A Thousand Journeys Are Begun With One Single Step

On continuing this blog, as I am...

 

It has probably taken me 7 years to grow into my apartment.

I remember when I first got it, I would sit on the couch with the coffee table in front of me and look around the pretty bare place.

All my worldly possessions had been taken out of my backpack and were spread very thinly throughout -the can opener in a drawer in the kitchen; my one towel over the bar in the bathroom that had no shower curtain on it yet....

The guitar was leaning against a wall, ready to make booming sounds like I was playing in a subway station -no carpets, drapes or...furniture...to dampen sounds.

I had been sleeping on a piece of cardboard, about 6 feet by 4 feet and almost an inch thick, that sat upon rocks that I had spent hours rearranging and fitting together like a puzzle, in order to make the flattest possible surface. One night of feeling a lump every time I rolled over and I would be at work as soon as daylight came, trying to find the offending rock and replace it with one that fit better. I developed a pretty keen eye -probably like those who built stone walls a few hundred years ago- for spotting the right rock.

Everything was within 20 feet of me, with most of it within an arms reach of the cardboard. The candles that I lit in order to read by (and to establish kind of a boundary for the river rats, of which I had a family of about 20) were glued by wax to a rock near my head, with the wax running into the crevices of rock like cake icing. My guitar had its own rocks to sit on.

My backpack came back every night with at least something in it, which would go to enhance the dwelling -copious amounts of food from the trash cans outside Rouses Market, for one thing.

I would empty it of all kinds of foods that had expired hours earlier and then start the cooking fire. There would, of course, be something for the rats, and the turtle. I was "shopping" with an eye out for their needs, too; judging by what they ate, what they ate only part of, or what they fought over, what I should grab.

The turtle was about the size of a football and was a "snapping" one of some breed. It had shown quite an interest in whatever garbage I left behind to make what must have been an arduous journey, over rocks that seemed like they could have flipped it over; just to get to what was usually the remains of the salads that I ate a ton of -those prepacked ones, which became whatever style of salad they are advertised as, once you add all the included dressings, bacon bits, cheese, guacamole or teriyaki flavoring in order to transform them into something less healthy, but more appealing to the American palate.

But, that particular "turtle spot" is where I threw stuff like strawberries, and other fruit that was maybe bruised or partially rotted; whatever landed it in the trash can, basically.

After I saw the determination of the turtle as it clunked its way over rocks, falling and clanging against some of them loudly enough to be heard over the waves from the river lapping the shore; apparently making a beeline for the food, rather than having tried to find an easier passage through the maze of rocks, I decided to clear a path for it by moving some rocks out of the way.

Then, there was our first close encounter. 

It walked right up to the garbage spot, where I met it, squatting down to place a carton of blueberries in front of it.

It initially had pulled its head inside its shell as I drew near, but the blueberries, some lettuce, strawberries and I think some sour cream and guacamole was enough to draw him out, as soon as I made a soothing sound, which I roughly translate as: "You'll be alright, big turtle."

It wasn't until I Google "What do turtles like to eat," about a year later that I realized that my intuitions had been pretty spot-on with what I laid in front of it, that time, and almost every day thereafter. I think it might have waited until it heard me an knew I was there before coming. That would be just like a New Orleans turtle; it was probably panhandling me for food.

I had the huge steel girders about 4 feet above my head that ran the length of, and supported, the staging area for the steamboat Natchez that docked about 75 feet in front of me when it was in.

I scheduled my day around the boat. At 10 A.M. the calliope began to play and it began to load up with passengers for its 1 p.m. to the second departure.

This meant that it was time for me to slip out from under the wharf and begin my day. The dock became pretty empty once the passengers had embarked. Even the guy who played his trumpet for them would leave and take a break until the boat came back at approximately 3:45, depending upon the currents.

Then, I would poke my head out, under the "NO TRESPASSING; POLICE TAKE NOTICE!!" warning (which I had spray-painted on myself, using stencils) and jump up onto the river walk; always mimicking zipping up my fly when doing so, for the benefit of anyone who might have seen me. I don't live under there, I just needed to relieve myself, type of thing...

