I didn't go out and busk last (Friday) night; even though the $1.25 for the trolley ride to get there was all the money that I had.
I had walked up to the Uxi Duxi, thinking that I was due a free shot of kratom, on their "get the 7th shot free" program.
As I walked towards the place, having stepped out of an apartment with a newly fixed air conditioner, I felt very weak, had no spring in my step and, worse of all, was not very optimistic.
I had run out of just about everything, I had no cigarettes or coffee and the only food I had was a bag of kidney beans and a can of sliced potatoes. And, I had only tap water to drink; the same water that we had been advised to boil just a week earlier.
I wondered if a shot of kratom would magically mask the symptoms of the flu that I apparently still had, and even make me want to go out and busk on that Friday night.
I found out that I wasn't due for a free shot, because I was only on my 6th. The barista, Dom, still let me sit in there and use the wireless to post yesterdays; "Weak And Famished," post.
I had developed an attitude of acceptance of everything that has been happening lately. If my Lord wants me to go cigarette, pot, coffee and kratom free, in order that I attain some kind of level of consciousness, then, I'm pretty sure that I wasn't going to embark upon a water only fast; at least not this day; but; having gotten the flu and then not busked; run out of money, etc...here I was walking back to the apartment not having had any of the above the previous 24 hours. I was willing to see things that way and to be grateful and in awe of the power of the spirit to bring such things about. Even though I was suffering and felt like a very old man. It occurred to me that, this was how old people passed away. They teeter on the brink of being healthy and just one good case of pneumonia away from dipping to a low that they never come back from. Had I gotten a free flu shot from the nurses that show up every Tuesday at Sacred Heart to administer them? I didn't think so; I was always either asleep at the time of their arrival, or too busy being healthy to bother with it.
I became ravenously hungry, feeling as if the weakness in my body originated in my stomach and was emanating out from it.
Walking very slowly; feeling as if I wouldn't have the strength to jump out of the way if a car jumped the curb and came right at me.
And having no desire to play guitar and sing joyful songs.
There must be music that is suitable for performance by someone who feels like shit, I thought. Some kind of dirge, or perhaps that "Yes, I'm lonely; want to die," song that John Lennon wrote for the Beatles' White Album.
When I did get back, it was about 10 PM. There had been times when I drug myself out there feeling as miserable, just out of sense of duty, or after promising myself that I would thank myself later. There were even times that I recovered from illnesses while busking, so that by the end of the night I felt much better, and had a pocketful of money to boot.
I swallowed down 3 aspirins, thinking that they might improve my mood.
But then, sitting there, I realized that I had no fresh batteries for my spotlight, and strings that were about to break. And, I was out of practice, in a way, and would have to even cut my nails. I even had Travis texting me with messages like: "Dude, you should just take it easy tonight, get some rest," etc.
The thought of all that, made me decide to lie back down and hope that somehow more sleep might invigorate me..
I called Rose and Ed on their land line. They didn't answer. They, too, had gotten their check the midnight before, and were apparently out somewhere.
The thought that there was some kind of spiritual conspiracy to wean me off of everything except the water from my faucet gained veracity.
Then, I started to think about how Travis had shown up earlier that afternoon to grab his TV "Your gonna hate me, but I need to take the TV," he had said.
First of all, he had entered and asked: "How are you doing?"
My answer of "Not too well," seemed not to faze him nor stem the flow of his rant.
"I haven't had a cigarette in like 12 hours," I said.
This cut him off in mid sentence and, after a short pause he asked: "Do you need one?" as he slowly and gingerly reached for his pocket, as if giving me a chance to say no before he actually produced his pack, as if it would be harder for me to turn one down if they were in plain sight.
"Yeah," I said, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I felt.
He probably considered that I was trying to quit them and had made it 12 hours so far, I thought in his defense.
He gave me a cigarette. It was an American Spirit brand, twice as expensive as what he usually smokes. He sends away for bulk tobacco online and uses his own rolling machine and papers to produce the most inexpensive cigarettes possible, usually.
