Three New Orleans Stories

I. The Fetishist

It’s never a good idea for a young woman to go to Bourbon Street alone, but Saturday night is the worst. New Orleans’ well-known thoroughfare is filled with drunken revelers. They careen from one bar to another, chugging Hurricanes and mint juleps. Crushed cups litter the streets, oozing dark fluids. Scantily clad women beckon from doorways.

A half-bald, middle-aged man staggers in my direction. He’s so wasted that his eyes appear to be spinning. Perhaps he’s just crazy. It’s hard to tell on Bourbon Street.

“Excuse me, miss.” His voice sounds surprisingly soft. “I want to ask you a question.”

Men in the Quarter always want to ask questions. When I first moved to New Orleans from Illinois, I listened to their queries. Midwestern girls are cordial to strangers. It’s our curse.

The crowd is too thick for a quick getaway. I’m stuck beside the guy. He stands only a couple of feet away, swaying. After sneaking a furtive glance at my feet, he meets my eyes and flashes a creepy smile.

“I’m into ankles,” he confesses. “You have nice ones.”

I start to push my way through the crowd, but he follows. “I know a courtyard around the corner. It’s always empty. We’ll go there, and you can show me your ankles. That’s all you need to do. It’ll be quick.”

It occurs to me that he wants to jerk off while staring at the curved bones above my feet. I have never heard of such a kink before. I’ve only had three boyfriends in my life, and none of them even mentioned ankles.

“Fifty bucks for five minutes.” He’s pleading now.

I shake my head and try to increase my pace, but the tourist throng is heavier than usual.

“Seventy-five.” He’s not a cheapskate, just a pervert.

I spot a break in the crowd. My feet seem to move too slowly, like I’m in one of those dreams where I try to get away from someone, but gravity makes escape impossible.

A minute later, I can no longer see the poor guy. Despite myself, I feel sorry for him. He won’t have much success with his bizarre approach. Goddamn Midwestern politeness. It’s going to take me a while to get over it, but I’m sure that New Orleans will give me lots of practice. 

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II. The Final Insult

I quit my server job at Houlihan’s on the Fourth of July.

The French Quarter overflowed with tourists. They were eager to eat deep-fried oysters and po-boys before taking in some semi-nude action inside the strip clubs. Most of them were already drunk by mid-afternoon. I hated working on holidays, but I needed to pay my bills. No matter how hard I labored, I couldn’t earn enough money for expenses, even though I lived in a cheap hovel.

Ten shitfaced, demanding people sat at a long table at the restaurant’s center. They never had enough dinner rolls or water. Every two minutes, one of them screamed, “Waitress! You forgot to fill my glass!

Come here right now!”

I rushed around like an ant escaping from a damaged nest, trying to serve everyone at once. Meanwhile, more people poured into the restaurant. Each group seemed larger and more peevish than the last.

“This place looks like a shithole,” one man said.

“I know, honey,” his wife replied. “Let’s go someplace else.”

Finally, the ten top folks finished their meal. They rose from the table, shoved back their chairs, and stormed from the building. As they filed through the door, I could still hear them complaining.

“Worst service I’ve ever had,” a woman whined.

“Terrible,” her friend agreed.

I shuffled over to their cluttered table and scooped up the bill. One of the male guests had paid with an American Express gold card. He’d drawn a dark, furious line through his receipt’s tip area, almost shredding the paper in the process.

My heart began to pound. How dare he stiff me after acting like I was his personal servant? What kind of asshole expected perfect service but refused to leave a gratuity?

Then I saw the quarter at the bottom of a half-full water glass, glistening like a tiny, silver fish.

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III. Against the Wind

I met Bill at a poetry reading when I was supposed to be at Philosophy class.

Tulane’s night courses were geared towards older students, but I was only nineteen. I took the St. Charles streetcar to campus and spent my time wandering aimlessly amongst banana trees. My boyfriend, Mark, and I had just split up, and I was going nuts.

Bill was lanky and had messy blonde hair that fell over his eyes. He read poems about hitchhiking to see an ex-lover. Though his work seemed mediocre, he possessed an appealing earnestness. I wondered what he looked like in bed.

After the reading ended. I gave Bill a coy smile. “That was so good. I’d like to see more of your writing.”

“I’d be happy to show it to you,” he said.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of a shotgun-style building. Bill lived with three other men. They gave me appraising looks and left the room. Bill and I fumbled on his floor mattress. He climbed on top of me, but nothing happened.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. Maybe it’s the wine.”

“It’s okay.” I rolled over and pulled a pillow against my body. Within seconds, Bill was snoring.

In the morning, I drank instant coffee with his roommates. They chattered about the Sex Pistols and the Grateful Dead. Bill had scored tickets for a Dead show in Birmingham.

“Birmingham,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s Bob Seger country.”

“I love Bob Seger,” I said. “Especially his last album.”

The four men stared at me. Their expressions looked vaguely hostile, like they couldn’t believe I was in the room.

Bill took a sip from his coffee cup. “Somebody has to.”

Obviously, I wasn’t cool enough for these folks. I finished my coffee, collected my purse, and headed for the door. Bill stood on the threshold and smiled. “Glad to meet you. I’ll give you a call soon.”

I felt certain I would never hear from Bill again. Mark had moved back to Chicago. I would be better off with him. Like me, he was a hopeless dork.

The funny thing was that I didn’t even like Bob Seger that much. I don’t know why I sabotaged my luck by expressing such fondness for his work. Perhaps it was an odd intuition. Some things were never meant to be. I just needed to turn the page.