7:30 on a Tuesday evening. I'm sitting on Bourbon St. trying to pick up a ride. Even on a weeknight like this the din is deafening, and the crowds flow by without seeing me. If I can't even manage to make eye contact, there's no way I can entice anyone to get on the bike. It's early yet, and these people have several more hours of partying to do before they think about going anywhere. Time for me to move on and try another spot.
My eight hour shift ended an hour and a half ago, but I'm still out trying to pick up another fare or two. My wife lost her job last week. We're hopeful that it won't take her too long to find something else, but in the meantime I'm trying to put in a few extra hours when I can. With Mardi Gras coming up, the next couple of weeks should be a good time to make some easy money that will help ease us through this transition. Today hasn't been easy though. Rides have been scarce and tips tight. I think that I'm about ready to tackle somebody, tie him up, and throw him on the back of the bike.
I decide to try pedaling along Royal Street. Parallel with Bourbon and the next street over, Royal is all but deserted. A street musician sits on the corner singing with a voice like weathered cypress. He accompanies himself with blues licks from an electric guitar plugged into a tiny amp. The music rises sweetly above the dull, distant roar of Bourbon a block away. It's a pity there's no one else around to enjoy this. I pull my bike to a stop in front of the guy. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to pick up some passer-by on this corner; but if not, at least I'll enjoy the music for a moment.
The singer is tall and grizzled and wears a bandanna on his head. I sit there for a minute lost in the music before I remember my manners and drop a couple of dollars into his guitar case. He thanks me with a broad smile without interrupting the song. When he finishes the song, we chat for a while. He goes by his initials, DJ. He tells me that he's killing time here, picking up a few tips while he waits on his wife to get off work at a restaurant down the street. He's from Leeville, a tiny Cajun settlement way down south on Hwy. 1 just a couple of miles from the open Gulf. If you look at it on a map, there's more water than land. A "not-the-end-of-the-world-but-you-can-see-it-from-there" kind of place.
"Ah, Lafourche Parish," I say.
"Yeah man," he says. "That storm wiped us out!" (Referring to Hurricane Katrina, of course.)
"No doubt! But see, you probably couldn't sing the blues so sweet without that tragedy, right?"
He could justifiably take offense at my dismissing his suffering so lightly, but he doesn't. He just smiles and says, "I guess that's it man!"
Just then a young woman walks up. Desperate for a fare, I blurt out, "Would you like a ride?" before I have the chance get a good look at her. As soon as the words are out of my mouth I recognize my mistake. She's tiny, dark-skinned and dirty, and she's lugging four or five overstuffed knapsacks. Homeless.
"Is it free?" she asks.
"No, it's not free," DJ and I both say at the same time.
I do give free rides on occasion but not very often. Look, I could easily spend all my time providing transport to the homeless and joy rides to teens from the ghetto, but I've got a family to support, right? Speaking of joy rides to ghetto teens, I actually gave a free ride to a couple of local kids earlier in the day. Like I said, I don't make a habit of this. I guess I was in some kind of Mother Teresa mood or something. But isn't one free ride a day enough?
There's a brief but awkward silence, and I'm aware that DJ is feeling deep compassion for this girl. Honestly, I don't even know how I know. It's not that he says anything at all, but I feel it so keenly that in that instant it overtakes me too obliterating my momentary irritation.
"How far do you need to go?" I ask.
"There," she points. "Canal Street." I hear from her accent that she is Hispanic, and her English is pretty poor.
Canal Street is only 3 or 4 blocks away and a straight shot. "Hop on!" I say. "It's free."
She's happy. I'm happy. And I think that DJ is the happiest of all. "You're awesome, man," he calls out as I pedal away. "You've got a really good heart! This is good karma! It'll come back to you, you'll see!"
A half hour goes by. I offer a ride to an attractive, well-dressed couple about my own age. "Later," she says.
"OK then," I say handing her my card. "Call me when you're ready."
Husband and wife look at each other for a moment, and suddenly she says, "Let's do it!" As they settle into the passenger seat I ask, "Where are we headed?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answers. "Nowhere in particular. Just ride us around for a few minutes then take us to Bourbon Street."
They're Canadians it turns out. Mike and Anita. They're both friendly and fun. The three of us are thoroughly enjoying ourselves from the outset.
