The day after Christmas was a Wednesday. It was cold, with a wind chill which made it feel like 32 degrees.
I walked the streets and saw people fashionably dressed (if freezing yourself is in vogue) and seemingly out there because they had planned and booked their "Christmas In NOLA" well in advance and were figuring "We might as well see the French Quarter, that's what we came for..." One young lady almost screamed as the wind rippled through her tight leather jacket and around her painted-on jeans.
Correction: DID scream.
I had woken up that morning
under Simon Boliver at about 7 a.m. and walked to the Westin Hotel to post yesterdays musings and then gone across the river, where my Coleman sleeping bag had been stashed, to finish sleeping.
under Simon Boliver at about 7 a.m. and walked to the Westin Hotel to post yesterdays musings and then gone across the river, where my Coleman sleeping bag had been stashed, to finish sleeping.
At the ferry terminal, I ran into Howard, who was on his way back across the river having already performed his routine, with breakfast and coffee and then a trip to the library, which had exasperated him.
Howard's Library Boycott  |
| Keep It Down Up There! |
I pulled out and handed to him the days paper, which I had found sitting on a table at the Westin Hotel.
"Oh, thank you."
He was carrying a supply of cardboard, folded under his arm. I figured that the Grinch must have come in the form of the Christmas rains and ruined his other cardboard.
"Man, was it cold last night," said Howard. "It wasn't so much the cold, but the wind!"
I thought about how uncomfortable I had been under the statue armed with approximately the same degree (pun intended) of thermal protection that Howard had at his disposal, then factored in the wet ground upon which he would have been forced to repose; him not having the advantage of the benevolent Simon Boliver overhead to thwart the rain and a lot of the wind, and said "Yeah, I know what you mean. I must have slept a total of 45 minutes all night."
"I'm going to the other (Algiers) library," said Howard, starting a boycott of the screwed up one that doesn't even have todays papers, and, "Even when they come in, the black people grab them right away and you can't even get to them for three hours; and then they're missing a section or two...ridiculous! Boy, I really miss the Mobile library!"*
*He praised the Ben May branch of the Mobile (Alabama) public library with such encomiums as "They always have the papers first thing in the morning and they arrange them neatly in the right holders; and you can just tell that the people who work there take pride in their library!"
He offered me his "old" cardboard, which the stiff wind had pretty much dried out as they hung in the American Red Cedar branches for most of the morning.
Then, he offered me his "brand new" cardboard "to make a (pillow) for your head."
I decided not to use his new cardboard in that manner, opting to use my backpack, stuffed with a towel and some of the few items of clothing that weren't on my body, instead.
I envisioned him returning from the library after I had fallen into my deepest sleep and wanting his cardboard back. Then, perhaps not wanting to disturb me, he would lay down without the cardboard, but wouldn't be able to take his rest due to a raging internal conflict over weather or not he should gently wake me and politely ask for his cardboard back, or let me sleep.
I began to layer my fleece blankets inside my sleeping bag.
"Wow, how many blankets do you have?" asked Howard.
"Three, I said," then rethought.
"Four, counting this one," I said, retrieving one which I had wedged in the branches overhead, covered by a plastic bag which, I discovered, had failed to keep it dry. "But it's kind of wet," I added as I draped it over a limb to give it a chance to air out in the breeze.
"Oh, wow!," reiterated Howard. ...I'm not just out there stumbling around drunk; I'm making things happen!..
On Christmas morning, after I had crawled out from under the dock, I ran into two homeless guys who had been "there" for two years, according to one; who also asked me for a cigarette.
I told them about my experience of having my backpack spilled out along the tracks the previous evening, and they told me about a "little black guy who rides a bike" who is only seen at night and who had gotten their backpacks once; forcing them both to "start all over."
"He's very quiet," they added.
I thought to myself: I guess one good thing about never making it very far is that it isn't such a hassle to "start all over" -kind of like drawing the "Go back to Go; do not collect 200 dollars" card when you haven't even made it to Vermont Ave. yet.
I became filled with the Spirit of Christmas and said: "I'm going to the store to get a pack; I'll bring you back a cigarette."
I still had the 50 plus dollars in my pocket from the guy from Houston whom I had jammed with (minus the cost of one expensive (Samuel Adams Winter Ale) beer which I had splurged upon in my Benadryl haze before failing to catch the last ferry; and so I felt that I could afford only the second pack of cigarettes which I would have bought since arriving in New Orleans about 3 weeks ago.
"Do you want to leave your stuff here; we'll watch it," said one of them; trying to insure my return with the cigarette.
Too many variables; too many things could have gone wrong with that arrangement. What if someone came along and announced to them: "The guy is handing out 100 dollar bills RIGHT NOW in Jackson Square!!" Then what would the guys who'd been there for two years do, in the middle of guarding my stuff; hoping for a cigarette.
"No, my guitar never leaves my back; just an old habit..."
He walked along with me; lecturing to me as he did, about taking "the short path" in life; and surrounding myself with the kind of people who can make things happen quickly.
He talked about how when he came to New Orleans he took certain very calculated actions in order to put his name "out there," and soon he became known as "the guy" to go to to have body painting done.
