Monday In Search Of Income

I'm at a bus stop near the Wal-Mart which is across the river in Gretna, not too far from where my old friend Howard lives.

I would have dropped in to see him, had I the luxury of extra time, but since my bike got stolen Saturday night, my whole world has contracted to a circle within the radius of "walking distance."
Bike Stolen
I pulled up to the post where I normally lock my bike on Saturday night, after having just barely gotten guitar strings.

I had squeezed in one last errand of getting a second shot of kratom at the Uxi Duxi, which I gulped down right around 7:30 PM, a half hour before that kava bar closes, and a half hour before the Louisiana Music Factory does.
It took 19 minutes to get there from the Uxi Duxi; 11 minutes early, cool, right?

No, their wrought iron gate was closed and the "open" sign off.

I asked a customer who was coming out "Do you think they'll let me get just a set of guitar strings?," not wanting to barge my way in, thinking that that might bias them against me.

I called the store's number.

While it was ringing, the customer, who had gone back inside, emerged and said "They said it's OK."

This surprised me, and signified a change in the attitude that they had had towards me, ever since they moved the store from right across from the House of Blues, to across from the Checkpoint Charlie Bar, which is skeezer/traveling kid central. They turned from a friendly staff into one that ignored me, and would leave me standing in front of the harmonica case, as if they couldn't figure out that I might want to buy one, for as long as I wanted to stand there.

Then, instead of copping an attitude, I would walk over to the front counter and, in a friendly manner ask, "Say, could I get one of the harmonicas in the case?" as if I wasn't aware that I had been slighted, and perhaps needed that much time in order to decide which one I wanted.

This was intended to nullify whatever payoff they were getting from subjecting me to their passive aggression, and to actually dish some of it back, in my own way. Of course they were hoping I would become angry and would say anything that might qualify as cause for them to bar me from the store. That seems to be the ploy de-jure of a lot of people against skeezers.

I have to remind myself of the way it was in St. Augustine, Florida where I could only shop in select places, after having been barred from everywhere else, sometimes behind the reasoning of: "I own this business, and I decide who I want to do business with or not, and I don't want you in my store."

This was usually uttered by a foreigner, who should be thanking his lucky stars and kissing the ground because he is in this country, with all its special opportunities for someone like himself.

But, instead of being appreciative, he only demonstrates the mindset that went into making their country of origin one that they would eventually wanted to flee from.

Hard to tell that this is a "Tuba Skinny" concert, as, it appears he has culled the members of the band "Yes Ma'am" off Royal Street, I guess so it wouldn't just be the guy going "Ooom Pa Pa" for a couple hours.

Louisiana Music Factory without a doubt saw a backlash from their having changed locations to one across the street from the bar which touts itself as kind of a welcome center for migrant musicians; with a laundromat in the back and a stage that can be cleared to make room for any musician worth his salt who might approach from the direction of the railroad tracks.

There is also the strip of "neutral ground" in the median of Esplanade Street which has a history of being the place where the British and the French (I'm pretty sure) would meet to make treaties and such, with neither group being on the other's territory.

Rumor is that, even to this day, the cops won't mess with anyone who is there, as if they have no jurisdiction. But that is skeezer-lore.

Still, that particular median is often crammed with dogs, backpacks and traveling kids, enjoying this great country, living off the excess of the working class so it won't go to waste (on the people that worked hard for it) and going into the Lousiana Music Factory, overpowering the fragrance of vintage vinyl records with the smell of fermented funk, bringing in their equally funky dogs, which they have had certified as "seeing eye" or other "service" animals, giving them some kind of "right" to do so.

So, for the past few years, the staff there had been giving me the "backpack and guitar" treatment; lumping me in with the likes of anything from the neutral ground.

Which made it a pleasant surprise to be let in the store after they had snapped off the "open" light and had barred the entrance. It has perhaps taken them 2 years to notice that I don't smell or steal or panhandle the customers as they shop, etc. I like to think it is because one of the staff came by the Lilly Pad and heard me jamming and then said "Let this guy in, he's alright."

