I was recognized on the street tonight as the pedicab blogger. No kidding! I was sitting on a corner updating my logbook, when this guy shouted out from the opposite corner, "Hey pedicab blogger!" Two other pedicabs passed between us just at that moment, and he shouted out again from across the street. "I know you! You're the pedicab blogger. I want to ride with you."
I guess this is how it all starts. So far I'm kind of digging this fame thing to tell the truth. Don't get me wrong. I understand that it can get to be a real burden. I wonder how much longer till I have to start dealing with the paparazzi and all that. In the meantime, I want to take this opportunity to promise all my friends that I'll NEVER forget the little people.
By the way, after the guy got on the bike, he said, "I want to be in your blog," and I said, "OK, you're in!" So here's a shout-out to a very special passenger: Mr. John Ramirez. Thanks, John. You made my night! Hope to give you a ride again sometime soon. The next one's on me.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Mean streets
Drug dealers. Gangbangers. Corrupt Cops. Stingy tippers... There are many varieties of mean people who prowl the streets of New Orleans. But all that's a topic for another time.
Today we're talking about the mean streets of the city -- as in actual asphalt. Potholes. Sinkholes. Treacherous streetcar tracks. Manhole covers set so deep you wonder why they even bothered.
I made mention in an earlier post of three particular factors which come together in the French Quarter to create a dangerous cocktail for those who come here to party:
1) an abundance of alcohol;
2) lots of ladies -- not to mention a considerable number of drag queens -- in high heels; and
3) broken pavement.
If I park my bike on Bourbon for any length of time on any given evening, I can pretty much count on witnessing a sprained ankle in the making.
Patrolling the city's streets in the pedicab, I have come to the conclusion that the the geography textbooks have it all wrong when they say that the terrain of New Orleans is flat and featureless. Some of the holes and humps of our streets are substantial enough to deserve full topographical-feature status. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to assign names to some of the more prominent of our road irregularities. Here's a partial list:
The Zephyr
Those of a certain age who grew up in New Orleans will remember the Pontchartrain Beach amusement park, which was home to The Zephyr, a roller coaster whose rusting hulk can still be spotted from Interstate 10 at the eastern edge of the city. (The park closed in the 1980s.)
One night, not long after starting my job, I remember turning off Decatur onto St. Louis St. and hitting a deep dip in the road that made my passengers scream and made us all feel as if we had left our stomachs behind. Then when it was all over, I could hardly wait to do it again.
Sadly, the St. Louis Street Zephyr, like it's Pontchartrain Beach namesake, is now defunct. It kept getting deeper and deeper, passing from fun to dangerous and finally to downright deadly. They blocked it with one of those big orange and white barrels for a while before patching it this past week. However, I noticed that there's still a bit of a sway in the patched place, so I'm holding on to hope that the Zephyr might make a comeback.
The Pit of Doom.
This is another one that has been patched now. Located on a dark, shadowy stretch of Esplanade, it was never really much to look at, but it sure did pack a violent punch. Someone had marked it with a tiny pile of brush, which was nice if you knew what to look for. I actually struck it twice before I figured out what that little pile of brush signified. Fortunately, I didn't have passengers either time, and I myself escaped on both occasions without any permanent damage to my spinal column. There are a lot of dark mysteries in New Orleans, and personally, I harbor a deep suspicion that that inconspicuous little hole was some kind of portal to the underworld.
The Tea Party Tracks
In the Central Business District on Carondelet and Saint Charles streets the streetcar tracks are embedded in the pavement. Coming off of Carondelet onto Canal one damp day, I hit those ruts at just the wrong angle, and they grabbed one of my wheels forcing me to make a jarring, hard-right turn. No lie. I was planning to go straight across Canal toward Bourbon, and the next thing I knew I found myself headed down Canal toward the river, a full 90 degrees off my intended course.
The Sleeping Policeman.