Then, he gave me another one, "for later," he said.
He then excitedly showed me the Genesis game console that he had just bought at the Family Dollar. "It was just 40 bucks, I had to get it," he said to the guy whose place he had stayed at for 20 days in exchange for 75 dollars off his food stamp card, a big bag of cat food, half of which his own cat, Beast, had consumed, and 20 dollars in cash.
Some of that money went into the purchase of cat litter for that same housebound cat that seemed to shit an awful lot, and that seemed to have started a territorial dispute between itself and Harold, my cat, causing Harold to start to also shit in the same box, when he had previously used the box maybe once every 2 months, preferring to meow while reaching for the door knob all other times.
Then Travis showed off a Genesis game console that he had bought "It was only 40 bucks, I couldn't resist," he said, before beginning a lecture on the whole evolution of video gaming and where Genesis and their flagship Sonic The Hedgehog game fit into the picture.
I was, kind of naively I suppose, genuinely happy for him, intuiting that he would be in his own little heaven, locked in his room, smoking pot and playing video games, in between making his living locked in the same room, working for Amazon online.
More than once, he asked me "Is there anything you need?"
Obviously he had made a chunk of money (American Spirits, video game consoles, first month's rent plus security deposit to Dorise, money to stay at the hostel, and of course keeping a bottomless pot pipe) and felt generous.
Was he banking upon my character (flaw) knowing that I would almost never ask anyone for anything, being vocally anti-skeezer, and all?
"Well, I guess I don't really need coffee or cigarettes or weed or my 'daily' energy drink or kratom..." I said, in a tone of voice meant to convey ...but, if you're throwing money around on 43 dollar (with the tax) games and 8 dollar packs of cigarettes, I suppose I could use a little cash...
"OK," he said, as if shrugging off the whole notion.
The next time he asked: "Are you sure you don't need anything?" he added "because you really helped me out and I do consider you a friend; you're actually one of only two people in New Orleans that I consider friends."
I took another stab at it: "Well, I'm totally out of food until next Thursday (a week away) and feel too weak to go out and play, plus my spotlight batteries are about dead; my strings are about to break, and I really just feel so shitty that I don't think I can bring myself to sing "I Feel Good," by James Brown, complete with the 'Owww sock it to me!' part."
I think Travis has figured out how to "play me," as street people say, because he paused, as if waiting for me to add: "But, Rose and Ed owe me 5 bucks and I know they got their money last night. They haven't been answering their phone, but if I get that, I suppose I could buy some dollar store batteries for the spotlight and a trolley ticket, and then go out (with a 100 degree fever and try to sing 'I Feel Good) and play. I might have a decent night and then be out of the woods..." which I added.
"OK," he said, as if that settled in his mind that one, out of his pair of friends in New Orleans might get 5 dollars, and would be just fine.
"Your going to hate me," he then said, "But I have to take the TV."
He took the TV and then left.
Night fell and Rose and Ed's phone continued to go unanswered.
I guess I was in for the Friday night.
When do you draw the line? When do you decide that the deck is just stacked against you and just throw in your hand? When do you stop framing dire circumstances opportunities to overcome big time -the bigger the obstacles are, the harder they fall, type of thing?
When do you stop counting on people like Travis and Rose and Ed, and just grab your guitar and gear and trudge to your spot, on the verge of passing out with every step and vulnerable to any predator who preys upon the weak, and then play as well as you can, and sing with a head cold, knowing that some tourists are going to think that you're not a very good singer and will conclude that throwing you a dollar is only going to encourage you along a path that is obviously going to lead you to disappointment; and that the only way you are ever going to make a change in your career path and hopefully find your bliss elsewhere is if you aren't making a cent doing what you are doing; tough love in action?
And knowing that playing in the dark is going to cause tourists to cross to the other side of the street before encountering you, because a guitar neck can kind of look like a rifle barrel from that distance if its in the dark?
