Harold Lives

• Potless Outing
• Powder From Heaven
• $21 Dollar Friday Breaks Funk

Harold will live to see another day.

Thinking about getting rid of him and actually heading towards the animal rescue place with him meowing away in a cat carrier are two different things.

Plus, what if I put him to sleep, and then returned to find my apartment eerily silent, and Harold's food dish seemingly frowning at me from its spot under the clock on the wall?

It is an act which cannot be undone; and as such, I hesitate.

I Procrastinate, Therefore I Will Be

Plus, I have matters that I haven't attended to in 3 years, such as an "attachment" (known in other locales as a warrant) in Jefferson Parish, which is on the other side of the river, for having been caught trespassing on the Avondale Rail Yard, the last time that I attempted to hop a freight train out of New Orleans.

That was the the time that I had hopped on a bus in front of the library and rode it to the Oliver Rail Yard, where I was able to not only hop on a freight train, but to find a "car carrier" car which was empty of cars, and open. A very comfortable ride was all mine, and I was able to stretch out my sleeping bag out on the dustless floor of it and sit my coffee next to me without worrying about it spilling, as the car carrier are shock absorbent to the max.

But the train had stopped in Avondale at about 8 in the morning, and sat there waiting to proceed towards Texas. I had equal chances of winding up in San Antonio, Austin, or Houston, depending upon which way it forked. The thing sat there until, at about 1 PM, I surmised that it was going to sit for 8 hours. Either one of the shift changes hadn't showed up, or the conductor operating the thing had to take a sleep break.

I got out of the car carrier, sure that I had time to run to a nearby store for some cigarettes and/or alcohol and practically ran into the rail yard cop, who made his first appearance just after I stepped into view.

He was very concerned that my backpack would contain car stereos, jacked from cars on the carriers, but I pointed out the empty one that I had been on, let him search my bag, told him my story about being a busker in New Orleans and deciding to light out for adventure in Texas.

They had been having trouble with train hoppers who would break into the brand new cars on their way to be sold as such; hot wire them and then ride across the Great West with the air conditioners and stereos blasting, leaving empty beer cans on the floor and ashtrays full of butts and ashes.

The cop seemed to calm down after talking to me for a while and decided to just write me a ticket for trespassing, which is something that is designed to keep an individual from ever returning to the rail yard, as he will be facing jail time after not paying the fine. If he were to want to settle down in Avondale and be a productive citizen, then he would pay the fine, so as to not have it hanging over his head.

He was in the process of writing the ticket when the train began to pull away.

He directed me to the only bus which went to New Orleans from there; and that bus dropped me off at the exact stop across from the library, almost exactly 24 hours after I had boarded there, on my way to "Texas."

Well, I recap that story to point out the fact that, I have decided to stay close enough to Avondale and become a productive citizen, but after 3 years now, have still not gone over the river to the court house to have them dismiss the ticket, as that is what I was told by a cop here is what will happen.
"They'll give you a court date, you'll show up, and they'll see how long ago it was and dismiss it," said an officer to me about 2 years ago now. "But, you'll want to take care of it because every time a cop runs your ID, it's gonna show up; and if they're bored, they'll take you to jail and you might have to sit there for a few days waiting for your court date..." he added.

My point is that, I am walking around knowing that my freedom is that precariously poised because I'm too lazy to take a half day to go across the river to the court house and then to return again on whatever court date is set, etc.

So, how am I going to take a half a day to tote Harold the Cat to the animal rescue place to have him destroyed (I might as well use that word for its connotations, why sugar coat things?) procrastinator that I am?

Plus, I made $21 last night, which is a possible harbinger of a return to normalcy as far as busking revenue is concerned.

It could have been a better night, but, one guy who came along and tipped me 13 dollars, hung around for a long time afterwards. He was snorting cocaine and being a magnet for skeezers who can spot someone snorting cocaine a quarter mile away.

On his cocaine high, the guy had become overly gregarious and wanted to buddy up to the skeezers who came along using any device or means to stop and interact with the guy. I was hoping that he was the "other" kind of coke head; one who becomes emboldened to rebuff the advances of skeezers, under the auspices of being the king of the powder which he is rich enough to afford and having an "it sucks being you, skeezer" attitude towards sharing it. But, alas, he wasn't.

Especially annoying were the skeezers who walked up to him and pointed me out, saying some version of: "This guy is good, right here, man. This guy knows his stuff. You need to check him out!" (when he was already "checking me out.") And then, having insinuated himself into the scene would only "check me out" for about 15 seconds before interrupting the guy's listening pleasure to begin skeezing him.

The Pot Calling The Kettle Black

The guy with the cocaine was from West Virginia and was a pretty hardcore "Christian," making sure that I was also one before listening to me play. After snorting a few lines he became gung-ho about converting the skeezers who were starting to appear like flies around shit smeared with Crisco oil, to Christianity; forgiving them their sins, and confessing that he himself was far from perfect, as a Christian who snorted cocaine, and offering them a line of coke to prove his sincerity.

It became clear to me, after about an hour, that the guy had gotten his 13 dollars worth out of me; and that his following of skeezers, which had grown to a flock of 4, were not going anywhere, as long as he still had a speck of cocaine on him. I was in a bit of a spot; not being able to find the words to ask the guy to leave, who had tipped me reasonably well.

So, I took a break.

I was banking upon the fact that the guy, like a lot of coke snorters, was a paranoid type and had been using me as a cover, so it would look like he and his friends were hanging out listening to me play; not hanging out doing God knows what.

I seemed to work as, after a 20 minute break to drink an orange juice at the Quartermaster, I returned to see that they had moved a bit away from the Lilly Pad and were now making it look like they were hanging out listening to the piano player in Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern, rather than hanging out doing God knows what.

I made another 8 bucks, a song at a time and a dollar at a time; but it was good to put 20 dollars on my coffee table when I got home, feed Harold the cat (2 cans because I had fallen behind on him) and drink coffee, work on a jigsaw puzzle and plan to get batteries and toilet paper and glue to glue the puzzle together when I finish it, so I can hang it on my wall. I could have put a chunk of money towards the TV, but have my fingers crossed that I can have another decent night tonight (Saturday).

Not having smoked any pot made a huge difference. I was upbeat and had a clearer perception of the passing of time. It didn't seem, after 45 minutes, that I had played myself out and had nothing left to offer.
I played for about 2 and a half hours and was ready to go longer; rather than wanting to go home and munch down food and enjoy creature comforts like sleep.