Sound bites and snippets (some sexy)

A female passenger is making complimentary comments on my butt then starts grabbing it. I whirl around. "It's OK," she reassures me. "I'm allowed to do this. I'm a nurse."

(By the way, this kind of thing happens to my co-workers and me on a pretty regular basis. Oddly enough, I'm pretty sure that we male pedicabbies get more sexual harassment than our female colleagues. Although at this stage in my life, it's hard not to think of this as more a job perk than harassment. Oh yeah, and nurses are generally the worst!)

__________

A couple of middle-aged local men are griping about the price of the ride. "We could get a cab for cheaper! How can you charge more than a cab?" It's the night before Super Bowl, and I'm on the way to setting a personal record. People are pretty much throwing 50s and 100s around, and I'm not in the mood for this. I'm not charging a penny more than the legal price, but this isn't a night for doing discounts either.

"We're not trying to compete with the cabs on price," I explain. "We're offering a better experience."

"So how is this a better experience?" they challenge me.

"Well for one thing, I'm more charming than your average cab driver. But if you don't want to ride with me, I'll be happy to help you hail a cab."

"You're getting less charming by the minute," one of them grumbles.

In the end, they get off without paying, and I'm relieved to see them go.

__________

A couple of 20-30 something male passengers, evidently hyper-sensitive to the sensual connotations of sharing the passenger seat of the pedicab, shout out to everybody we pass: "WE'RE NOT GAY!" I wonder whether they're trying to convince the strangers on the street or themselves.

__________

I ride by a group of gorgeous girls and hear one of them say (loudly enough to be sure that I don't miss it): "God, why are they all so hot? Is it like a job qualification or something?"

I look around to see if there are any other pedicabs in sight. "Yeah, I'm talking about you!" she says, reading my reaction.

My pedicab floats about six inches off the ground the rest of my shift.

(By the way, here's someone making pretty much the same observation online -- but in this case a gay guy in a different city.)

__________

I'm dropping off a middle-aged resident of the French Quarter at her historic Creole cottage. "I hear the tour guides telling people that this was the home of a famous madame," she says. "Which is kind of funny. I haven't had a date in seven years!"

__________

I pick up a young couple. "Bret?" asks the female hesitantly as she settles into the seat.

"No, my name's Mark," I respond.

"Wow, you look just like this guy we know named Bret," she says.

"Yeah, totally! Dead ringer," her date agrees.

"Wow, this Bret guy must be really good-looking," I say, emboldened by all the positive attention I've been getting on the bike lately.

"Actually, yes," she says. "He used to be a male stripper,"

__________

Driving the mule by day, being the mule at night

Swinging both ways

Not long ago I was out on the big yellow trike, and I ran into a guy who had recently started pedicabbing for one of the other companies. He looked at me, did a double-take, and blurted out, "Didn't I see you earlier today on the mule carriage?"

"Yes, it's true," I said, amused at the look of amazement on his face. "I swing both ways!"

It's noteworthy that in New Orleans of all places, where almost nothing is shocking, my career combination strikes people as being so strange. New Orleans is notorious for cops moonlighting as robbers -- or vice versa. But a carriage driver who also drives a pedicab? Now that's just weird!

Bad blood

The mule carriage and taxicab companies fought tooth and nail to prevent the introduction of pedicabs to New Orleans. There was a two-and-a-half year legal battle before the city finally passed a law allowing pedicabs to operate. As a concession to the carriage companies, pedicabbies were forbidden to do tours -- even if they were licensed tour guides. The bitter aftertaste of that legal battle still lingers. (See here for a reference in one of my early blog posts to carriage drivers as "the enemy".) Both sets of colleagues constantly complain to me about the a**holes on the other side.

