Another Magical Outing/ Nothing Free In This World

I had very little motivation to go out, Saturday night, but as is usually the case, I was very glad I did.

Friday evening, I had stepped outside right after sundown and it was probably 40 degrees, which is already a couple degrees too cold to play; and that was right after sundown. So, I made other plans.

Then, stepping outside before midnight,later that same night, to get Harold, I found myself standing in an almost balmy 55 degree parking lot. It had warmed up something like 15 degrees over the course of a few hours.

But, that was water under the bridge. Back in the homeless days, I would have been too bored under the wharf to not at least have gone up to the Lilly Pad, even if just to sit there, bundled up with my guitar by my side, collecting money from people who might realize: "A little too cold to play tonight, eh?"

So, Saturday night, I had not even a can of food for Harold. 

I remembered JR in A206 having told me once: "I've got cans of tuna fish," after I had used the excuse that I needed to go out and play "to feed my cat," and couldn't sit with him and jam away on 2 chords all night, while he plied me with alcohol and tobacco and weed.

I avoided knocking on his door, initially because I have learned that he is the type of person who tries to purchase the company of others, using those particular items. He would give me a can of tuna perhaps, but would first, after assuring me that he would do just that, insist that I hang out with him for whatever amount of time a can of tuna is worth on the current time market.

So, I knocked on the door of Carlos, who lives on my floor and who has accumulated about 2 years worth of food just from his being in the right place at the right time; particularly in front of the building at such times that charitable people might pull up and announce: "You need any food?" to those lucky enough to find themselves hanging out in front of the building at such times; and so Carlos' supply of peanut butter, tuna fish and macaroni and cheese has become considerable. The last time I knocked on his door asking for anything (some coffee, I think it was) he opened a pantry that was stuffed with food and gave me some instant coffee that was in a bag that I recognized as being the kind that was given to all us residents one Christmas, or something; out of what looked like a pile of at least a dozen of them on one of his pantry shelves.

The economy of Sacred Heart is kind of based upon a barter system that is not unlike what operates in jails, where, people being forced upon one another soon find out who likes what, how much they like it; and what they would be willing to trade for it, type of thing.

It became apparent that Carlos liked coffee and knew someone who didn't, but probably liked something else which was nowhere to be seen on Carlos' shelves. Just as well, as there would have been no room for whatever it was...

Carlos didn't answer his door; so up to A 206 I went.

JR didn't break form. "Sure, I got some tuna fish!" he said, and then dug out a can from behind other stuff on a shelf stuffed with food. He handed me the can.

I had just let Harold in from outside before realizing that I didn't have any food for him, and I left him crying by his dish, as I dashed out on a tuna quest.

I was so out of everything that I took JR up on his offer to roll me a cigarette, using his rolling machine, and his bag of bulk tobacco (which I suspect is bagged up from what gets swept up off the floor after all the Marlborough's and Winston's are manufactured).

It took him a few tries to make a cigarette, as drunk as he was.

During these failed attempts he had a chance to provide perhaps something actually valuable to me when he launched into a lecture about depression, after I had told him that I really didn't want to go out to busk that night.

I guess he hadn't caught the last of it when I added: "...but I have to; because otherwise, I'll wake up in the morning with nothing..."

When I mentioned feeling kind of depressed about going out; and then mused that I should probably take the advice of my once friend Bobby to go to one of the mental health professionals that work in "the system" and to say the magic words: "I sometimes think about taking my own life," and then to start getting checks for $855 dollars for free on the first of every month because of that, after going to a lawyer who specializes in earning 10% out of any such dispositions of funds granted to such individuals (with a bonus for him if he is lucky enough to have someone walk into his office who also hears voices coming out of his heating unit, with it telling him to take his own life affording him a coup de maître, when sending the paperwork off).

But, JR became very resolute at that moment; telling me that he was very familiar with that whole system, and basically giving me a pep talk about how people needed music, and that my going out to play on Bourbon Street was providing a service that "these people sitting around here, getting 'crazy checks' and smoking it all up in crack every month could only dream about being able to do."

That was a surprising moment of lucidity from JR, who, after finally succeeding in rolling me a cigarette, grabbed one of his guitars and handed me another. "You don't have to go out there; you've got everything you need right here. I've got liquor, I've got weed...do you want a shot?"

I supposed I could stand a shot off a bottle of something mixed with vodka that he seems to keep in his freezer, with the "something" being mostly frozen chunks, with the vodka free flowing around it.

I realized, after I had done my best to get some in my mouth, past the ice bound outlet of the bottle, and after he had immediately whisked the concoction back into his freezer, ignoring my entreaty for "one more sip 'cause I really didn't get much out of the bottle," and after he had lit a joint and passed it to me; and after we had done a couple Beatles songs, while Harold undoubtedly stood by his bowl, waiting that I had reached kind of a defining moment in my life.

I started to see JR as the the personification of addiction itself.