About five minutes into the ride we happen to pass DJ. He stops mid-song to call out to me: "Look at you, man! You got some riders. See? I told you. Karma, man! You're awesome."
"What was that about?" Mike and Anita ask, and I tell them the story.
"Well he's probably onto something," she says. "You know, you weren't the first person to try to get us on a pedicab. We just kept telling everybody, 'Later!' But you're the one who got us to ride. Things really do come around."
Mike's mind is elsewhere. "I wish he would loan me his guitar for a minute," he says.
"Are you a musician?" I ask.
"Not a professional, but I play and sing a bit. You know, just for fun... I write songs." His voice trails off.
"Well I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask," I say. "Would you like me to ask him for you?"
"Sure, that would be great!" Mike says
We circle back around to DJ's corner. This is definitely going to be awkward. Asking a bluesman to borrow his guitar is probably like asking him to borrow his wife. If DJ says yes, and this Canadian guy turns out to be really terrible, it's going to be even more embarrassing. This is not the kind of situation that I usually get myself into, but I'm liking this couple so much that I'm ready to take the risk for them.
The conversation turns out about as awkward as I had expected. DJ doesn't want to say yes, but he can't quite bring himself to say no. Maybe he's thinking he owes me a favor. Even though he never actually asked me to take that homeless girl onto the bike, we both understand that in some sense I did it for his sake. So after a bit of hemming and hawing, he hands over the instrument.
Mike is quite good as it turns out. A big smile, spreads over DJ's face as he stands back and listens. "I'm enjoying hearing something other my own voice for a change," he says.
At the end of the song, DJ and I both applaud, and I say to the Canadian guy, "Well, you can go back home and tell everyone that you played New Orleans!"
He tries to hand the guitar back to DJ, and DJ says,"No, man. Play us another one!"
So he launches into another song, and Anita slips me $40 and says, "I know you need to be on your way. I just want to say thank you for making my husband's dream come true!"
It's 9 PM. I've been out for 11 hours now, and I'm pretty tired. But I head back to the shop the happiest man in New Orleans.
My eight hour shift ended an hour and a half ago, but I'm still out trying to pick up another fare or two. My wife lost her job last week. We're hopeful that it won't take her too long to find something else, but in the meantime I'm trying to put in a few extra hours when I can. With Mardi Gras coming up, the next couple of weeks should be a good time to make some easy money that will help ease us through this transition. Today hasn't been easy though. Rides have been scarce and tips tight. I think that I'm about ready to tackle somebody, tie him up, and throw him on the back of the bike.
I decide to try pedaling along Royal Street. Parallel with Bourbon and the next street over, Royal is all but deserted. A street musician sits on the corner singing with a voice like weathered cypress. He accompanies himself with blues licks from an electric guitar plugged into a tiny amp. The music rises sweetly above the dull, distant roar of Bourbon a block away. It's a pity there's no one else around to enjoy this. I pull my bike to a stop in front of the guy. Maybe I'll be lucky enough to pick up some passer-by on this corner; but if not, at least I'll enjoy the music for a moment.
The singer is tall and grizzled and wears a bandanna on his head. I sit there for a minute lost in the music before I remember my manners and drop a couple of dollars into his guitar case. He thanks me with a broad smile without interrupting the song. When he finishes the song, we chat for a while. He goes by his initials, DJ. He tells me that he's killing time here, picking up a few tips while he waits on his wife to get off work at a restaurant down the street. He's from Leeville, a tiny Cajun settlement way down south on Hwy. 1 just a couple of miles from the open Gulf. If you look at it on a map, there's more water than land. A "not-the-end-of-the-world-but-you-can-see-it-from-there" kind of place.
"Ah, Lafourche Parish," I say.
"Yeah man," he says. "That storm wiped us out!" (Referring to Hurricane Katrina, of course.)
"No doubt! But see, you probably couldn't sing the blues so sweet without that tragedy, right?"
He could justifiably take offense at my dismissing his suffering so lightly, but he doesn't. He just smiles and says, "I guess that's it man!"
Just then a young woman walks up. Desperate for a fare, I blurt out, "Would you like a ride?" before I have the chance get a good look at her. As soon as the words are out of my mouth I recognize my mistake. She's tiny, dark-skinned and dirty, and she's lugging four or five overstuffed knapsacks. Homeless.
"Is it free?" she asks.