These were the thoughts that I had while drifting back to sleep, with all the lights on, and after having slid a note under Rose and Ed's door, telling them not to hesitate to knock whenever they return so they can give me the 5 bucks; so that I can go and sell my plasma the next day, feeling like a heel for lying on the "have you had any flu or flu-like symptoms in the past 6 days" question.
The fever climbed back up, and I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, early Saturday afternoon.
I looked at the clock. There was time to make it to the plasma place, without having to jog any part of the way, or be at the mercy of the bus showing up at a particular time.
I had a dollar and a quarter and 15 pennies to shamefully chunk into the bus meter, while a busload of mostly black people who had mostly just gotten their government checks smiled from their seats.
I was ashamed for having taken one of the acetaminophen/oxycodone pills out of Travis' stuff, and having replaced it with a few aspirin; I could have, should have, called and asked his permission. The worst he could have said was: "Dude, I kind of need them because my back still acts up, especially when I'm sitting for hours, playing with my Genesis console that I spent 43 dollars on; money that would have made a nice gift to you as a token of my appreciation because "you really helped me out;" and would have allowed you to recuperate properly from the flu with plenty of fluids and rest, negating your need to pose a public health risk by selling blood plasma rife with the virus like a veritable 'Typhoid Daniel' so, no, I can't let you take any of my pills." Right?
I did text Travis, when I was on the trolley headed down Canal Street towards the hostel where he was staying. He had left my place one day short of his allowance of days, to leave himself the option of coming to pick up his stuff before the end of the month. If the security people were to check, they would see that he was allowed in the building that one more time. Amazing how meticulous his planning was, when it involved his own welfare, I thought. I also thought about the 19 bucks that he was apparently ready to pay to stay at the hostel that particular night, so as to leave that option open.
I asked him for a little bit of cash; at least 5 bucks.
He didn't answer right away, and hadn't before the 115 bus came and whisked me away on my gambit; penniless; and gambling that my temperature would be low enough when I got there, that they would buy my stuff. It would be my 7th such sale of September and I would get 40 dollars.
When it had been him, sitting on the church steps outside Sacred Heart, not feeling well, and wanting me to drop what I was doing at the Uxi Duxi to go there and let him inside because he just wanted "to lie down" in my apartment (where his pot was, also) he was texting me every 5 minutes or so, and answering me just as quickly.
I texted him again, while going across the bridge into Gretna -the bridge that it is illegal to walk across, so that I would be risking a trip to jail if I wound up having to do so. "Never mind, already on bus."
I thought about the 2 cats in the apartment for the 30? 45? 90? days that I might be locked up for for trespassing on the bridge.
Then, he called.
He was full of apologies for not having seen my text asking for money.
He had been in the St. Roch market, he said, with some friends that he had made at the hostel; and hadn't heard the text alert.
I basically read him the riot act, for the edification and amusement of the busload of passengers going over the bridge.
I mentioned the fact that, while at my place he had conjured up hundreds of dollars to give to his new landlady, Dorise, told him that I was sorry to have interrupted his shopping spree in the market with my annoying request for money that might be my only hope of making it back home, and then told him to play a few games of Sonic The Hedgehog for me on his 43 dollar game console that he had just had to have, etc. I apologized, myself, for the mood that I was in, using the excuse that all I had eaten in the past 24 hours was a can of sliced potatoes and some red kidney beans, boiled in the tap water that he may be familiar with if he reads the newspaper headlines.
It just occurred to me now, as I write this, that nobody on that bus, after having heard my problems yelled into a phone offered me any help whatsoever. What is living in New Orleans like, have you ever wondered? Well, there's a pretty good answer...
Travis then apologized again and pretty much convinced me that he had had no idea of what I was going through. I became convinced that he is as thick headed; and well intention-ed; as my other friend, Howard Westra -the one who would ask things like: "Having a salad?" when I was sitting there having a salad.
He offered to get on the bus to Gretna to come get me and bring me back. "Give me a call later to let me know if you need help," he said.
I hung up the phone, noticing as I did that its battery was almost dead; zero "bars." The writing was on the wall.