Perhaps you've heard that in many parts of the world, speed bumps are referred to as "sleeping policemen". There's a kind of accidental speed bump, a ridge of broken asphalt that runs across Treme St. just before the intersection with Canal. This happens to be very close to the parking garage that serves as our company's shop.
Let me describe a scenario: It's the beginning of the shift, and I'm overflowing with energy, eager to get started picking up passengers, excited to experience whatever adventures await me. As I roll out of the shop toward Canal Street, humming the theme from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, I look up to see the traffic light turn green in front of me. Wow! I'm barely out the door, and already it's looking like it's going to be my lucky day. I put on a burst of speed, pedaling furiously to make it through the intersection before the light changes. Am I going to make it? Yes, it's still green. I'm going to make it! Then, just a couple of feet shy of the intersection, I hit that ridge as though I had collided with the Great Wall of China. By the time I come back to my senses, the light is red. I've been detained by the sleeping policeman.
The scenario I have just described has actually happened to me not once but on multiple occasions. Not lately though. I'm not a very quick learner, but I do catch on eventually.
The Big Bang
The median (or as we call it here in New Orleans the neutral ground) of Canal Street is occupied by streetcar tracks. These tracks are sunk into the pavement, so you don't usually feel much more than a slight bump when you cross over them. But there's this one spot at the intersection of Canal and Basin that reminds me of those anvils that always fall out of the sky in cartoons: it's violent and painful, and no matter how many times it happens, you never see it coming.
Every time I pass that way, (which is not often anymore because I've learned from bitter experience to avoid this intersection whenever possible) I'm looking down at the road, hoping against hope that this time I'm going to spot it -- whatever it is -- and avoid it; and somehow, I never see anything. Nothing. I'm looking down... looking... looking... until the moment finally comes when I'm jolted by a force that feels like an aftershock of the Big Bang. Through a haze of pain I watch the contents of my handlebars basket -- water bottles, lunch box, the plastic ice cream container in which I carry my tools -- spinning through space like heavenly bodies streaking away from their point of origin.
The moonscape
How can I describe this for you? Let's try this: Step one: Imagine you're you. This shouldn't require any great effort unless you've got serious psychological issues; but it's an important step as you'll understand when we get to step two, which is: Imagine you've got to go a round in the ring with Mike Tyson. Not Mike Tyson now but Mike Tyson when he was at the peak of his power. (OK, do you get why step one was important now? Because otherwise you would have been going, "OK, if I'm going in the ring with Mike Tyson, then I'm going to be Muhammad Ali", which would have totally messed up my metaphor.) Step three: Imagine that you manage somehow to duck and weave just enough to avoid that one knockout blow but not enough to avoid getting mercilessly pummeled for that brief period of time that feels like forever.
I'm referring here to a stretch Iberville just below Bourbon, which is pock-marked with mini-craters. It happens to be a route that every pedicabbie in New Orleans must typically traverse several times in the course of a normal day's work. Any pedicabbie who manages to navigate this course of craters without making his or her passengers spill their hand grenades all over themselves, has truly attained a high level of mastery in the pedicab profession. (One must make allowances, of course, for the fact that a high percentage of the passengers coming off this part of Bourbon would spill their drinks on themselves even if the road were as smooth as glass; but that has nothing to do with the pedicabbie's skill or lack thereof.)
One of my passengers -- not a tourist but an actual resident of the Vieux Carre -- told me that the NFL has committed $8 million to fund road and sidewalk repairs in the French Quarter before next year's Superbowl. I poked around a bit online but couldn't find any confirmation one way or the other. If it turns out to be true, it could spark a mass movement of New Orleanians rising up to demand that the NFL take complete control of of City Hall. I, for one, would be at the forefront.
Today we're talking about the mean streets of the city -- as in actual asphalt. Potholes. Sinkholes. Treacherous streetcar tracks. Manhole covers set so deep you wonder why they even bothered.
I made mention in an earlier post of three particular factors which come together in the French Quarter to create a dangerous cocktail for those who come here to party:
1) an abundance of alcohol;
2) lots of ladies -- not to mention a considerable number of drag queens -- in high heels; and
3) broken pavement.