The neutral ground is where one drunken 17 or so year old a couple years ago had said: "Hey, pass me the guitar; I want to make some money," after I had stopped there to buy some weed off another older guy, who was cool enough and knowledgeable enough about music to have prompted me to take it out of the case and play him something.

I already blogged about this incident.

But the kid, who had probably been birthed during a Rainbow Gathering, became angry and said that he would love to "burn" me (I guess he meant at the stake) after I had told him that it wasn't "the" guitar, but "my" guitar.

His "argument" was that he had had guitars even nicer than mine (which he knew the name and model of by looking at) and that the most recent of which had fallen off a train somehow and broken. Just because his guitar fell and broke by accident didn't mean he should be punished by not being able to play one, he seemed to imply.

"I'll show you how to make money with a guitar!" he said, adding that he would just be "over there on that corner" banging on a guitar that he has no investment in either materially or emotionally, and so I should have nothing to worry about. He was practically jumping up and down and pointing to the corner. If he were a dog his tail would have been wagging rapidly, and he might have been urinating uncontrollably.

I had told him, trying to keep the facetiousness out of my voice: "I kinda need it to go out and make my own living; sorry."

If it weren't for the cooler head of the older guy that I had been first talking to, I probably would have had to physically beat the kid away from my instrument. He knew how to make money with a guitar, after all. What was my problem.

Perhaps, after 2 years, the staff at the music store has finally differentiated me from his ilk.

So, I went out with brand new strings Saturday night, but didn't put them on. I started playing on Royal Street, as there was a brass band playing in front of Lafitt's.

I eventually moved back to the Lilly Pad, but made only about 25 bucks for the whole night. I feel like I'm just holding the spot until such a time that things pick up around here. By then I would have further cemented myself as the guy who always plays there.

But, when I got back there, there were already a couple of bikes locked to the post that I usually use. I walked it over to the next post, which is a lot fatter around. There was a skeezer looking guy sitting on a step near it. I could tell he was a skeezer because there appeared to be no reason for him to be sitting there; he wasn't talking on a phone, didn't live in the house behind the steps, and just gave me a dirty look, whereas a tourist (who would probably be from a much more civil place, even New York City) would have at least returned my "what's up?" and nod of the head. A skeezer from Ignore-leans, would do just as he did.
I'll save skeezer psychology for another post.

I was just trying to get my lock cable to go around the post and was happy to have been able to just barely snap the lock shut; and didn't realize that I hadn't wormed the thing through the frame of the bike.

Most likely the skeezer was sitting there doing nothing except waiting for some kind of crime of opportunity, guy dropping his wallet, guy not putting his bike lock through its frame, etc. and most likely he was the one who stole it and left only the seat locked to the post. And I'm supposed to feel like a scrooge because of my refusal to ever give anything to any one of them?!?

Plasma Wednesday

I'm going to the plasma donation center tomorrow (Wednesday, August 16th) using the only 3 dollars to my name right now to get an all day bus pass. The place pays something like 25 bucks for the first unit and another 50 should you return to donate the all-important second unit (the first one is consumed by whatever tests they run on it to determine if they can even use it).

When I donated 12 years ago in Jacksonville, Florida, they loved my plasma, as it had no traces of crack or any medications in it.

First Thing Monday Morning

I stopped by one of the "staffing" places that had been recommended by another resident here, and the vibe couldn't have been worse. All that was spoken there was Spanish between the staff and a couple other applicants, as well as a couple people who came in to pick up checks while I was there.

"I'll call you if anything comes in that I could give you; but, I have a lot of people coming in to apply every day..." she said, as she folded up my application in order to file it away.

It might be another case of one race of people helping their own, exclusively. With all of the undocumented Latino people cornering the "under the table" work market, I guess the ones that are actual citizens need to feed their families, too. And, it probably makes sense to have Spanish speaking people work somewhere where they can understand the boss and all their fellow employees.

There is no way she is going to call me. She had a hard time hiding that fact from her face.

But, I put in the application, and then went for a double shot of kratom that had me headed for the plasma place in short order.

I still got to the place too late for a new donor, as the process for that can take up to 4 hours and it was already 4 PM when I got there.