He soon got a call from Remy Martin, the cognac producers, asking him to paint a likeness of their (new) bottle upon three nude women, who were going to prance thus, down a runway, at a special party where the new design would be unleashed upon the world.
 |
| His Fingerprints All Over Her... |
Sticking to his principles, Alexander told the agent that he would have to check out their company and would get back to them.
He Googled Remy Martin to learn that they were indeed a "big deal," saw nothing offensive about them, and returned the call to accept the commission.
This turned out to be in his favor because "Who, the hell tells Remy (friggin) Martin that they will think about it and get back to them?!?"
Serious artists, according to Alexander.
He was able to negotiate a 7 thousand dollar fee (for 5 hours of work) and the bottle models made a huge splash at the party, which was attended by millionaires and celebrities, such as New Orleans Saints players.
"Remy Martin is worldwide and they don't mess around; they want the very best," was Alexanders assessment.
I guess "the very best" think about things and then get back to you, rather than saying "Remy Martin?!? Oh, hell yeah! Count me IN!!!"
 |
| More Alexander De Santiago |
Alexander said that he has been given a space for his future studio, and it is right across the street from the Roosevelt Hotel, where he will be able to work; to display his work; and to sleep.
He said that he was looking to extend a helping hand to other artists (or musicians) by letting hem share the place; but only sought those who understood about taking "the short track" to success by associating with people who can help make it happen.
I told him that I would have to check him out and would get back to him.
"That's good!" he laughed.
He thanked me for publicizing his work (if you ca call my 32 regular and dozen or so daily "strays" publicity!) in a previous post when I told him that I had done so.
Well, he accompanied me to the spot where the two homeless guys were still (and had been for two years) and we walked up upon them, just as one of them had a pack of cigarettes in his hand and was pulling one out.
I still gave him the one that I promised; as he sat there looking guilty.
Then, a group of people from the church at 711 Dauphine Street (The Veaux Carre Baptist Church) walked up and handed us each a bag containing snack items; a Christmas card, and to bring this story around full circle; fleece blankets.
The Candy Cane
Each bag had a candy cane and we were handed literature explaining the significance of certain facets of it.. The red represents the blood of Christ; the white His purity; etc.
I gave my candy, including the cane, to the homeless guys who had been there for two years; and Alexander, in turn, gave me the fleece blanket out of his bag, which added to the one that I got; gave me the total of the 4 fleece blankets; which would impress Howard so much.
After I had caught up on my sleep and walked the streets, hearing the shrieks of tourists as the cold attacked them; I decided to spend just $4.35 on a half pint of brandy (to warm my blood) and then go to Rouse's Market for a salad and a piece of steamed salmon, which is what I did.
Then, I decided to call it a day and spend the late afternoon into the evening wrapped in my blankets and sleeping bag; until the forecast for a warmer Thursday came to fruition.
The sleeping bag was a huge improvement over just the fleece blankets.
I was toasty warm; yet felt a depression settling in.
At least, when I was in the Quarter trying to busk; I was doing something. Here I wasplanning to lay there and wait for the cold air to blow through. Just wait.
I felt useless.
I remembered why, in 11 years at a certain job; I never took a day off. Only once, and that day I felt worse than if I had actually been sick.
I lied there; regretting the post of the previous day; which I felt was going to make whoever read it feel bad ...maybe I should sugar coat everything and never mention the unpleasantness...even though I left out some more horrid details.
And I began to rehash experiences from as far back as the age of 19 and revisit my negative emotions over every time that I had messed up or every time someone was a jerk towards me...
I remembered competing with other 20 year olds over girls and the stupid egotistical behaviors which that spawned and how the image that we were trying to project and what we were trying to instill within the young ladies was that in us was the promise that we were bound for Greatness and would never see the day when we were coiled up in a sleeping bag on the banks of the Mississippi River.
I guess we were all indistinguishable from the Clarksons of the world back then.
I Turn Around
I Turn Around
But then, because, or maybe in spite of the fact that I was relatively sober; I was able to put a positive spin on a few things. I meditated for a while and then soon was thinking about Howard; who was in a winter jacket with a blanket over him but without the benefit of a sleeping bag.
...Why didn't I grab that green sleeping bag which was sitting next to the red one which I had gotten for myself?...
The reason was that I didn't want to suffer the embarrassment of toting the bag along Decatur Street, under my arm and under the judging eyes of the tourists; all the way to the ferry, which I might have to wait for up to a half hour for; taking time away from busking; so that I could drape it over the sleeping body of Howard; who would eventually wake up and say "Oh, wow!"
Instead, I stuffed the one bag into my pack; and then ran into the "Clarksons" whose comment caused the same embarrassment; and then I didn't make any more money that night, either.
It all made sense.
I was just about to take the blanket which had been hung over the limb to dry and to put it over him and was turning over in my bag; ready to get up and do so when I saw Howard taking the very same blanket off the tree, punctuated by the snap of a twig. I think he was trying to be sneaky about it.
I walked over to him and asked: "Are you warm enough?"
His first reaction and the way he looked at me made me think that he was afraid that I had come to take the blanket back.
"No, not really..."
I went back to my bag and took one of the three blankets which were keeping me toasty warm out of it and went over and draped it over Him.
"Oh, Thank you!" he said.
I went back to sleep, not feeling quite as useless, and resolving to make some resolutions for the new year.
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