If I park my bike on Bourbon for any length of time on any given evening, I can pretty much count on witnessing a sprained ankle in the making.
Patrolling the city's streets in the pedicab, I have come to the conclusion that the the geography textbooks have it all wrong when they say that the terrain of New Orleans is flat and featureless. Some of the holes and humps of our streets are substantial enough to deserve full topographical-feature status. In fact, I've taken it upon myself to assign names to some of the more prominent of our road irregularities. Here's a partial list:
The Zephyr
Those of a certain age who grew up in New Orleans will remember the Pontchartrain Beach amusement park, which was home to The Zephyr, a roller coaster whose rusting hulk can still be spotted from Interstate 10 at the eastern edge of the city. (The park closed in the 1980s.)
One night, not long after starting my job, I remember turning off Decatur onto St. Louis St. and hitting a deep dip in the road that made my passengers scream and made us all feel as if we had left our stomachs behind. Then when it was all over, I could hardly wait to do it again.
Sadly, the St. Louis Street Zephyr, like it's Pontchartrain Beach namesake, is now defunct. It kept getting deeper and deeper, passing from fun to dangerous and finally to downright deadly. They blocked it with one of those big orange and white barrels for a while before patching it this past week. However, I noticed that there's still a bit of a sway in the patched place, so I'm holding on to hope that the Zephyr might make a comeback.
The Pit of Doom.
This is another one that has been patched now. Located on a dark, shadowy stretch of Esplanade, it was never really much to look at, but it sure did pack a violent punch. Someone had marked it with a tiny pile of brush, which was nice if you knew what to look for. I actually struck it twice before I figured out what that little pile of brush signified. Fortunately, I didn't have passengers either time, and I myself escaped on both occasions without any permanent damage to my spinal column. There are a lot of dark mysteries in New Orleans, and personally, I harbor a deep suspicion that that inconspicuous little hole was some kind of portal to the underworld.
The Tea Party Tracks
In the Central Business District on Carondelet and Saint Charles streets the streetcar tracks are embedded in the pavement. Coming off of Carondelet onto Canal one damp day, I hit those ruts at just the wrong angle, and they grabbed one of my wheels forcing me to make a jarring, hard-right turn. No lie. I was planning to go straight across Canal toward Bourbon, and the next thing I knew I found myself headed down Canal toward the river, a full 90 degrees off my intended course.
The Sleeping Policeman.
Perhaps you've heard that in many parts of the world, speed bumps are referred to as "sleeping policemen". There's a kind of accidental speed bump, a ridge of broken asphalt that runs across Treme St. just before the intersection with Canal. This happens to be very close to the parking garage that serves as our company's shop.
Let me describe a scenario: It's the beginning of the shift, and I'm overflowing with energy, eager to get started picking up passengers, excited to experience whatever adventures await me. As I roll out of the shop toward Canal Street, humming the theme from Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, I look up to see the traffic light turn green in front of me. Wow! I'm barely out the door, and already it's looking like it's going to be my lucky day. I put on a burst of speed, pedaling furiously to make it through the intersection before the light changes. Am I going to make it? Yes, it's still green. I'm going to make it! Then, just a couple of feet shy of the intersection, I hit that ridge as though I had collided with the Great Wall of China. By the time I come back to my senses, the light is red. I've been detained by the sleeping policeman.
The scenario I have just described has actually happened to me not once but on multiple occasions. Not lately though. I'm not a very quick learner, but I do catch on eventually.
The Big Bang
The median (or as we call it here in New Orleans the neutral ground) of Canal Street is occupied by streetcar tracks. These tracks are sunk into the pavement, so you don't usually feel much more than a slight bump when you cross over them. But there's this one spot at the intersection of Canal and Basin that reminds me of those anvils that always fall out of the sky in cartoons: it's violent and painful, and no matter how many times it happens, you never see it coming.