I then had fun walking around the Wal-Mart super store that is a half mile up the road from the plasma place. I found a couple flavors of cat food that Harold hadn't experienced yet, like salmon and chicken with "extra gravy." He wound up loving it.

After I left Wal-Mart, I walked to the nearest bus stop and struck up a conversation with a Jamaican young lady who was sitting there, after she seemed to allay her fears that I might have had my eye on the Wal-Mart bags at her feet (i.e. after I took this laptop out of my backpack and began this post ..."I am at the bus stop near the Wal-Mart..."

Another older black man came by and sat on the bench with us.
I told the Jamaican woman that I would be alright as long as the bus came by within the next 45 minutes, showing her the time on my all day pass, which was 5:17 PM.

"Mine's good until 5:52, do you want to trade?" she asked.

"Sure, that would give me a chance to hop the trolley to my house after the bus drops me off."

The bus pulled up and the two started walking over to it, with the woman letting the older guy go on first.
The woman turned and asked me: "Are you coming?"
I was hastily tying up my pack after having put my laptop in it. "Yeah, just a second."

The woman got on the bus. I knew it would take her at least a couple seconds to swipe her pass, after the older guy took a couple to swipe probably his senior citizen pass.

I was within a few feet of the door when it closed. The black driver stared straight ahead and started to pull off. I wrapped on the glass with my knuckles. He just kept staring straight ahead and drove off.

I called the number on the RTA sign and got someone back at the office, which is almost directly across the street from my apartment.

I reported what had happened, adding that I was pretty sure that the Jamaican lady would have told the driver: "Wait a second, there's one more coming," since we had become acquainted in the half hour that we had sat there together, and since she had taken the time to say "Are you coming?"

I was sure that she and the older guy hadn't yet paid their fares, never mind seated themselves safely, before he put the bus in motion; in fact the lady was still in front of the yellow "do not come forward of" line when he slammed the door and pulled off.

I added that the driver, who is black, had let two black people on before slamming the door on a white guy. What did he think I was doing at the bus stop, and what did he make of me hurrying towards the bus with a day pass in my hand, I asked her rhetorically. This was a couple days after the infamous "Nazi" rally had taken place in Charlottesville, Virginia, by the way.

I thought about telling her "my 8 year old daughter" had gotten home from her after-school program and was locked outside the house, expecting me to be there before night fell, and that if anything happened to her I was going to hold the RTA responsible and, of course, sue the hell out of them. Black people are gullible, if nothing else, and she would have believed me. After all, this land is all one giant wonder to them, having been pulled out of a grass hut naked and thrust into a world where there are big buses and magic cellphones and scary lawyers that sue. She would have believed me, and I'm just assuming she's black, because her job is to sit there all day and occasionally answer a phone call and give directions after clicking a mouse a few times, and all those types of jobs are filled by blacks in New Orleans.

I stopped short of that, and of telling her that I was going to stay at the stop and let a few more buses pass until the same driver came back around and then riddle him with bullets as soon as he opened the door.

I was in a good "2 shots of kratom" mood still, so it is amazing that the driver's actions, which were clearly intended to provoke me to hurl a chunk of concrete at the side of the bus, or to make a threat such as the above, or do anything to allow him to bar me from riding the bus; were able to anger me at all.

I know better. I've seen the concrete chunk game in action, since I became homeless 14 years ago, it has played out repeatedly.

The driver has to know that his route goes right past the plasma donation center which sits 7 miles outside of New Orleans, and is hard to get to because it's across the river. He probably was judging me (by the backpack, again) in some kind of negative way, and thought: "Let me see if I can take that little plasma money away from white boy."

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My Russian wife, Nina, who had arrived here for the first time after having lived in the Armenian city of Baku for most of her life, and then Moscow for a couple of years, summed it up when we were somewhere and a black man came along and tried to flirt with her.

"Nasty," she said after he walked away.

I guess the Russians aren't impressed by how high they can jump, either.
If you are white and live in New Orleans for more than a couple years and you don't truly hate African Americans, then you just haven't gotten out and seen the city.

Black people from all over the world are exempt from this, including the cool Jamaican lady I talked to. It's the ones that were brought over and enslaved and then released without a contingency plan, who have become a blight upon our nation.