Should have seen it in the cards...

I Barely Escape Mobile
Thursday, August 25th was the day that I had finally decided to leave Mobile, instead of waiting upon things to improve.
I went to a spot to catch the next train to New Orleans, a spot which was near the International Trade Center building, which was where I was arrested for trespassing, back in April.
I sat and waited for the train. It came and stopped with a grain car right in front of me. I threw my bag and my guitar on the flat platform which that type of car has at each end, in like a cubbie hole.
I had just sat down when I saw a Mobile Police car coming down the road in my direction. He drove to the where the road dead-ended at the railroad tracks and spun around, parked and then sat there, about 100 feet from where I sat. It was a spot which would give him the element of surprise if I was to emerge from the bushes and step onto forbidden property.
The same people who had me arrested for trespassing must have called the police upon spotting me nearby. They might have thought that I was going to use their water spigot again and were prepared to throw me in jail for every ounce that I took.
The train ride
Thankfully, the train began to move. I ducked down and peered through a small hole which was cut into the side of the grain car as I passed the cop sitting in his car, probably watching in his rear view mirror for me to emerge and take one step onto the state property, so he could make the bust.
A little further along, to my left, was a Port Authority cop, who seemed to be positioning himself to offer backup, in case I should have decided to make a run for it. Tax money well spent in protecting a water spigot from unauthorized use; but all for not, this time. Sorry, taxpayers.
As the train picked up speed and entered the tunnel under the Mobile Convention Center, I couldn't help wondering if the cops were eventually going to call the CSX Railroad people and tell them that they might have a train
hopper on their hands, after I seemed to vanish into thin air. This concerned me the first few times the train stopped, starting in West Mobile. I eventually figured out that they were stopping to let other trains pass them in spots where there were two sets of tracks.
It was loud. I tried yelling and could barely hear myself. I sat and read Beach Music, by Pat Conroy, in between watching the scenery going by and trying to estimate the speed of the train by counting seconds between known distances, like the distance between utility poles. We were doing around 65 miles per hour, according to my math. No car running parallel to the train on the 50 mph speed limit road, passed it.
It was fun, at times. It went through Gulfport and Biloxi, as noted on their respective water towers.
After crossing the 20 miles of swamp of which I was told to expect, the train finally started to slow and I noticed that we were passing by a huge junkyard.
(I later learned that the huge junkyard was the city of New Orleans.)
The smell of urine assaulted me, to go along with the visuals of a city still recovering from natural disaster.
Getting off the train, I had to wander a while in order to find a way to get out of the rail yard.
I got to a little store, where I spent one of my three dollars on a beer, and asked directions to The River walk. I was told that it was "like six miles; maybe ten," by someone who is depth-perception challenged, I assume. I kept asking people and they kept pointing in the same direction. I walked on into the night, past rubble and decrepit buildings.
I Find A Place To Sleep
Eventually making it to the downtown area, I found myself tired from carrying all my stuff 6 miles, or maybe 10, and parched. I began to search downtown New Orleans for a water fountain (that's a bubbler to you New Englanders), and, finding none, began to look in trash cans until I found a half full bottle of spring water. It was in a can in front of a reputable bank, so I gambled upon the safety of drinking it. Dying of thirst was a pretty good bet otherwise.
Then, the same search for water led me to a place where I could feel cool air coming out of a huge vent on a building which was under construction. Eventually , the leak will probably be sealed but for now, it blows into a little tunnel, made of scaffolding and plywood and serving as a temporary entrance to a not often used door.
There was a shopping cart with a few things in it, and a piece of cardboard over a scrap of carpet, and a little backpack. Everything except the homeless guy. A quick inspection of the backpack (for informational purposes, not to steal anything) led me to think that the owner might not be trying to sleep there that night. The most recent date on anything in the bag was two years past. Plus, it was already 2 a.m. -pretty late for the average homeless guy to be out since most of them have to be out of their sleeping spots at sun up, before someone shows up for work at the reputable bank.
There was a fountain right down the street with chlorinated water shooting high into the Louisiana night, which made for a good washing machine. People had thrown change into it for luck, I suppose. I took 80 cents and left the rest in it for luck, I suppose.
The next morning, I walked towards the downtown area. I stopped at the first motel, a Holiday Suites, I think was the name, and asked the front desk lady if there was a water fountain there. She directed me to it, as opposed to telling me that it was for guests only, which was a good sign. The water was ice cold and delicious. (4 Stars for the Holiday Suites in NOLA.)
Arriving at Canal Street, on the edge of the French Quarter, I ran into my first homeless guy, who was panhandling by the Walgreens at the trolley stop.
I tried to probe him for information about "resources for the homeless," like food and clothing, but all I could really get out of him was that he needed a dollar and some change in order to get a pint of vodka; and then he would be all set, not a care in the world...
That night, I played for money for the first time in New Orleans. I made $11.50, and five of that was from a tarot card reader named "Dragonfly," who gave me the five bucks for my spot because she said it was her spot, but wanted to be fair about it....
$11.50. Welcome to the "Big Easy."
Someone Laces My Drink
People have told me that, in New Orleans, people will just walk up to you and hand you money or beer or drinks or food.
Someone gave me a tall plastic cupfull of a red liquid, which he told me was a "hurricane," as I was playing on Canal Street, late Saturday night. I knew that the drink came from one of the establishments, as evidenced by the cup it was in, and the fact that the young guy had just emerged from the place. I trusted it in that regard. It tasted like it had tequila, rum and fruit punch.
It turned out that I lost the next two hours and had to listen to people the next day tell me of the things that I did, that I would never do.
I think that the guy who gave me the drink was innocent of wrong-doing. I don't think he planned upon following me until I sucumed, and then stealing my guitar. I think whoever gave it to him was probably a fag who had plans for the guy. I wasn't followed; but rather was saved by running into another guy who I went to the park with, before walking around town spaced out.
Dragonfly, the tarot card reader is angry with me because I supposedly walked up to the lady who was having her cards read by another tarot card reader, "Shadowman,"  and asked her for a dollar for a beer.
The tarot card readers were the first friends that I made when I came here. I would never want to do a thing like that to them; I would never ask anyone for money like that either.
He said that I was "really spaced out."
Shadowman has forgiven me, Dragonfly, not yet. "This is New Orleans," said the forgiver...