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The French Quarter
from New Orleans memories
The French Quarter. It wasn't the best of times; it wasn't the worst of times. It was June, and it was hot, as it always in New Orleans in the summer, and my live-in girlfriend, Christine, and I were down in the French Quarter for a day of jazz and drink and shopping for T-shirts. If you ever need a T-shirt, you just have to come to the French Quarter. Forget about art, Cajun music, historic architecture—the T-shirt is what it's come to, but we've got the best.
We had just walked out of a shop on Bourbon Street when I spotted a small crowd down Conti, near Royal; Christine and I hurried over to see what was up. It was a transvestite conked out on the sidewalk outside a greasy bar. One of the tourists, a guy from the Iowa wearing Bermuda shorts he'd taken out of mothballs just for this trip, was the most concerned of the crowd. "Do you think she's dead?" he asked me as I shoved my way through. I looked at him, and then again, making sure he knew I was doing a double take, and said: "That's not a woman. That's a man." He didn't believe me. "If you look real close," I said, "you'll see a five o'clock shadow under that makeup." So he bends down, looks real hard, and then comes back up scratching the bald part of his head. "Now I've seen everything," he said. "How long have you been in the Quarter?" I asked. "Oh, about a day," he answered. "Then you haven't seen anything yet," I quipped. I left him in a stupefied state and called the police from the corner T-shirt shop. When I got back, the transvestite was sitting up, moaning. The bald tourist from Iowa just stood there and stared at him, like he'd never seen a man in a dress before. Christine and I headed up Royal Street for more T-shirt shopping.
About an hour later, we were at Jackson Square. It was crowded with tourists and other T-shirt shoppers and clumps of street entertainers—jazz, tap dancing, mime, acrobatics—and a guy playing music on the rims of little glasses of water. For just a minute or two I stopped and watched a redhead with long legs and a short skirt, but in that brief time Christine disappeared. I thought I caught a glimpse of her walking down St. Ann, and hurried after her, but she vanished. This was exasperating me, and it was hot, and I wanted a drink of something cool. I slipped into a nearby bar. It was dark inside. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I hopped onto a bar stool and asked the bartender for a Coke. He looked at me like I didn't belong there, but I was too thirsty to care. I paid him for the soft drink and took two long drinks. Suddenly I sensed someone directly behind me. There was a moment of heavy breathing.
"Hey, guy," said the smooth, distinctively male voice behind me, "would you like me to push that stool in for you?"
WRONG BAR! I took a quick drink of my Coke, partly to appear casual and un-nervous, partly as an emergency measure against my thirst, and partly to give me a moment to distract this fellow's attention while I dashed for the door. I used the old "Say, isn't that Bette Midler over there!" and I was gone.
Outside it was hot. Solar flames forced sweat from every pore of my body. I staggered down St. Ann. After a few weak steps, a voice whispered to me. I turned to face a snub-nose revolver in the hand of a black robber in a narrow alley. He took my wallet and was disappointed with what he found. I explained that I was a writer and kept my millions in Swiss francs and only my agent had the key to the vault and she didn't always return my calls. That just pissed him off more. He had me take my clothes off and then left me in my shoes and boxers in the alley. At least I was cooler.
I slinked down the alley. Coming upon a wooden fence, I looked over and spotted a clothesline with fresh wash hanging out to dry. I found the latch to the gate and did a dash to the clothesline. The only thing dry enough to wear was a flower-print dress. I threw it on. It was a perfect fit, except for all the areas where I differed greatly from the big-boned woman who owned the dress. I fled out the gate and down the alley.
The dress was cool, but it didn't stop the heat. I needed water. I was feeling faint. I rested against a house a minute or two and then started down the alley again. I saw movements of people in the distance. Reaching the end of the alley, I peered around the corner and spied Christine at a street-side clarinet concert. Safe at last! She could drive the car around and pick me up and take me home for water and pants. I called out to her, but she didn't hear me. I started toward her, and promptly passed out on the sidewalk.
When I came to, Christine was bending over me, waving a cheap Japanese folding fan. Next to her was the bald tourist from Iowa. "Help me," I cried out weakly.
"Here's two bucks, fella," said the tourist, taking a couple of bills from his Bermuda shorts and shoving them down the front of my dress. "You just gotta go buy yourself some new makeup."
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