Every time I pass that way, (which is not often anymore because I've learned from bitter experience to avoid this intersection whenever possible) I'm looking down at the road, hoping against hope that this time I'm going to spot it -- whatever it is -- and avoid it; and somehow, I never see anything. Nothing. I'm looking down... looking... looking... until the moment finally comes when I'm jolted by a force that feels like an aftershock of the Big Bang. Through a haze of pain I watch the contents of my handlebars basket -- water bottles, lunch box, the plastic ice cream container in which I carry my tools -- spinning through space like heavenly bodies streaking away from their point of origin.
The moonscape
How can I describe this for you? Let's try this: Step one: Imagine you're you. This shouldn't require any great effort unless you've got serious psychological issues; but it's an important step as you'll understand when we get to step two, which is: Imagine you've got to go a round in the ring with Mike Tyson. Not Mike Tyson now but Mike Tyson when he was at the peak of his power. (OK, do you get why step one was important now? Because otherwise you would have been going, "OK, if I'm going in the ring with Mike Tyson, then I'm going to be Muhammad Ali", which would have totally messed up my metaphor.) Step three: Imagine that you manage somehow to duck and weave just enough to avoid that one knockout blow but not enough to avoid getting mercilessly pummeled for that brief period of time that feels like forever.
I'm referring here to a stretch Iberville just below Bourbon, which is pock-marked with mini-craters. It happens to be a route that every pedicabbie in New Orleans must typically traverse several times in the course of a normal day's work. Any pedicabbie who manages to navigate this course of craters without making his or her passengers spill their hand grenades all over themselves, has truly attained a high level of mastery in the pedicab profession. (One must make allowances, of course, for the fact that a high percentage of the passengers coming off this part of Bourbon would spill their drinks on themselves even if the road were as smooth as glass; but that has nothing to do with the pedicabbie's skill or lack thereof.)
One of my passengers -- not a tourist but an actual resident of the Vieux Carre -- told me that the NFL has committed $8 million to fund road and sidewalk repairs in the French Quarter before next year's Superbowl. I poked around a bit online but couldn't find any confirmation one way or the other. If it turns out to be true, it could spark a mass movement of New Orleanians rising up to demand that the NFL take complete control of of City Hall. I, for one, would be at the forefront.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Grace notes at the end of the day
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.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Money Monday
Today is Monday. Griping about Mondays certainly isn't unique to the pedicab profession, but I suspect that Mondays really are more miserable for us than for most working folk. There are fewer tourists about, and the ones there are don't want a ride, and the ones who do take a ride aren't inclined to pay much for it.
By all rights today should have been even worse than your run-of-the-mill Monday. There wasn't a single convention in the center, which is rare here. There were no cruise ships docked. There were no sports events. There was no holiday. (Technically this week marks the start of Carnival season, but the Mardi Gras tourists won't start arriving for some time yet. )
All the leading indicators were so grim that my boss took pity on the two of us who actually turned up to ride today and decided at the last minute to drop the lease rate. He's normally an upbeat kind of guy, but when I came into the shop at the end of my shift this evening the first words out of his mouth were: "So how bad was it?" At which point I had the delight of breaking the news that I had made more money than I have ever made working the day shift!
I took a Canadian couple on a long ride through the Bywater, and they paid me $100. This was only the second $100 ride of my career. But even without that hundred it would have been an exceptionally profitable day. I can't really explain why. It was just the kind of day where I just seemed to be in the right place at the right time all day long.
I can't wait to see how tomorrow turns out!
By all rights today should have been even worse than your run-of-the-mill Monday. There wasn't a single convention in the center, which is rare here. There were no cruise ships docked. There were no sports events. There was no holiday. (Technically this week marks the start of Carnival season, but the Mardi Gras tourists won't start arriving for some time yet. )
All the leading indicators were so grim that my boss took pity on the two of us who actually turned up to ride today and decided at the last minute to drop the lease rate. He's normally an upbeat kind of guy, but when I came into the shop at the end of my shift this evening the first words out of his mouth were: "So how bad was it?" At which point I had the delight of breaking the news that I had made more money than I have ever made working the day shift!
