Fraternizing With The Enemy In The Great Kumquat Dispute

I was up in time to hear the morning dove coo (7 a.m.) and started to deliberate with myself over what I was going to do on this Wednesday, in order to check the most boxes off my "to do" list.

I thought about packing up my busking stuff, then riding to the unemployment office, which turns out to be about 3 miles away at their new location; from there, I could go to the Lilly Pad and start playing around 3 in the afternoon, when I would at least be in the shadow of Lilly's house..

My energy level was only at about 4 out of a possible 10, and I couldn't remember much from Tuesday night. I remembered going into The Quartermaster after I finished busking at probably around 8 p.m. They didn't kick me out. I think their entire staff has been turned over since the time about 3 years ago when I was barred from doing business there, based upon one guy having gotten angry at me for taking one of their milk crates to sit on when I play. That turned into an ugly incident as the guy tried to physically push me out the door of the place after I challenged any power he may have had to bar me, or anyone else, from the place. He was only a bicycle deliveryman, after all. 

In an act of defiance, I walked in the place, thinking that the higher-ups, whom I thought I was on good terms with, would over-ride bicycle boy.

My challenge was answered in less than a heartbeat, and the pushing started. I started to take my guitar and backpack off with visions in my head of punching him in his; but because Jacob was with me, who doesn't like violence, and I thought that physically pushing someone, whether they were barred or not, was a crime; I actually called the police, who showed up in one of the little vehicles that are like golf carts with blue lights atop them.

Jacob and I waited outside while the officers went in to get the guy's version of the story; then came out and basically tried to get me to just let the whole incident go. One of them pointed out that he couldn't see any bruises or blood on me, type of thing. I told them that after he pushed me I was pissed off enough to have come within inches of applying some bruises and blood to him "but thought I was doing the right thing in refraining from violence and calling you guys, instead."

"Can't you just let it go, I mean...?" was their attitude. And so I did.

Three years later and the whole store has had a make-over. There is no longer a large mural of the owner above the window that looks out onto Bourbon Street, depicting him in "full drag," and advertising some kind of queer show that he was a part of. It was a drag to have to see that whenever I went there. He might have sold the place. The only guy who still works there from that era is Larry, another bike carrier who is from Boston, and with whom I used to have friendly discussions about the Red Sox or the Celtics or the Patriots. He turned on me after the milk crate incident, and would pass by the Lilly Pad on his bike without acknowledging me after that.

But I had managed to go in there without raising any eyebrows, except my own after I saw the $3.49 price for a Guiness Stout Draft in a 16 ounce can) and buy one of them, then leave of my own volition; with no help getting me out the door. In fact I got one of the items on my wish list from one of the cooks who had stepped out for a cigarette, after I asked him for a light. He told me I could keep the thing, then produced an identical one from one of his pockets. He buys them by the case, he said...

This (Wednesday) morning, I decided to try to deal with the unemployment people online, rather than ride the 3 miles to the office, and got as far as registering on their website.

Then I set out to return the phone that I found to "Eddie," whose number I had fished out of its contacts before its battery died. It takes the other kind of charger than the one I have.

I decided to take the street car down there, using one of the tokens that Heather, one of the case workers at Sacred Heart, had handed me a handful of, then walk the 15 or so blocks to the Willie's Chicken Shack on Frenchmen Street, where I was kind of hoping I would be rewarded with a beer or a shot of tequila, to loosen me up for busking, for returning Eddie's phone to him.

It was kind of a weird scene, but so is all of Frenchmen Street. A young Hispanic looking kid was behind the counter. There was a hockey game on the TV. When I asked him if anyone named Eddie worked there, he repeated: "Eddie?" and then with a "just a minute' gesture, went to the back. He gave me the impression that he was going to fetch Eddie. But, he came back out in the company of a young man of color, who informed me that there was nobody with that name who worked there.

I started to recognize the familiar pattern of being given whatever I wished for in life, as long as I was holding up my end of the bargain by busking approximately every night. The street car tokens, the lighter, and now, the phone, I thought...

I decided that, having tried and failed to return it; I might go ahead and transfer the SIM card out of my phone with the crappy battery, transfer my number and service over to it and call it my own; saving myself the $29.99 that Assurance Wireless told me it would cost for them to send me a replacement.

Then I walked a circuitous route to the Lilly Pad, failing to find any beer or other drinks "just sitting there" anywhere. I would just have to start out playing sober.