To be continued...
I had walked up to the Uxi Duxi, thinking that I was due a free shot of kratom, on their "get the 7th shot free" program.
As I walked towards the place, having stepped out of an apartment with a newly fixed air conditioner, I felt very weak, had no spring in my step and, worse of all, was not very optimistic.
I had run out of just about everything, I had no cigarettes or coffee and the only food I had was a bag of kidney beans and a can of sliced potatoes. And, I had only tap water to drink; the same water that we had been advised to boil just a week earlier.
I wondered if a shot of kratom would magically mask the symptoms of the flu that I apparently still had, and even make me want to go out and busk on that Friday night.
I found out that I wasn't due for a free shot, because I was only on my 6th. The barista, Dom, still let me sit in there and use the wireless to post yesterdays; "Weak And Famished," post.
I had developed an attitude of acceptance of everything that has been happening lately. If my Lord wants me to go cigarette, pot, coffee and kratom free, in order that I attain some kind of level of consciousness, then, I'm pretty sure that I wasn't going to embark upon a water only fast; at least not this day; but; having gotten the flu and then not busked; run out of money, etc...here I was walking back to the apartment not having had any of the above the previous 24 hours. I was willing to see things that way and to be grateful and in awe of the power of the spirit to bring such things about. Even though I was suffering and felt like a very old man. It occurred to me that, this was how old people passed away. They teeter on the brink of being healthy and just one good case of pneumonia away from dipping to a low that they never come back from. Had I gotten a free flu shot from the nurses that show up every Tuesday at Sacred Heart to administer them? I didn't think so; I was always either asleep at the time of their arrival, or too busy being healthy to bother with it.
I became ravenously hungry, feeling as if the weakness in my body originated in my stomach and was emanating out from it.
Walking very slowly; feeling as if I wouldn't have the strength to jump out of the way if a car jumped the curb and came right at me.
And having no desire to play guitar and sing joyful songs.
There must be music that is suitable for performance by someone who feels like shit, I thought. Some kind of dirge, or perhaps that "Yes, I'm lonely; want to die," song that John Lennon wrote for the Beatles' White Album.
When I did get back, it was about 10 PM. There had been times when I drug myself out there feeling as miserable, just out of sense of duty, or after promising myself that I would thank myself later. There were even times that I recovered from illnesses while busking, so that by the end of the night I felt much better, and had a pocketful of money to boot.
I swallowed down 3 aspirins, thinking that they might improve my mood.
But then, sitting there, I realized that I had no fresh batteries for my spotlight, and strings that were about to break. And, I was out of practice, in a way, and would have to even cut my nails. I even had Travis texting me with messages like: "Dude, you should just take it easy tonight, get some rest," etc.
The thought of all that, made me decide to lie back down and hope that somehow more sleep might invigorate me..
I called Rose and Ed on their land line. They didn't answer. They, too, had gotten their check the midnight before, and were apparently out somewhere.
The thought that there was some kind of spiritual conspiracy to wean me off of everything except the water from my faucet gained veracity.
Then, I started to think about how Travis had shown up earlier that afternoon to grab his TV "Your gonna hate me, but I need to take the TV," he had said.
First of all, he had entered and asked: "How are you doing?"
My answer of "Not too well," seemed not to faze him nor stem the flow of his rant.
"I haven't had a cigarette in like 12 hours," I said.
This cut him off in mid sentence and, after a short pause he asked: "Do you need one?" as he slowly and gingerly reached for his pocket, as if giving me a chance to say no before he actually produced his pack, as if it would be harder for me to turn one down if they were in plain sight.
"Yeah," I said, trying not to sound as sarcastic as I felt.
He probably considered that I was trying to quit them and had made it 12 hours so far, I thought in his defense.
He gave me a cigarette. It was an American Spirit brand, twice as expensive as what he usually smokes. He sends away for bulk tobacco online and uses his own rolling machine and papers to produce the most inexpensive cigarettes possible, usually.
Then, he gave me another one, "for later," he said.