I took a Canadian couple on a long ride through the Bywater, and they paid me $100. This was only the second $100 ride of my career. But even without that hundred it would have been an exceptionally profitable day. I can't really explain why. It was just the kind of day where I just seemed to be in the right place at the right time all day long.
I can't wait to see how tomorrow turns out!
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
How to celebrate your 97th birthday in high style
I've been hanging out at the National World War II Museum on the day shift lately. The city is crawling with pedicabs these days, but nobody else works the museum. I bragged about my new sweet spot to my boss so much that he rode a bike over there last week just to see for himself, and he picked up a ride within 10 seconds. (If I pull up in front of the museum tomorrow and find a line of pedicabs waiting there, at least I'll know that my colleagues/competitors are reading my blog.)
The people I pick up there tend more toward the geriatric -- as opposed to the Bourbon St. set for instance, which, as everyone knows, is mostly drunken college kids. Actually, that distinction is easily overstated. Whenever a 60- or 70-year-old couple boards the bike at the museum they're as likely as not to ask me to take them to Bourbon St.
Speaking of geriatric, I took a 97-year-old lady for a birthday ride last Friday. I was about to do a drop off on Bourbon off when a waiter from Galatoire's flagged me down to say that they needed two bikes. This was good news since a pickup at Galatoires is pretty much bound to produce a good tip. I deposited my passenger at his destination a block up the road and circled back around to the restaurant as I radioed for a colleague to join me.
There were five ladies in all -- three sisters, around my age; their mother; and the birthday girl and guest of honor, their grandmother. The sisters called her Maw-maw, South-Louisiana style with the accent on the second syllable. (I called my maternal grandmother, who was from the northern part of the state, MAW-maw; here on the south side of Alexandria, maw-MAW is the preferred pronunciation. I assume it comes from the French influence.)
The sisters came out of the restaurant first. They were attractive and well-dressed (You don't get seated at Galatoire's if you're not well-dressed!), and they spoke with heavy Yat accents, which marked them immediately as New Orleans natives. We chatted for a few minutes while we waited on the two older ladies to finish up their meal.
I learned from the sisters that taking Maw-maw to lunch at Galatoire's for her birthday had been a treasured family tradition of theirs for many years. They were giddy with the excitement of the event. Every year the lunch is followed by some specially-planned surprise activity, and this year the pedicab ride was to be the special surprise. (Last year they took Maw-maw for a ride on a mule carriage, the sisters said. And the year before that -- Get this! -- they took her for a lap dance. Yes, for her 95th birthday. Only in New Orleans, right?)
Finally Maw-maw came out, silver-haired, slender and erect. She walked with a cane, but I got the impression she could have gotten by OK without it. (She had a lot less trouble getting in and out of the pedicab than a lot of people half her age.)
"Look what we've got for you Maw-maw!" they said.
"No mule carriage this year?" she asked.
"No Maw-maw, we got you a chariot this year!" one of them said.
"I hope you're not disappointed," I said to Maw-maw. "Just tell me this. Who's better looking: me or the mule?"
"I'd have to go with you," she said. (It was good to hear it, but then again, her eyesight probably isn't all that great, so I know shouldn't let it go to my head.)
"Have you ever had a 97-year-old rider before?" she asked me.
"No ma'am, you're the first. I'm really excited about taking you for your special birthday ride. In fact, I'm already hoping that I get to take you for a ride again in 3 years for your 100th!"
"Sounds great," she said. "I'll be here!"
We just cruised around the French Quarter for 20 or 30 minutes with no particular destination. Maw-maw and two of the granddaughters rode with me; her daughter and her other granddaughter followed behind in the other pedicab. The whole way the two granddaughters were summoning up memories as they pointed out the sights to one another and to Maw-maw.
Look, that's where Labiches used to be! Remember?
Maw-maw, remember that year we took you there for your birthday?