I got to the Lilly Pad and picked the song "Because," by the Beatles. The sky was blue and the wind was high and I was able to muster up about half the energy required to pull that song off. I thought I was sounding half good, at least to myself. As I was doing the second song: "All You Need is Love," by the same group, someone put a dollar in my jar. I felt a tinge of shame over the fact that I was only putting half my energy into playing; and felt like I had defrauded the person in a sense.

As always happens, as soon as the dollar landed in the jar, I was able to change gears, forget about being totally sober and did a spirited version of "Like A Rolling Stone," by Bob Dylan (and using his lyrics, rather than my own mockery of them; a song I call "Unlike Like A Rolling Stone").

Almost simultaneous with a lady putting a 20 in the jar and another lady throwing a 1; the gate from Lilly's neighbor whom she is feuding with over the rights to the alley that separates the 2 dwellings opened; and out came a skinny guy with reddish blonde curly hair and a pale freckled face, who put a 5 in the jar and told me something like "keep playing what you're playing," then said he had been listening from behind the gate. This drills home the point that the busker should always play as if someone is listening even when nobody is within sight. I felt a second tinge of guilt over the lack-luster first two songs...

I wound up chatting with the guy, whose name is Dave, for a few minutes; while in the back of my mind knowing that he is a McCoy, and Lilly a Hatfield when it comes to the alley I sit in front of. "Whatever you do, don't ever tell them you know me or that I said you could play there!" Lilly has reiterated many times. She doesn't want me to get caught in the crossfire or become a bone of contention between the bickering parties, I guess.

It was then that I recalled the plan I had hatched during one of my more meditative moments after waking up to the morning dove's coo. Fortified with the 27 dollars that had materialized; I headed for The Herb Shop, where I bought an ounce of kratom, intending to go that way where the road forks; with the other prong leading to alcohol.

So I did, and on my way back to the Lilly Pad found a pretty decent roach of what turned out to be potent weed, laying in the road. A blond haired lady and what looked like her blond haired daughter with the toned looking muscles of a tennis player saw me pick up the roach and smell it; so I said: "Bingo!" for their amusement, before asking the younger of the 2 if she played tennis. There was a gentleman walking not far behind them, to whom the lady turned and asked something in what sounded like Finnish, that I guessed was: "What did he say?"

Sensing this was the case, I said: "I was asking her if she played tennis," and made a racket swinging motion. No, she didn't.

"Oh, she has such good tone to her muscles; is why I asked."

"Oh, thank you," said the young blond with the toned muscles whom I thought should have smelled of coconut oil, for some reason...

Back at the Lilly Pad, darkness was falling, so I hooked up the spotlight, telling Dave (who had re-emerged after hearing me playing while it fell) the story about how the vine that I hang the light from had wrapped itself around the spotlight during the winter, forming a kind of cradle that it fits nicely in. "It was probably because of the warmth that the light emits..." Dave thought that was cool and I had to smile to myself over how quickly myself and Lilly's mortal enemy were becoming friends. I'll have to call her tomorrow and give her all the juicy details; like a description of him and, of course, everything he said...like any good spy would do...

I wonder if Dave is an actor in The Great Kumquat Dispute. (The McCoy's kumquat tree overhangs Lilly's wall by a couple feet or enough so that that poor soul has to fish a fruit or two out of her pool, every so often. "They need to trim that tree back because those branches are technically on my property; and to stay out of my alley!" It's good to have a fighter like her in my corner when it comes to other musicians trying to skeeze my spot, I will say...

It's probably good that I didn't tell Dave that I was friends with Lilly and that she told me I could play there. 

It would have been funny if he had said something like: Hey, I don't mind you playing in front of my alley; I like listening to you; just don't tell the lady next door you know me, or that I said you could play here...OK?

It wound up being a $36 evening; on about an hour and a half of actual playing.

I went to The Quartermaster, where my heart skipped a beat when I saw none other than Larry behind the counter. He was polite and civil and promised not to tell me who won the Bruins game, "Because I'm going to watch the highlights when I get home..." I said.

I always thought the real reason I was barred was not so much the milk crate; but that I didn't adamantly voice a hatred of Donald Trump -and had said something as innocuous (and, hence, vicious) as: "It's hard to tell what's true and what's propaganda," to a heavyset black lady named Vilma, who then worked there and whose political philosophy seemed to be distillable to: "All I know is he's against us!" 

With "us" being heavyset black women writ large (excuse the pun) I guess.