There are current points of conflict as well. One frequent flash point is the intersection of Saint Ann and Decatur in front of Cafe du Monde. Technically it's illegal to do a U-turn there, but there's a kind of understanding between mule drivers and the police that we have to be able to do a U-turn in order to do our jobs -- with the added understanding that we have to be extra careful not to run over pedestrians in the crosswalk or run into cars. On the other hand, it's technically illegal for pedicabs to park at that intersection (or anywhere else for that matter), but there's a kind of understanding between pedicabbies and the police that we really need to be able to park there sometimes in order to do our jobs -- with the added understanding that we have to be extra careful not to block pedestrians or the handicapped parking spot. Pedicabs and carriages often get in one another's way at this intersection, and whenever this happens both parties protest vociferously that the police aren't enforcing the law on those a**holes on the other side.

There is a general perception on the part of my colleagues on both sides that the police are lenient toward "them" and strict on "us". Neither side has trouble finding ammo.

Exhibit A: There are strict municipal dress codes for both buggy drivers and pedicabbies. Pedicabbies are sometimes levied outrageous fines for offenses as trivial as wearing a baseball cap that is not an official part of the uniform. Buggy drivers, on the other hand flaunt the dress code day in and day out with complete impunity.

Exhibit B: The police routinely harass and fine mule carriage drivers for being illegally parked. They rarely bother pedicabbies for the same offense. (Some carriage drivers claim that pedicabbies never get tickets for illegal parking, but this is definitely not true.)

I don't want to make things sound worse than they are. There are plenty of pleasant exchanges between carriage drivers and pedicabbies. A lot of carriage drivers regularly ride on pedicabs -- and not just mine. I can hear my colleagues on both sides saying, "I really don't have anything against them. It's just that..." But the way I see it, as long as everybody feels obligated to tack on that "It's-just-that..." disclaimer, the situation has plenty of room for improvement.

How it happened

I began pedicabbing in November 2011. One day, not long after starting the job, I was pedaling past a mule-drawn carriage parked at the corner of Bourbon and St. Phillip, and I heard the driver call out my name. I turned around to see an old friend from my church youth group sitting in the driver's seat of the carriage. We hadn't seen one another in more than 25 years.

I'm sure that we must have said some of the normal things that you always say when you run into an old friend with whom you had lost contact many years ago. (Great to see you again! What have you been up to all these years? Looking good!) But to tell the truth, I don't remember any of that. All I remember was his blunt question: "Why are you doing that and not this?"

"Why should I be doing that?" I countered. "I LOVE pedicabbing!"

Over the next couple of months as my friend and I renewed our acquaintance he told me more about his job and why he enjoyed it so much. Meanwhile I was starting to realize that, as much as I loved pedicabbing, I wasn't making enough money at it to support my family, especially given the fact that we were starting a new life in a new place.

I started driving the mule carriage in May. These days I drive the carriage five days a week and the pedicab 2-3 nights a week. I recognize that I can't keep up this kind of pace forever, but right now I really need the income from both jobs. Even if I didn't need the money, I would have a very hard time giving up the pedicab because I enjoy it so much.

Being a bridge

During my years in the Balkans, I always hoped to be a force for understanding and reconciliation. I would like to think that I had some kind of small-scale impact. I'd like to think that... Anyway, having failed to bring a deep and lasting peace between Albanians and Serbs, maybe I'm ready to take on a more manageable project.

Not that I'm claiming to be unbiased. One thing I've learned in life is that nobody is ever unbiased. In practical terms, I probably have much more in common with the carriage drivers; but emotionally I identify much more strongly with the pedicabbies. At any rate, I walk in both worlds, and I have a unique perspective.

Night before last I went to a concert and brought a fellow buggy driver along with me. One of my pedicab colleagues was a member of the group that was performing, and there were a couple of other pedicabbies who turned out to hear her sing as well. After it was over, all of us -- pedicabbies, the other buggy driver, and me -- went out for drinks, and we had a wonderful time. This might have been a first.

If anybody knows anybody on the committee for the Nobel Peace Prize, feel free to drop my name!