Maw-maw, I've got a picture of you and paw-paw standing on that corner when he was still alive.
Meanwhile, I was making a few memories of my own. I'm sure that this is one ride I'll never forget even if I live to be 97. I can hardly wait to do it again in three years if Maw-maw and I are still around.
The people I pick up there tend more toward the geriatric -- as opposed to the Bourbon St. set for instance, which, as everyone knows, is mostly drunken college kids. Actually, that distinction is easily overstated. Whenever a 60- or 70-year-old couple boards the bike at the museum they're as likely as not to ask me to take them to Bourbon St.
Speaking of geriatric, I took a 97-year-old lady for a birthday ride last Friday. I was about to do a drop off on Bourbon off when a waiter from Galatoire's flagged me down to say that they needed two bikes. This was good news since a pickup at Galatoires is pretty much bound to produce a good tip. I deposited my passenger at his destination a block up the road and circled back around to the restaurant as I radioed for a colleague to join me.
There were five ladies in all -- three sisters, around my age; their mother; and the birthday girl and guest of honor, their grandmother. The sisters called her Maw-maw, South-Louisiana style with the accent on the second syllable. (I called my maternal grandmother, who was from the northern part of the state, MAW-maw; here on the south side of Alexandria, maw-MAW is the preferred pronunciation. I assume it comes from the French influence.)
The sisters came out of the restaurant first. They were attractive and well-dressed (You don't get seated at Galatoire's if you're not well-dressed!), and they spoke with heavy Yat accents, which marked them immediately as New Orleans natives. We chatted for a few minutes while we waited on the two older ladies to finish up their meal.
I learned from the sisters that taking Maw-maw to lunch at Galatoire's for her birthday had been a treasured family tradition of theirs for many years. They were giddy with the excitement of the event. Every year the lunch is followed by some specially-planned surprise activity, and this year the pedicab ride was to be the special surprise. (Last year they took Maw-maw for a ride on a mule carriage, the sisters said. And the year before that -- Get this! -- they took her for a lap dance. Yes, for her 95th birthday. Only in New Orleans, right?)
Finally Maw-maw came out, silver-haired, slender and erect. She walked with a cane, but I got the impression she could have gotten by OK without it. (She had a lot less trouble getting in and out of the pedicab than a lot of people half her age.)
"Look what we've got for you Maw-maw!" they said.
"No mule carriage this year?" she asked.
"No Maw-maw, we got you a chariot this year!" one of them said.
"I hope you're not disappointed," I said to Maw-maw. "Just tell me this. Who's better looking: me or the mule?"
"I'd have to go with you," she said. (It was good to hear it, but then again, her eyesight probably isn't all that great, so I know shouldn't let it go to my head.)
"Have you ever had a 97-year-old rider before?" she asked me.
"No ma'am, you're the first. I'm really excited about taking you for your special birthday ride. In fact, I'm already hoping that I get to take you for a ride again in 3 years for your 100th!"
"Sounds great," she said. "I'll be here!"
We just cruised around the French Quarter for 20 or 30 minutes with no particular destination. Maw-maw and two of the granddaughters rode with me; her daughter and her other granddaughter followed behind in the other pedicab. The whole way the two granddaughters were summoning up memories as they pointed out the sights to one another and to Maw-maw.
Look, that's where Labiches used to be! Remember?
Maw-maw, remember that year we took you there for your birthday?
Maw-maw, I've got a picture of you and paw-paw standing on that corner when he was still alive.
Meanwhile, I was making a few memories of my own. I'm sure that this is one ride I'll never forget even if I live to be 97. I can hardly wait to do it again in three years if Maw-maw and I are still around.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Of meterologists and movie makers
The American Meteorological Society is holding their annual convention in New Orleans this week. Late this afternoon I picked up a convention-goer, and as he settled into the seat, he asked me: "Is it going to rain this evening?"
I started to give him my best guess when I remembered who he was. I whirled around in my seat to look at him in disbelief. "Seriously? You're asking ME?"
