The Nomadic Life

New Orleans

Laissez les bons temps rouler

Let the good times roll

Chapter 27

There is a lot of time to think while driving to New Orleans.  I have three long hours to sift through memories regarding certain choices and mistakes I have made in my past. No one knows of those errors in judgement, and I can once again start anew. Excitement buzzes through me. The Crescent City never sleeps and is known for a festive atmosphere. The thought of the fun and excitement I will enjoy in the bars which are always open. But then there is the apprehension, when I realize the bars are always open.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to start over. When I moved to Birmingham, I told myself I wouldn’t go back to Jackson. But deep down, I knew better. My heart was never in it. Alabama was just an escape from Richard and Jackson, not a fresh start really. It felt too much like Mississippi, the same climate, the same people, the same unshakable sense of familiarity. But New Orleans… New Orleans is something else entirely. A city unlike any other, pulsing with life, drowning in music, bursting with secrets.

I have visited before, and every time, I enjoyed myself beyond measure. Incredible food, nights that stretched into the morning, and stories I would never dare tell. I had never experienced Mardi Gras, but I’ve heard the whispers. “You’ll see things,” they say, and they never explain further. Just that. You will see things.

Then reality grips me. A thousand dollars. That’s all I have left from my student loan. Will it be enough? I have no friends here, no couch to crash on. Just me, alone. I do have a plan, if you can call it that. Eight dollars buys me twelve hours in a bathhouse, fourteen if I want a tiny room with a TV and a thin mattress. But really, a locker is all I need. A place to stash my clothes and my few valuables. I can sleep wherever, once I get used to the noise and the music. I have slept in worse places like on hard metal benches in parks and my car. You are a survivor, and you will make it just fine I keep telling myself.

This situation is not forever. It never is.

I meet and elderly man in Good Friends, a bar known to cater to the older crowd. He mentions the YMCA as an alternative to the bathhouse and explains it is only a few bucks more than “that place.” The kind man reiterates how important it is to have my own space, my own room.

“That will allow you the proper rest a young feller needs to find a proper job,” he says in a fatherly tone.

Before leaving he slaps me on the back, “you take care now, ya hear?” And with that, he is gone.

I sit for a little while longer. I pull my wallet out to get one last “separator,” a frozen drink that refreshes on a hot day like today, and the bartender says to put my money away, “Carl already paid for your next drink.”

“That was kind of him,” I say, placing a dollar on the bar for his friendly and prompt service.

It is time to get my ass in gear and rent that room at the YMCA. Tomorrow will start a new day filled with hope and possibilities.

Like Blanche DuBois, I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers, and today I learn that I am not the “most miserable person god ever wiggled a gut into,” as Richard always told me I was.

I frequent a few local “hot spots” I have heard about. In my quiet and shy mode, I watch people and eavesdrop on conversations. I study and learn. Who are the most well-known of the locals, and more importantly, who are the most liked. The two are not mutually exclusive. Being well known does not always equate to being liked. I learned that lesson early on in my life. I need to associate myself with the popular, friendly and affluent “regulars.” The boisterous me will have to keep himself hidden until such time as it is safe for him to come out and play.

Eventually, I find work as a dishwasher at Mrs. Jean’s, a restaurant popular with the gay crowd. Sunday brunch is a big deal there. The job is not a glamorous one, but it’s something. Just in time, too, I’m nearly out of money. A stroke of luck keeps me afloat. One night, I hit five hundred bucks on a poker machine. A gift from the gambling gods offering up a little more breathing room.

The walk to work is brutal. New Orleans may have short blocks, but the summer heat is relentless. By the time I get to Mrs. Jean’s, I’m drenched, out of breath and exhausted. But at least I eat well. Working in restaurants has always meant free meals, a perk I never take for granted.

Mrs. Jean’s husband works the bar. Or at least, he’s supposed to. He drinks more than he pours, and by the end of the night, he is snockered, nearly unconscious behind the counter. One night, there is a convention in town, and the drink orders flood in. He’s too far gone to function, and Mrs. Jean is furious. She can handle wine, maybe a simple cocktail, but she does not know how to make a Tom Collins much less a Long Island Iced Tea. I see she is desperate and offer to step in.

For hours, I mix drinks, keeping the bar afloat. The customers finally place their orders for dinner, and I am able to resume my place at the sink. Only one thought fills my mind. I need to find a job as a bar tender. I now know that I am happies when mixing drinks.

Soon, I land a bartending gig at Le Round Up, a well-known hustler bar. They give me the morning shift. At 7 a.m., my bar is filled with the leftovers of last night’s party. I pour coffee until they are ready to stumble out and head home. Later, the afternoon regulars trickle in, along with other bartenders, stopping by for a Bloody Mary before they crash for the day. As bartenders we tend to support one another, and they come for my renowned Bloody Mary. Our bar serves them with a pickled green bean as the garnish instead of the usual celery stalk. Other bars may serve pickled okra, and one even serves theirs with a boiled shrimp on a skewer. Each bartender who works the morning shift makes his or her own recipe. Some make theirs extremely spicy, touting New Orleans famous Tabasco sauce, others go a little heavy on the horseradish, but my Bloody Mary mix has become a local favorite. I keep my secret ingredient to myself, but it gives the drink a depth, a smokey and lingering flavor that keeps them coming back.

Working as a bartender you meet a lot of people, and I do mean a lot. From all walks of life, each has a story to tell. I never tire of listening and enjoy every second I work behind the bar. As the morning shift is slow, I am responsible for cleaning the floor. Never a pleasant task but one that has to be done. That is where my biggest tips come from. On more than one occasion I have been known to find a twenty-dollar bill on the floor and once even a one-hundred-dollar bill. And no, I did not advertise I had found it as everyone would have said they dropped it. I considered it, as they say in New Orleans, Lagniappe, (LAN-yap) a little something extra.

I spend over two years in New Orleans and gain valuable life experiences. I live, I enjoy and even fall in lust a few times, but after a while it becomes obvious, New Orleans is not for me. It is a tourist city, a party town, a playground for drifters and lost souls who may never find their way back. It is a beautiful city, rich in history and ambiance, but it is not a place for a young man with dreams and aspirations that go beyond bartending, drinking and long nights that blur into dawn.

I leave The Crescent City a changed man. Not as naive as I had been when I arrived, but still with a lot to learn about life, love and that ever illusive happiness that always seems to be just out of reach. My time in New Orleans eases my shame, teaching me that I am not a sinner, and can live openly and freely, at least within the safe confines of the French Quarter.

As I contemplate my next move, a question presses heavy on my heart. Surely there must be a place where I do not have to hide my truth or relegate it to the shadows of a single neighborhood. There must be a place where I can exist openly, freely and without the weight of judgment pressing down upon me the moment I step beyond familiar streets. Where is the place that accepts everyone? When will my travels lead me to a life where I am no longer forced to measure my authenticity against the safety of my surroundings?

These questions and more are what keep the nomad in me wandering.