The Continuing Story Of Bungalow Leslie
And, by now, it is Wednesday afternoon, and I am on the Algiers side of the river.
Howard is sitting right over there, in the corner, reading the sports page...
Howard As Mentor
He has been tutoring/babysitting a young brown skinned boy of about 4 years old; who developed a curiosity about him one day; which led to conversation between he and the boy; followed by him meeting the mother; a skinny brown skinned lady in her thirties possibly Haitian (though I'm terrible with brown skinned island dwelling races) and eventually to him occupying the boy's attention and enriching him with story telling, coloring, block construction and board game playing at the library while the mother might run errands.
This seems to have had a rejuvenating effect upon Howard.
But it has meant that he is seldom seen at the New Orleans branch of the library; and so; I must cross the river in order to visit him.
I would like to continue our football prognosticating contest; after missing the past 2 weeks.
I basically blame myself (because I take responsibility for everything which happens) for missing the past 2 weeks of our competition; but I was hanging around with Leslie; crashing at his place and then finding us walking around together the entire day and as far into the night as his blood alcohol level would permit, before I would get a few hours of solitude at the ends of each day.
By then, I had neglected all of my planned activities.
In The Dark Again
Some of them, I deem important; like the acquisition of some kind of light; a reading light or a small LED flashlight (9 hours on 3 batteries) for my playing spot.
The house across the street; which owner had installed an extra spotlight to illuminate my spot, telling me the next morning: "I figured you could use some light; you're kinda in the dark" now has doused those* spotlights in favor of an elaborate Christmas display which consists of all kinds of lights but none of them bright enough to cross the street and illuminate the tiposaurus and its sign (Which I have changed from "The tiposaurus won't bite," to "The tiposaurus rarely bites," by the way; thinking it to be a bit more titillating to the tourists) and so, I should buy some kind of spotlight of my own; before I run totally out of money...right Leslie?
The Man In The Red Shirt
Saturday night, as Leslie and I sat on Lillys step playing guitar and 2 harmonicas; along came the "vagabond" who bangs on a drum and sings.
He had captured the attention and dollars of a small group of tourists.
He seized them right in front of the spot where I used to play, before the man who sleeps directly behind that spot in an historical house which predates soundproofing, came out one night and politely asked me if I would stop playing at 10 p.m. each night.
That was when Lilly had stepped in and said "Play on my step."
The vagabond got greedy and implored the tourists to hear one more song.
This was the song which broke the camels eardrums as (I was in the restroom at the time) the same man emerged, wearing a red shirt and said something to the vagabond; which led to a heated altercation, during which the vagabond responded with "That guy plays guitar here all the time (pointing to Leslie and my guitar) why can't I play here!" at one point.
Then the man in the red shirt approached Leslie, and said "Not again! If you play again, I'm calling the cops!"
I heard all of this from Leslie after I returned, though all of the parties had dispersed except for Leslie, who was watching my rig.
Leslie was happy to disperse quickly for another beer; having been shaken a bit by the mans threats.
I sat there by myself.
Soon the head of the man poked out of his doorway and looked my way.
He walked over and, in his red shirt, reiterated pretty closely what Leslie had reported hearing.
He said "If I see you here; well if I see you here playing; I'll call the cops"
But then he added "You're bringing the neighborhood down!"
I don't know if he thought that we were all banging on the drum and singing together; or if we had invited the vagabond to stop there and play (he usually does one song then keeps moving) or if he was referring to the presence of Leslie as being the factor which was bringing the neighborhood down, but he added that anyway.
I Am The Pawn In This Game
I sat there not playing and letting things sink in...first the spotlight gets turned off; now this...when happened to emerge Lilly from her gate on the side of the house furthest from the man in the red shirt.
"Oh, he's a lawyer. He's a jerk. Play on this side right in front of my gate. If the cops show up just ring my doorbell," said Lilly.
I played in front of Lillys gate for about another hour; made some money although it was pretty dark with just the Christmas lights; no cops showed up (at one point one drove past, uninterestedly) and that was how Saturday night ended.
Though it has already ended in this blog a couple posts ago, I thought I would go "back" and insert the lawyer anecdote; in case it comes to any import in the future.
Moving Out
I slept under the dock last night; woke up pretty depressed; but now I have full reign over my life, I don't have to answer Leslies' text messages if I don't want to, and I won't consider crashing at his place.
Last night I didn't get him as drunk as usual with my money.
He was a bit irritable at the house; complaining about me opening the refrigerator (which I had stuffed with food) for a midnight snack; and he complained about cigarette smoke for the first time since I have known him; and he complained that he was sober.
I left to sleep under the dock at about 2:30 a.m.
Karrie, where are you??
He hasn't messaged me all day...
And, by now, it is Wednesday afternoon, and I am on the Algiers side of the river.
Howard is sitting right over there, in the corner, reading the sports page...
Howard As Mentor
This seems to have had a rejuvenating effect upon Howard.
But it has meant that he is seldom seen at the New Orleans branch of the library; and so; I must cross the river in order to visit him.