The Initiative

But, the Unity people, and the Veterans of America, and the Catholic Social Services, and the Housing Authority Of New Orleans, along with The Volunteers of America, found me there, in my utopia, and gave me the keys to my apartment on the last day of 2014. There had been some kind of initiative to remove all the homeless veterans from the streets of the city by the end of the year, and they had just gotten me into Sacred Heart Apartments with about 4 hours to spare.

Michelle Obama had come to give a speech to to "us veterans" at the Convention Center, an event I attended, hoping to get a sleeping bag or some boots out of it, and I had joked around with her, after shaking her (pre-Covid) hand, telling her that she should arm-wrestle Hillary Clinton for the Democratic nomination.

I've looked through 100 "Natchez" photos, and they all seem to want to show the boat, and not my place (under the roof-like thing, left)

One of the Unity guys came up to me on Royal Street and wound up bringing me here and giving me a choice of apartments, out of 3 that were left. 2 of them were on the 4th floor and were smaller than the one I took, which is on the first floor, has a bath tub, and was apparently too big, as it has taken me 7 years to grow into. I remember envisioning myself an old man, living here in the future, and how convenient a first floor place would be. It wasn't until later that I learned that a bathtub is a coveted thing, found in very few of the 120 apartments.

Jim Crow Is Smiling Up From Hell

I got some dirty looks from some of the black ladies that worked the front security desk. It is as if they thought it just wasn't right for a white man to take an apartment here, what with all the privileges already bestowed upon him. And, to get a bathtub?!? Jim Crow is smiling up from hell, I guess.

That night, I busked at the Lilly Pad, drinking my 4-6 beers as I did so, then, by force of habit, went to the Rouses trash cans with my flashlight and loaded the backpack with edibles, before going down to the river and slipping under my no trespassing sign.

The lead rat, I guess, gave the shrill signal that I was back, and would soon be loading a certain flat topped rock about the size of a dinner tray, with food.

I lit my candles and licked my lips at the prospect of reading more of a Ken Follett novel I was in the middle of. I lit a fire, using charcoal briquets, then doubled some tin foil with the edges bent up to form a rim, then put whatever fresh fish, fillet Mignon, or other meat in it, after dousing it with vinegar and slathering it with olive oil, then seasoning it with a variety of sauces out of bottles that had all been tossed out because their caps had a chip in them, or ones that were the 11 that had stains on their labels from the 12th bottle that might have broken when the whole case fell to the floor, type of thing.

The Natchez would have been docked already, with one security guy posted where he couldn't see me go under the dock, even if he did ever look up from his phone, and I would be drifting off to sleep sometime around 4 a.m., so as to give me a healthy 8 hours of sleep before the boat left. I had learned how to acknowledge, without completely waking up, the calliope player, when he started to play at 10 in the morning.

Some nights, I would busk until almost 4 in the morning, and would have eaten, fed the rats, and would still be reading when the sun would rise and begin shimmering off the water of the river. The patterns of light and shadow that would dance on the wall nearby me would lull me to sleep, when I was ready. Those days, I would sleep right through the Natchez' first sailing and have to wait until it came back, and then left again at 5 p.m. before coming out.

I would get to hear the jazz band play in between voyages, though. And I would usually see the turtle those late afternoons.

My pockets would be stuffed with the money that a busker who gets free food could accumulate. I had a jar that I hid under a special rock that I would put all the money, except for 12 dollars in. That jar topped 300 bucks at least once, I recall.

Never Wash Another Sheet

But, on New Year's Eve 2014, I was already cooking some lamb and getting ready to have red wine with it, and had already loaded the rats rock up, when I rolled over on my cardboard, to get at my corkscrew, and felt the key in my pocket.

"Oh, that's right, I have an apartment now..."

Never Wash Another Sheet!

It was then that I remembered that I had an apartment. I supposed that I should go there, so I wrapped up the lamb, put out the fire and then said goodbye to the rats and the turtle. Forever.

I rode the street car to a nearby corner then, after having to identify myself to the guard at the front desk, let myself in to the booming cavernous place with the 16 foot high ceilings.

It is only now, 7 years later, that I am arranging the apartment to my liking.

I'm thinking about getting a pet snake, just to have a reptile around. And of grabbing a piece of thick cardboard, to lay over the bed. I think it's better for your spine than a mattress... And it's like using paper plates; if the cardboard gets dirty, just replace it; never wash another sheet!