"I've got alcohol, I've got weed, I've got plenty of tobacco..." heard through the filter of having gotten somewhat high off the couple hits off his joint, and coupled with this latest perspective of him, shed light upon him by which it seemed plausible that he was being something like Dicken's ghosts of present and future and such. He was Addiction itself, telling me, not so much what he had to offer me, but rather, through how many means he could ensnare me; pick your poison, become my prisoner; sit here all night playing guitar and keeping me company, in exchange of me giving you a shot of vodka every once in a while, or rolling another cigarette at me leisure...

And, so, at a certain point; I had to make a choice. A couple nights before I had not gone out to play to protect myself from myself. I didn't want to go out and play music just to feed all my addictions; but what would I be doing by hanging out with JR all night?

Harold came to my rescue. I told JR that I needed to get the can of tuna that had been in my pocket almost an hour, down to Harold. I defied him (in my mind) to object to that.

He offered to come down to my apartment with me, so we could feed Harold together; then we could return to his place and play more Beatles' songs. He had plenty of tobacco and....

"Harold's gonna get frightened; if some stranger walks in he'll run and hide under the bed..."

So, I went down to my place, happy to see that it was only 10:40 p.m. on my clock, and not something much worse (thank God for the time warping effect of marijuana, I had actually only spent a half hour with JR, though it seemed like 3 and a half).

I fed Harold the tuna, and promised him something better as I escaped from Sacred Heart with fresh batteries in the amp and the spotlight.

It had been the classic fork in the road where one direction is self sufficiency and the other, relying upon others. I realized this as I rode towards the Quarter with no money, or anything else in my pockets.

Then, I managed to put The Law of Attraction into effect and become happy and grateful and had visions of me dancing through obstacles, but with my focus upon a grander goal...

Then, I saw something curious wedged between the trolley tracks and the concrete. It turned out to be a five dollar bill that had been apparently run over by the trolley. It was blackened in parts and Lincoln looked like he had been spending too much time in Ford's Theater, but both serial numbers were legible.

I went to The Unique Grocery Store, where all I was able to feebly bleat out was "It has both serial numbers," after I had waived the proclamation of "It's all the money I've got," letting my obvious desperation say that for me.

"What do you want?" asked the Ethiopian guy whom I have seen in there almost every night the past 8 years.

He wanted me to go and get whatever it was and bring it to his register.

3 shots of brandy, and my change would be $1.70.

"You can keep the change for dealing with that messed up bill..."

He handed me the change.

"Are you alright?" I asked. Hoping that he didn't think he would have trouble putting that bill in with the rest of the bank deposit.

"Yeah," he said. I'm pretty sure they have had to tender currency in even worse shape, at that store. I remember one time there was a guy who painted his whole body red and wore a devil's costume and was having trouble spending his money because his red dye had stained it all; making it look like the lucre from a bank robbery. But, I guess a bill with half of Lincoln's head missing wasn't as bad as that...

I got to the Lilly Pad, after having borrowed milk crates to sit on from The Quartermaster store, which has barred me from entering because of my borrowing milk crates. I told them that I always brought them back after I was done sitting on them and in fact I had actually added to their stock of them by bringing the ones there that I had found on Royal Street on my way to the Lilly Pad on certain nights when I had been so blessed; but they weren't going for that. 

Truth be told, that is a gay owned business, that I believe is looking for any opportunity to bar straight men. On the night when I was confronted by one of their employees, who ripped the milk crate from my grasp, I was with Jacob and we were on our way to the Lilly Pad. I think the employee was jealous of, and probably attracted to Jacob, who was just 20 years old at the time and wasn't helping the cause of me taking milk crates by being dressed and acting in a sexually ambiguous way; so that the employee who was a bicycle delivery guy about my age might have fancied that I was taking a milk crate from them to sit on next to my gay friend who was half our age; and that fueled a jealous rage in him; and he wanted to assert himself, in some way, maybe as if to say: I'm a 44 year old gay loser and I'm not going to let you add insult to injury by stealing one of our milk crates so you can sit on it next to your cute little bass playing friend. Not on my watch! type of thing...

He thought I was mocking him. Look how good I got it, delivery loser!

So, I suppose I am being obstinate by continuing to take their crates (even though I bring them back) but sometimes I just don't find any along the way to the spot, and then can't find any candle boxes in the Lafitt's Blacksmith Shop Tavern trash; and so I sneak up and grab one..

I went to the Lilly Pad and realized that I had finally worked the bugs out of my little sound system; the whole idea of the amplifier having been to allow me to sing a lot more softly and not have to "Tom Waits" my way through every song, turning soft ballads into raspy "hey, can you even hear me?" affairs.

The traffic was light, and I really should have been there much sooner; should have just let Harold be patient -I would be back with Fancy Feast Tuna Primavera before you know it, just take a nap- rather than having gone to get a can of tuna from the embodiment of addiction "Come on, let's play some A minor, to E7 back to A minor all night and get f***ed up!" guy.

But, in my attempt to not hate him and to find a silver lining in his A 206 cloud, I found that his words about not relying upon a crazy check, but rather promoting myself towards the good of humanity were a catalyst for me and allowed me to see him in a good light. Ironic that the result was for me to conclude; you know, you're right, I'm not going to sit here and wait for you to spark up another joint or go to the freezer for the frozen concoction every once in a while to string me along all night...