No special treatment

All day Saturday I had worked the mule carriage (my day job if you haven't heard by now) showing off my city to Super Bowl guests. Then Rock (the mule I'm driving these days) and I headed back toward the stable, threading through the throngs of football fans who were choking the narrow French Quarter streets, moving as quickly as we could without trampling anyone. Back at the barn I unharnessed Rock and put him in his stall; dropped the day's earning in the safe; hopped on my bike and pedaled furiously back through the crowded streets to the Bike Taxi Unlimited shop where I quickly changed into my uniform and set out on the big yellow tricycle just in time for the beginning of the 6 PM shift.

The money was flowing, which was nice because the last couple of months have been brutal. I worked through the night allowing myself just enough time to bike home for a quick shower and a 30-minute nap before biking back to the stable to work the carriage again on Sunday morning. That was the plan. As it turned out, I was about 15 minutes into what was supposed to have been that 30-minute nap when I got a phone call from an old friend in Kosovo. How was he to know? And what difference does 15 minutes make anyway?

All that to say that I was sleep deprived. It's important to mention that before I start to tell my story. I don't know exactly how things might have turned out if I had had a good night's sleep and all my wits about me, but I'm pretty sure that it would have been different.

Anyway, it was late in the afternoon on Super Sunday. I had done a few tours, but by this time the crowds were streaming up Decatur toward the Superdome, a counter current to the Mighty Mississippi just across the levee.  Under different circumstances I might have been looking forward to watching the big game that evening, but on this occasion the thought didn't even enter my mind. All I wanted was sleep.

I was standing there by my buggy waiting for the word from my supervisor to head back to the barn, when a man walked up and asked, "How much to take my friends and me down to Canal? We just don't feel like walking."

I looked up at him. He was a couple inches taller than me, attractive, fit, about my age or maybe a few years older. I knew this guy from somewhere, I was pretty certain of that. But in my sleep-deprived state, I couldn't quite place who he was. We must have met before, but he wasn't showing any sign of recognizing me. Maybe it was an old friend testing me to see if I would remember him.

I hesitated, almost ready to say: "I'm really sorry. I know that we've met somewhere, but I can't quite place you. I'm Mark..."

But at the last second I aborted that plan and decided to simply address his question. Which raised another issue. I wasn't at all sure know how to address his question.

"Uh, we don't usually do drop-offs," I said. "I mean, I could take you if you want, but I would probably have to charge you for a full tour." This is company policy under normal circumstances, but we had been given a little bit  more discretion over the last few days. I could have consulted with my supervisor, and he probably would have allowed me to offer this guy some kind of deal. The truth was that I wasn't sure I really wanted to.

He stood there waiting for my answer, and I began giving mumbled voice to the debate inside my head. "Traffic's really bad now. I don't even know how long it might take me to get down to Canal and back. And with everything so crowded it might be a little bit dangerous..." I trailed off, still unsure of myself. All the while in the back of my mind I was still thinking: Where do I know this guy from?

"How many of you are there?" I asked. If I was going to quote a price, I needed to know.

"Nine," he answered.

"Oh, well that settles it then," I said, relieved that the decision was made. "I can take a maximum of eight passengers. It's the law. It's for the protection of the mules."

"OK, thank you anyway," the man said as he turned to walk away.

I looked back and realized that the buggy driver behind me was grinning and pointing excitedly at his carriage. "Oh!" I said quickly. "It looks like my colleague would be willing to give you a ride if you'd like to go with him."

"Thanks, but that's OK," the man said. "We'll just walk."

Just as he and his friends passed out of earshot, I heard a stranger in the crowd comment, "Damn! If Joe Montana had asked me for a ride, I would have figured out a way to make it happen!"

Joe Montana? 

JOE MONTANA!

I considered running after him, chasing him down, pleading with him to get on my carriage. But that impulse vanished as quickly as it had flared up. It was better to let him go, to preserve what was left of my dignity, to face the fact that I had blown my big chance.

Looking back on the incident, I've been consoling myself with the thought that even though I missed the chance to be the guy that gave Joe Montana a buggy ride, I ended up placing myself in another elite category: I'm the guy who told Joe Montana no. I'll bet it had been a long time since anybody did that.