He then excitedly showed me the Genesis game console that he had just bought at the Family Dollar. "It was just 40 bucks, I had to get it," he said to the guy whose place he had stayed at for 20 days in exchange for 75 dollars off his food stamp card, a big bag of cat food, half of which his own cat, Beast, had consumed, and 20 dollars in cash.
Some of that money went into the purchase of cat litter for that same housebound cat that seemed to shit an awful lot, and that seemed to have started a territorial dispute between itself and Harold, my cat, causing Harold to start to also shit in the same box, when he had previously used the box maybe once every 2 months, preferring to meow while reaching for the door knob all other times.
Then Travis showed off a Genesis game console that he had bought "It was only 40 bucks, I couldn't resist," he said, before beginning a lecture on the whole evolution of video gaming and where Genesis and their flagship Sonic The Hedgehog game fit into the picture.
I was, kind of naively I suppose, genuinely happy for him, intuiting that he would be in his own little heaven, locked in his room, smoking pot and playing video games, in between making his living locked in the same room, working for Amazon online.
More than once, he asked me "Is there anything you need?"
Obviously he had made a chunk of money (American Spirits, video game consoles, first month's rent plus security deposit to Dorise, money to stay at the hostel, and of course keeping a bottomless pot pipe) and felt generous.
Was he banking upon my character (flaw) knowing that I would almost never ask anyone for anything, being vocally anti-skeezer, and all?
"Well, I guess I don't really need coffee or cigarettes or weed or my 'daily' energy drink or kratom..." I said, in a tone of voice meant to convey ...but, if you're throwing money around on 43 dollar (with the tax) games and 8 dollar packs of cigarettes, I suppose I could use a little cash...
"OK," he said, as if shrugging off the whole notion.
The next time he asked: "Are you sure you don't need anything?" he added "because you really helped me out and I do consider you a friend; you're actually one of only two people in New Orleans that I consider friends."
I took another stab at it: "Well, I'm totally out of food until next Thursday (a week away) and feel too weak to go out and play, plus my spotlight batteries are about dead; my strings are about to break, and I really just feel so shitty that I don't think I can bring myself to sing "I Feel Good," by James Brown, complete with the 'Owww sock it to me!' part."
I think Travis has figured out how to "play me," as street people say, because he paused, as if waiting for me to add: "But, Rose and Ed owe me 5 bucks and I know they got their money last night. They haven't been answering their phone, but if I get that, I suppose I could buy some dollar store batteries for the spotlight and a trolley ticket, and then go out (with a 100 degree fever and try to sing 'I Feel Good) and play. I might have a decent night and then be out of the woods..." which I added.
"OK," he said, as if that settled in his mind that one, out of his pair of friends in New Orleans might get 5 dollars, and would be just fine.
"Your going to hate me," he then said, "But I have to take the TV."
He took the TV and then left.
Night fell and Rose and Ed's phone continued to go unanswered.
I guess I was in for the Friday night.
When do you draw the line? When do you decide that the deck is just stacked against you and just throw in your hand? When do you stop framing dire circumstances opportunities to overcome big time -the bigger the obstacles are, the harder they fall, type of thing?
When do you stop counting on people like Travis and Rose and Ed, and just grab your guitar and gear and trudge to your spot, on the verge of passing out with every step and vulnerable to any predator who preys upon the weak, and then play as well as you can, and sing with a head cold, knowing that some tourists are going to think that you're not a very good singer and will conclude that throwing you a dollar is only going to encourage you along a path that is obviously going to lead you to disappointment; and that the only way you are ever going to make a change in your career path and hopefully find your bliss elsewhere is if you aren't making a cent doing what you are doing; tough love in action?
And knowing that playing in the dark is going to cause tourists to cross to the other side of the street before encountering you, because a guitar neck can kind of look like a rifle barrel from that distance if its in the dark?