I sipped on the 3 shots of Brandy that the run over 5 dollar bill had gotten me, playing "Brandy," by Looking Glass and finally settled upon the old standby; pretending that Lilly was laying in her bed and smiling and drifting off into a peaceful sleep content in the knowledge that she had let me play on her stoop.

I only made single bills, but they were steady and there were enough "I wish I had more"s for me to continue.

Then, when I finally knocked off, and went to return the milk crate, there were a couple of guys in their 20's with one of them saying to the ether (not the other, the ether; he was staring off into nowhere) "Where's Bourbon Street?" 

"It's under your feet with just a layer of rubber in between," I volunteered.

I went on to explain that, the absence of a street sign was a sure sign that they were on Bourbon Street "Because people steal them so they can hang them in their garages in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma or wherever, as souvenirs."

"Oh, my God, dude, we're from Broken Arrow; how could you have known that; you couldn't have known that; we just got here 2 days ago, we haven't told anyone where we're from!"

"That's where people hang Bourbon Street signs in their garages, what can I say?"

Then, from out of the Quartermaster, where I am barred and through the window of which I could see the dour face of Larry, one of the other employees who used to be my friend, but who sided with the other guy in the milk crate dispute and became hostile towards me, came a few more people, one of which was a young lady, skinny and with black hair like a Celtic girl.

Someone suggested that I play them "off," which was a cool way of saying we want to hear you play but want to be free to just walk away.

I picked up on that vibe and said: "I understand. You don't want to feel obligated to listen to whatever song I play in its entirety..."

Then, after I had gotten my guitar out, I said: "I'd like to play a song called 'Freebird,' in its entirety..." but then added "Just kidding," and then improvised something that I don't recall, but the lyrics were mostly what we had just been talking about. I threw in "Broken Arrow, Oklahoma," and a few other things; and the young skinny Celtic looking girl handed me a few dollars after hugging me and saying that she wished she had more.

I gave a glance at Larry and company through the window before riding off "I need to get a drink now," I had said to the group, looking at the few bucks in my hand. Larry had that look that said: "What can you do, the tourists come first, and if he is entertaining them, as aggravating as it might be to us; it's not a good idea to interrupt their fun..." so let him play a song for them right in front of our business; just keep an eye on the milk crates...

They probably thought I was skeezing and had twisted the people's arm in order that they hear me play. No, Larry, I pulled the exact city that they were from out of my ass; give me a break!

It wasn't over at that point; I had just gotten started.

"You didn't fit in, in Broken Arrow, did you?" I asked, which caused the two flamingly gay guys to burst into laughter.

"This city is made up of people that didn't fit in anywhere else, that probably explains me," I added. "It's like everyone drifted down the Mississippi after failing in one place after another, until there wasn't any further to drift..."

On my way to get that drink; there was that thing which is a large metal frame that supports 3 sets of swings upon which people sit while a grand version of a ped cab rider bicycles them around. The people get pulled through the Quarter and can swing back and forth along the way (see photo at top).

I stopped, and seeing that it was just the guy who owned the thing, and 3 guys who must have been the passengers, felt compelled, bolstered by the 3 shots of brandy, to tell the story that started with; "I'm probably one of the only guys to ever see this thing tip over!" and then turning towards the only guy not in a tuxedo and hence, probably the cyclist, "It was 3 rather portly African American ladies and they were all swinging in unison when you went around a corner.."

The driver, after initially attempting to deny my account (don't be frightening my customers) had to admit that, yeah, I must have been on the scene that ONE TIME that his rig had ever tipped over.

This led to one of them taking out his phone camera and requesting that I play them a song. 

I thought I came up with a pretty clever improvised song about the great crash of the the bicycle swing thing with the 3 portly African American ladies in colorful floral print dresses hitting the pavement. "They were all swinging together and they were all pretty fat and around a corner and down together they went; oh what a ghastly splat!" type of thing.

I only wish that I had noticed that one guy was still filming, after another one standing next to me had moved off to grab a beer or something. He had been in the shot, so I assumed the video was over when he walked off. But looking up and seeing the disappointed look on the face of a guy who still had a phone pointed at me and said "No, keep going; keep going, man" I was only hoping that he knew how to edit videos and could cut that part out.

"I was on my way up there to get a drink, I'm starting to think I'll never make it," I said, before riding the 3 blocks to Fred's Variety store, where I am relegated to going to, now that I am barred from The Quartermaster (gay ass hellhole).

Once I got to that particular store, it wasn't long before, up rode the contraption of a bicycle pulling a large metal framework supporting 3 sets of swings (with its own stereo system).

"Hey, man, get anything you want; I'll pay for it," said one of the guys in tuxedos. 

Fancy Feast Tuna Primavera in abundance; just hang in there, Harold...

What I learned from the experience was, for one, I should have taken a picture of the run over 5 dollar bill, as well as the bike contraption; I had my phone on me, in case I had to call Lilly to run someone off her stoop.