Out Of Jealousy

Gutter Punks

Straight To Work
I went straight out to play yesterday morning, after hiding my sleeping bag up in a tree. I was straight sober.
I chose Decatur Street, at a spot where there is an overhang about 20 feet above me and a dumpster parked 15 feet in front of me, corraling the sound somewhat.
It is in front of a closed business. The business may not be closed for long, as, there was a carpenter at work on the door trimmings.
His ladder was leaning in the doorway where I like to sit. I sat next to the ladder and opened my case and leaned my sign (the one that say's "Street Musician Stimulus Package," with an arrow pointed toward the case) on the ladder.
He soon arrived and said "You'll have to move your stuff."
He had a disapproving look on his face, fit for the likes of the "gutter punk" musicians, who frequent the area and are not really musicians, but are really punks. They use instruments as props in order to panhandle the tourists under the guise of performing. I could understand the carpenter's feelings, him being a laborer. I would have to play well enough to cause him to see me in a different light, or he might run his loud air compressor, just for spite...
I was perfectly sober and had a little bit of bronchitis-type symptoms of the throat. It was very difficult to get started.
My voice cracked on "Comfortably Numb" on the chorus (embarrassing), and I was struggling with anything above an "E" above middle C, so I did songs which didn't reach that pitch, then switched to instrumental stuff.
There was someone playing a violin (or a "fiddle," to her) a block up the street. It was the girl with strawberry colored hair, who I had talked to the night before, when I was riding around sizing things up and exploring areas where I had never been.
She suggested then, that I play on the spot that she was just about to vacate. I guess she had done pretty well, as evidenced by the money that she was scooping out of her hat. I only saw one five dollar bill, though, typical of New Orleans.
I didn't choose to play there because I was in a foul mood and also because, what works for a girl playing violin (or fiddle,) doesn't necessarily work for a guy with an acoustic guitar. I decided to go back to the sleeping spot and wake up broke the next (this) morning, thus forcing myself to play sober, a block down the street from her.
She was playing pretty well, a block up the street, and drawing attention; the volume of her instrument working in her favor. She sounded better than she had the previous night when I encountered her. My "foul mood" at that time almost had me riding by her saying something like "I wish I was a young female, so I could suck and still make oodles of money!"
I'm glad that I didn't, because she turned out to be friendly and informative and a better musician than I had thought. Besides, there are enough people in New Orleans who think that I am a jerk; mostly those whom I never give anything to for free; they are annoyed at the sight of me; can't fathom my reason for being...
I sat there, as the strains of her fiddle poured down the sidewalk, and a lady stepped out of one of the shops and, shrieking and clapping yelled: "I can hear you; you sound great!," thinking that I had to elevate the level of my playing in order to compete, and thought about how in other places like Mobile, the novelty of being a street musician was in itself enough to earn appreciation (in all denominations.)
I could have been discouraged, as I wondered at the wisdom of staying in a city where one must be at his best at all times, just to make a living. But, leaving would be a cop-out.
I decided to put my nose to the grindstone and play my best song at this time: "Chinacat Sunflower," by the Grateful Dead.
I guess the adrenaline resultant from being spurred on by the fiddle player up the street kicked in, and I played a pretty good Chinacat Sunflower. A man, who had just walked by the fiddle player and probably threw her a tip, put five bucks in my case, validating my art and getting me over the hump of being absolutely sober at the ungodly hour of 11 a.m.
Then, the sound of the fiddle stopped abruptly. She must have gotten a 20 dollar tip (from the guy that gave me five?) and called it quits. There is too much to see and enjoy here to keep working after making ones quota...
I played for a little over 2 hours and counted $13.87, before taking a break to come to this library and find it closed for no apparent reason (celebrating October 21st?).
I spent 2 bucks on a hard lemonade, breaking my self imposed ban on drinking for the entire day (just to see what fruit it yielded,) and then went back to the same spot where I played another couple hours, knocking off at 7 p.m., an hour before the ban on performing on Decatur Street kicks in. I didn't want to lose track of time, then be reminded by an officer with a citation in his hand, that it was after 8p.m.
Another hard lemonade and a ride to Royal Street, near Rouse's Market, where the nice Tonya and Dorise were performing, came next.

Tonya's Fingers

Tonya was playing less than perfectly (not so that non-musicians would notice) and seemed to have a troubled look on her face. She kept going to her cellphone in between songs. When people approached her (usually to request certain songs,) she evinced annoyance, with the exception of when I approached and got a warm smile.
I took a picture of her fingers as she played, from a distance of about 4 inches, using my "macro" setting. She said "Oh, I like that!" when I showed it to her.
I finished the night over on Canal Street, in between The Marriott Hotel, and Arby's.
I was getting more drunk by then, after adding just two or three more beers to the hard lemonade, but I didn't "black out" and so, I remember swarms of people throwing tips in my case, all one's and some change.
I would say that, by the time I quit at about 11 p.m., mostly due to finger soreness (there were still enough people walking around, and some of them tip just because of what you are doing and not because you are playing so well because your fingers aren't sore, but I am too proud to play to less than my potential, even if my excuse is that I had been at it for 6 hours), I had gotten about 26 people to throw something in my case (counting the guy with the five.)
This is a realistic and unexagerated tally. I played for about 5 and a half hours and made 31 bucks.
It's good to know that I can make 31 bucks, if I put my mind to it, plus, it is a "numbers game," and any one of those people could have been "the guy that throws a hundred dollar bill in your case," a creature a lot like Bigfoot; some musicians swear to have encountered him...
Sue's Woes Continue
I went back to the sleeping spot, where Sue immediatly started to rearrange her stuff, clearing a place right next to her, making me feel welcome.
She asked me if I made any money "...a little bit?"
"Yeah, a little bit," I said.
I asked her to guard my stuff while I made an (unbidden) run to Brother's Market, the store where they sell the fries that she likes. (She doesn't go there herself, because she has a quarrel with one of the Spanish ladies who works there, but that is "business as usual" for Sue, and a story for another time.)
I took the question about making money as kind of a hint, and I wanted to "beat her to the punch" and not put her in the awkward position of having to ask me to run and get her some fries. Kooky, as it turned out, was "starving," too.
There was some fried chicken laying on the sidewalk in front of the store; a breast and a thigh.
I went in the store and got my last beer of the night, and a large order of fries, ordering them in Spanish..."Quisiera comprar unas papas fritas; grande, con ketchup" (I don't think "ketchup" is a Spanish word, but they understood me...)
I picked up the chicken off the ground, once outside, and put it in the plastic bag with the fries and beer, thinking as I did, how many people might have been watching and thinking "that's disgusting, he's going to eat food off the sidewalk" and also thinking how few people might be watching and thinking anything at all...nor caring who ate what off of where...
Sue questioned the chicken for Kooky, "You didn't get this out of the dumpster did you?"
I told her that it was "cold" because it was in the bag next to my beer, and that I had asked them for a piece of chicken for "my" cat.
Sue was happy, kooky was happy, and I was happy to be beside Sue, without her being beside herself with irritation. We all went to sleep.
In the morning, Sue noticed that the clasp that she uses on her hair, and which she had clipped to her backpack, was missing.
She hasn't gotten over it. The theory is that one of the guys who was "begging" her to sleep next to him took it out of jeolousy...