"No, it's not free," DJ and I both say at the same time.
I do give free rides on occasion but not very often. Look, I could easily spend all my time providing transport to the homeless and joy rides to teens from the ghetto, but I've got a family to support, right? Speaking of joy rides to ghetto teens, I actually gave a free ride to a couple of local kids earlier in the day. Like I said, I don't make a habit of this. I guess I was in some kind of Mother Teresa mood or something. But isn't one free ride a day enough?
There's a brief but awkward silence, and I'm aware that DJ is feeling deep compassion for this girl. Honestly, I don't even know how I know. It's not that he says anything at all, but I feel it so keenly that in that instant it overtakes me too obliterating my momentary irritation.
"How far do you need to go?" I ask.
"There," she points. "Canal Street." I hear from her accent that she is Hispanic, and her English is pretty poor.
Canal Street is only 3 or 4 blocks away and a straight shot. "Hop on!" I say. "It's free."
She's happy. I'm happy. And I think that DJ is the happiest of all. "You're awesome, man," he calls out as I pedal away. "You've got a really good heart! This is good karma! It'll come back to you, you'll see!"
A half hour goes by. I offer a ride to an attractive, well-dressed couple about my own age. "Later," she says.
"OK then," I say handing her my card. "Call me when you're ready."
Husband and wife look at each other for a moment, and suddenly she says, "Let's do it!" As they settle into the passenger seat I ask, "Where are we headed?"
"Oh, I don't know," she answers. "Nowhere in particular. Just ride us around for a few minutes then take us to Bourbon Street."
They're Canadians it turns out. Mike and Anita. They're both friendly and fun. The three of us are thoroughly enjoying ourselves from the outset.
About five minutes into the ride we happen to pass DJ. He stops mid-song to call out to me: "Look at you, man! You got some riders. See? I told you. Karma, man! You're awesome."
"What was that about?" Mike and Anita ask, and I tell them the story.
"Well he's probably onto something," she says. "You know, you weren't the first person to try to get us on a pedicab. We just kept telling everybody, 'Later!' But you're the one who got us to ride. Things really do come around."
Mike's mind is elsewhere. "I wish he would loan me his guitar for a minute," he says.
"Are you a musician?" I ask.
"Not a professional, but I play and sing a bit. You know, just for fun... I write songs." His voice trails off.
"Well I suppose it wouldn't hurt to ask," I say. "Would you like me to ask him for you?"
"Sure, that would be great!" Mike says
We circle back around to DJ's corner. This is definitely going to be awkward. Asking a bluesman to borrow his guitar is probably like asking him to borrow his wife. If DJ says yes, and this Canadian guy turns out to be really terrible, it's going to be even more embarrassing. This is not the kind of situation that I usually get myself into, but I'm liking this couple so much that I'm ready to take the risk for them.
The conversation turns out about as awkward as I had expected. DJ doesn't want to say yes, but he can't quite bring himself to say no. Maybe he's thinking he owes me a favor. Even though he never actually asked me to take that homeless girl onto the bike, we both understand that in some sense I did it for his sake. So after a bit of hemming and hawing, he hands over the instrument.
Mike is quite good as it turns out. A big smile, spreads over DJ's face as he stands back and listens. "I'm enjoying hearing something other my own voice for a change," he says.
At the end of the song, DJ and I both applaud, and I say to the Canadian guy, "Well, you can go back home and tell everyone that you played New Orleans!"
He tries to hand the guitar back to DJ, and DJ says,"No, man. Play us another one!"
So he launches into another song, and Anita slips me $40 and says, "I know you need to be on your way. I just want to say thank you for making my husband's dream come true!"
It's 9 PM. I've been out for 11 hours now, and I'm pretty tired. But I head back to the shop the happiest man in New Orleans.
I've had a few similar stories. Karma, blessing, joojoo, whatever you wanna call it, it seems like nights go a lot better after you do something you don't wanna do.
ReplyDeleteDidn't Pat Robertson call it "the law of reciprocity"?
ReplyDeleteAnd Jesus said: "Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
Karma is easier to say!!! ;)
I love Bono's thoughts on karma and grace in this interview. I don't know of any theologian who could have said it better.
ReplyDeletehttp://www.thepoachedegg.net/the-poached-egg/2010/09/bono-interview-grace-over-karma.html