I would like to continue our football prognosticating contest; after missing the past 2 weeks.
I basically blame myself (because I take responsibility for everything which happens) for missing the past 2 weeks of our competition; but I was hanging around with Leslie; crashing at his place and then finding us walking around together the entire day and as far into the night as his blood alcohol level would permit, before I would get a few hours of solitude at the ends of each day.
By then, I had neglected all of my planned activities.
In The Dark Again
Some of them, I deem important; like the acquisition of some kind of light; a reading light or a small LED flashlight (9 hours on 3 batteries) for my playing spot.
The house across the street; which owner had installed an extra spotlight to illuminate my spot, telling me the next morning: "I figured you could use some light; you're kinda in the dark" now has doused those* spotlights in favor of an elaborate Christmas display which consists of all kinds of lights but none of them bright enough to cross the street and illuminate the tiposaurus and its sign (Which I have changed from "The tiposaurus won't bite," to "The tiposaurus rarely bites," by the way; thinking it to be a bit more titillating to the tourists) and so, I should buy some kind of spotlight of my own; before I run totally out of money...right Leslie?
The Man In The Red Shirt
Saturday night, as Leslie and I sat on Lillys step playing guitar and 2 harmonicas; along came the "vagabond" who bangs on a drum and sings.
He had captured the attention and dollars of a small group of tourists.
He seized them right in front of the spot where I used to play, before the man who sleeps directly behind that spot in an historical house which predates soundproofing, came out one night and politely asked me if I would stop playing at 10 p.m. each night.
That was when Lilly had stepped in and said "Play on my step."
The vagabond got greedy and implored the tourists to hear one more song.
This was the song which broke the camels eardrums as (I was in the restroom at the time) the same man emerged, wearing a red shirt and said something to the vagabond; which led to a heated altercation, during which the vagabond responded with "That guy plays guitar here all the time (pointing to Leslie and my guitar) why can't I play here!" at one point.
Then the man in the red shirt approached Leslie, and said "Not again! If you play again, I'm calling the cops!"
I heard all of this from Leslie after I returned, though all of the parties had dispersed except for Leslie, who was watching my rig.
Leslie was happy to disperse quickly for another beer; having been shaken a bit by the mans threats.
I sat there by myself.
Soon the head of the man poked out of his doorway and looked my way.
He walked over and, in his red shirt, reiterated pretty closely what Leslie had reported hearing.
He said "If I see you here; well if I see you here playing; I'll call the cops"
But then he added "You're bringing the neighborhood down!"
I don't know if he thought that we were all banging on the drum and singing together; or if we had invited the vagabond to stop there and play (he usually does one song then keeps moving) or if he was referring to the presence of Leslie as being the factor which was bringing the neighborhood down, but he added that anyway.
I Am The Pawn In This Game
I sat there not playing and letting things sink in...first the spotlight gets turned off; now this...when happened to emerge Lilly from her gate on the side of the house furthest from the man in the red shirt.
"Oh, he's a lawyer. He's a jerk. Play on this side right in front of my gate. If the cops show up just ring my doorbell," said Lilly.
I played in front of Lillys gate for about another hour; made some money although it was pretty dark with just the Christmas lights; no cops showed up (at one point one drove past, uninterestedly) and that was how Saturday night ended.
Though it has already ended in this blog a couple posts ago, I thought I would go "back" and insert the lawyer anecdote; in case it comes to any import in the future.
Moving Out
I slept under the dock last night; woke up pretty depressed; but now I have full reign over my life, I don't have to answer Leslies' text messages if I don't want to, and I won't consider crashing at his place.
Last night I didn't get him as drunk as usual with my money.
He was a bit irritable at the house; complaining about me opening the refrigerator (which I had stuffed with food) for a midnight snack; and he complained about cigarette smoke for the first time since I have known him; and he complained that he was sober.
I left to sleep under the dock at about 2:30 a.m.
Karrie, where are you??
He hasn't messaged me all day...
Why are you putting so much work into being friends with Leslie and ignoring Karrie? Is it because Lesie is a fellow skeezer? Skeezers gotta skeeze, we all know, but you have a chance to elevate yourself 0.0001" above skeezerdom if you can get Karry to "fall off the wagon" and be with you. Sooner or later some con-man is going to get Karry back drinking again, or get her onto hard drugs, or something. That's how those homeless places work. At least all you'll get her onto is more alcohol, but if you can get her playing anything remotely musical, you might be able to make a life together. You and Lesie = one drunken old sot and Frowny McScowl (you) whereas you and Karrie = Nice sweet youngish lady and Frowny McScowl, which will lead people to think you probably treat her badly, and they'll give her more money while they urge her to get away, more profit for the both of you.
ReplyDeleteSure enough someone took over my old blog name, alexswoodshed.blogspot.com and it's full of the most boring shit, like how great it is to go to India and swim in the human shit infested and dead body infested rivers there ... I'm certain it's an Indian guy, they're the only ones who think their shitty country isn't a hellhole.
ReplyDelete