These were the thoughts that I had while drifting back to sleep, with all the lights on, and after having slid a note under Rose and Ed's door, telling them not to hesitate to knock whenever they return so they can give me the 5 bucks; so that I can go and sell my plasma the next day, feeling like a heel for lying on the "have you had any flu or flu-like symptoms in the past 6 days" question.
The fever climbed back up, and I woke up in a puddle of my own sweat, early Saturday afternoon.
I looked at the clock. There was time to make it to the plasma place, without having to jog any part of the way, or be at the mercy of the bus showing up at a particular time.
I had a dollar and a quarter and 15 pennies to shamefully chunk into the bus meter, while a busload of mostly black people who had mostly just gotten their government checks smiled from their seats.
I was ashamed for having taken one of the acetaminophen/oxycodone pills out of Travis' stuff, and having replaced it with a few aspirin; I could have, should have, called and asked his permission. The worst he could have said was: "Dude, I kind of need them because my back still acts up, especially when I'm sitting for hours, playing with my Genesis console that I spent 43 dollars on; money that would have made a nice gift to you as a token of my appreciation because "you really helped me out;" and would have allowed you to recuperate properly from the flu with plenty of fluids and rest, negating your need to pose a public health risk by selling blood plasma rife with the virus like a veritable 'Typhoid Daniel' so, no, I can't let you take any of my pills." Right?
I did text Travis, when I was on the trolley headed down Canal Street towards the hostel where he was staying. He had left my place one day short of his allowance of days, to leave himself the option of coming to pick up his stuff before the end of the month. If the security people were to check, they would see that he was allowed in the building that one more time. Amazing how meticulous his planning was, when it involved his own welfare, I thought. I also thought about the 19 bucks that he was apparently ready to pay to stay at the hostel that particular night, so as to leave that option open.
I asked him for a little bit of cash; at least 5 bucks.
He didn't answer right away, and hadn't before the 115 bus came and whisked me away on my gambit; penniless; and gambling that my temperature would be low enough when I got there, that they would buy my stuff. It would be my 7th such sale of September and I would get 40 dollars.
When it had been him, sitting on the church steps outside Sacred Heart, not feeling well, and wanting me to drop what I was doing at the Uxi Duxi to go there and let him inside because he just wanted "to lie down" in my apartment (where his pot was, also) he was texting me every 5 minutes or so, and answering me just as quickly.
I texted him again, while going across the bridge into Gretna -the bridge that it is illegal to walk across, so that I would be risking a trip to jail if I wound up having to do so. "Never mind, already on bus."
I thought about the 2 cats in the apartment for the 30? 45? 90? days that I might be locked up for for trespassing on the bridge.
Then, he called.
He was full of apologies for not having seen my text asking for money.
He had been in the St. Roch market, he said, with some friends that he had made at the hostel; and hadn't heard the text alert.
I basically read him the riot act, for the edification and amusement of the busload of passengers going over the bridge.
I mentioned the fact that, while at my place he had conjured up hundreds of dollars to give to his new landlady, Dorise, told him that I was sorry to have interrupted his shopping spree in the market with my annoying request for money that might be my only hope of making it back home, and then told him to play a few games of Sonic The Hedgehog for me on his 43 dollar game console that he had just had to have, etc. I apologized, myself, for the mood that I was in, using the excuse that all I had eaten in the past 24 hours was a can of sliced potatoes and some red kidney beans, boiled in the tap water that he may be familiar with if he reads the newspaper headlines.
It just occurred to me now, as I write this, that nobody on that bus, after having heard my problems yelled into a phone offered me any help whatsoever. What is living in New Orleans like, have you ever wondered? Well, there's a pretty good answer...
Travis then apologized again and pretty much convinced me that he had had no idea of what I was going through. I became convinced that he is as thick headed; and well intention-ed; as my other friend, Howard Westra -the one who would ask things like: "Having a salad?" when I was sitting there having a salad.
He offered to get on the bus to Gretna to come get me and bring me back. "Give me a call later to let me know if you need help," he said.
I hung up the phone, noticing as I did that its battery was almost dead; zero "bars." The writing was on the wall.
To be continued...
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