. Charles from the hostel over to a thoroughfare of some sort. From there she had me driving northward and after a number of major intersections instructed me to turn. We then wove our way through another batch of side streets to what turned out to be the City Park.

  Once inside the park she had me follow signs to the New Orleans Botanical Gardens.

  When we were at the Garden Jackie told me, “ Park the car off of Lelong Drive. It’s just a little further ahead of us”

  I found Lelong Drive, turned, and parked the car on the side of the road at the first open spot I found, behind a tan Plymouth Reliant station wagon. I looked at my watch after taking the keys out of the ignition. It was around two twenty in the afternoon. Jackie got out of the car and said, “I love this place. It’s so peaceful and pretty. Follow me.”

 

  It turns out that Jackie was only interested in showing me a single spot where she liked to read, do homework and reflect. She noted, “I can’t tell you how many books I’ve read or times I got stoned here just hanging with friends or by myself thinking about what to do with my life.”

 

  I grabbed my camera before exiting the car and asked her, “What kinds of books do you like to read?”

  Jackie responded, “Used paperbacks because that’s all I can afford.”

  I laughed at her answer inside me head then restated my question more clearly, “Do you like to read fiction or non-fiction? Who are your favorite authors?”

  She replied, “Oh I’m not that good with remembering names and titles. They all blend together inside my head after a while. I like reading stories about people’s lives and their ideas. One of my favorite books was one that wondered if thought created language or if language creates thought. A few weeks ago I finished a book about a middle age guy who left his family and job to be an artist in Tahiti.”

  I was not familiar at the time with the books she described so I did not respond. Years later though I realized that she was probably talking about Heidegger’s “Letter on Humanism” and Somerset Maugham’s The Moon and Sixpence.

  We walked down a gravel path about two hundred feet from the car to a concrete stairway that lead down to a swamp disguised as a pond.

  Jackie then abruptly plopped herself down on the stairs, started scratching her stomach then pulled out the tube of anti-itch cream and started liberally rubbing it on her body in places as if no one was there with her. I looked around while she did her thing.

  The pond was probably one hundred and fifty feet across and three hundred feet wide. The water was greenish brown and I could not see anything but random bubbles coming up here and there from what I figured were snapping turtles or fish.

  There was a small island in the middle with a large red cedar tree growing on it. The tree looked very old but well cared for and had Spanish moss drooped all over its branches. Underneath the tree were several kinds of ferns of many shapes and sizes.

  There were half a dozen female and male mallard ducks paddling around the water’s surface quacking and looking for something to eat. Two where lingering near Jackie and I. No doubt-ably hoping that one of us might throw something in for them to eat.

  I took a few pictures of the area. The small breeze carried smells of nearby grilling food and chatting people into our general direction.

  When Jackie was done applying the medicine, she let out a long sigh of relief and found a cigarette to smoke. I mentioned, “You really should see a doctor about your skin.”

  She ignored me and smoked quietly, staring blankly at the other side of the pool of water. I think she was looking at a hedgerow or bird, but I was not sure.

  Thank God for Jackie’s limited attention span. It was hot in the direct sunlight. There was nothing especially interesting to watch or look at. I was not in the mood to think about anything more esoteric than getting in my car and turning on the air conditioning. I was getting bored.

  After finishing her Marabou and being there about ten to fifteen minutes Jackie snapped out of her trance and announced, “We need to go to another place that I was just reminded of.”

  Within a few minutes of leaving the park we were sitting on a concrete levy somewhere near Cancel Boulevard ended, on the South end of Lake Pontchartrain.

  It was around three o’clock in the afternoon according to my watch. I was getting hungry.

  There was a decent breeze and the lake was a little rough. It actually would have been a nice place to hang for a while if it weren’t for the strong smell of dead fish and rotten seaweed. Even Jackie noticed and didn’t want to stay long.

  We were only there about five minutes before Jackie blurted out, “The smell here is disgusting. I want to go somewhere else now.”

  I said, “I need to get gas and am hungry. Do you know if there are any gas stations and fast food restaurants nearby?”

  She said, “Yes,” then navigated me to a busy intersection a short distance away.

  Each of the four corners there had a business on it; An Exon gas station, an Arby’s restaurant with a drive through, a privately run convenience store and a funeral home.

  Jackie mumbled, “I’ve been to two services at that parlor; one for a college classmate from one of her classes who was hit by a car (which was more of a memorial because he was cremated and there was no casket) and another for a girlfriend’s grandmother who died of old age.”

  I charged a full tank of gas and checked the time again. It was 3:17PM. I asked Jackie, “Are you hungry for lunch at Arby’s? We could go across the street and use the drive through to get our food then figure out where we want to go next afterward.”

  Instead of answering my Jackie started digging determinedly through her purse. I asked her two more times but she seemed oblivious. After two or so minutes she stopped and pulled a ragged looking coupon out of her purse and handed it to me saying, “Yes.”

  The coupon was for a free large curly fry with the purchase of a regular Abby’s sandwich. The voucher expired two years ago.

  I told Jackie, “The
coupon is expired.”

  She replied and insisted, “Arby’s will accept expired coupons as long as you buy something.”

  Rather than argue I asked, “Do you want anything besides the fries?”

  She said, “A root beer with no ice would be great too, thanks.”

  I ordered two Arby’s sandwiches, just in case Jackie really wanted more but was too polite to ask, two curly fries, a medium cola and root beer. Jackie sarcastically barked over me at the order taker, “Make the root beer a large one and to please remember to put some mustard and Arby’s sauce in the bag for my fries!”

  I handed the cashier my credit card and the coupon. Jackie was correct. They accepted the expired coupon without saying anything (or they just didn’t check the date).

  After getting our food I pulled aside in the parking lot. Jackie stated, “I’m ravished,” then started ruffling through the bag.

  She then blurted out, “They fucking forgot the mustard!”

  Jackie had a pissed off look on her face and immediately stormed out of the car into the restaurant to get her mustard. It was amusing watching her be so mad for what I thought was such a little thing. I waited for her to return before eating.

  She came back with a small bag in one hand and a fist full of mustard packets in the other. She got back in the car smiling. She boasted, “They gave me a free dessert pie for the mistake and a shit load of coupons!” She moved the coupons from the bag into her purse, as well as the mustard.

  Jackie then proclaimed, “Arby’s curly fries taste like shit unless they are dipped in mustard or Arby’s sauce.” We started eating our food as we pulled out of the lot. She told me to take a right.

  After inhaling her fries and pie she asked, “Are you going to eat your second sandwich? If not is it OK for me to eat it?”

  I told her, “Go ahead and eat it. I figured you might want one but were afraid to ask out of politeness.”

  She beamed a wonderful smile in my direction, compassionately touched me on the knee and told me, “You are one of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met,” then ate the roast beef sandwich in three of four bites.

  As soon as I was done eating my plain curly fries Jackie asked me, “Are you up for a short road trip to some places just outside the City?”

  The car clock said it was about twenty minutes before four. I said, “Sure, why not?”

  She replied, “Great, “and guided me to a nearby highway on ramp. Within ten minutes we were driving down a stereotypical street in a residential development in some unknown suburb.