Looking back on the incident, I'm wondering if he was collecting data for the forecast. Maybe they factor the intuition of pedicabbies into it or something.
Speaking of the forecast, it was supposed to rain today. A couple of times during the course of the day, it acted like it was actually going to start up, but it never amounted to much. I did get a good drenching, but not from Mother Nature. They were filming a movie (Now You See Me) in the French Quarter, and they had this big rain machine creating quite a downpour at the front of Cafe du Monde off and on all day.
The movie people and the New Orleans police department were working together to control the flow of traffic past the spot. I started getting angry because every time I went that way they would let a bunch of cars go, including those that were behind me in line, but they wouldn't let me pass for a really long time. It seemed totally unfair until I finally figured it out. Cars passing in the background would presumably make the scene look natural and authentic; but a big yellow tricycle pedaled by a 45-year-old with freakishly large calves might draw all the attention away from Morgan Freeman, Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, and Mark Ruffalo. You can't blame them really.
You've heard that Mark Twain quote about how everyone always talks about the weather but no one does anything about it, right? Well we've got several thousand people in town who have gathered from across the nation to spend four days talking about the weather. (At least, I assume that's what they're talking about). Meanwhile, just a mile or two down the river, we've got movie makers who are actually doing something about it -- albeit on a fairly small scale.
By the way, the movie's supposed to be out in January of next year. I can't wait to watch it and look for the scene where I'm not there.
I started to give him my best guess when I remembered who he was. I whirled around in my seat to look at him in disbelief. "Seriously? You're asking ME?"
Looking back on the incident, I'm wondering if he was collecting data for the forecast. Maybe they factor the intuition of pedicabbies into it or something.
Speaking of the forecast, it was supposed to rain today. A couple of times during the course of the day, it acted like it was actually going to start up, but it never amounted to much. I did get a good drenching, but not from Mother Nature. They were filming a movie (Now You See Me) in the French Quarter, and they had this big rain machine creating quite a downpour at the front of Cafe du Monde off and on all day.
The movie people and the New Orleans police department were working together to control the flow of traffic past the spot. I started getting angry because every time I went that way they would let a bunch of cars go, including those that were behind me in line, but they wouldn't let me pass for a really long time. It seemed totally unfair until I finally figured it out. Cars passing in the background would presumably make the scene look natural and authentic; but a big yellow tricycle pedaled by a 45-year-old with freakishly large calves might draw all the attention away from Morgan Freeman, Jesse Eisenberg, Woody Harrelson, and Mark Ruffalo. You can't blame them really.
You've heard that Mark Twain quote about how everyone always talks about the weather but no one does anything about it, right? Well we've got several thousand people in town who have gathered from across the nation to spend four days talking about the weather. (At least, I assume that's what they're talking about). Meanwhile, just a mile or two down the river, we've got movie makers who are actually doing something about it -- albeit on a fairly small scale.
By the way, the movie's supposed to be out in January of next year. I can't wait to watch it and look for the scene where I'm not there.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Not your typical tip
I picked up a petite girl with glasses this afternoon. She only wanted to go a few blocks. She said she had been walking a long way already and was grateful to get a lift for the last little stretch.
At the end of the ride she asked how much, and I asked if 5 bucks was Ok, and she said "sure" and handed me a 20 for me to make change. It had been a very slow day up to that point, and I didn't have change for a 20.
There were some shops nearby, but she balked at going inside to ask for change, muttering some explanation that I didn't quite catch. "Would you please do it for me?" she asked. "I'll stay here and watch the bike." This wasn't the way things usually work, but I didn't see any harm in it, so I agreed.
The shopkeepers weren't very helpful, but a customer in the second store I tried gave me four fives for the 20.
When I got back and handed her three of the fives, she exclaimed, "Oh no! I wanted to give you a tip!"
"Thanks, but it's Ok," I assured her. The five is fine."
"No, it's not Ok," she insisted. "I'm a stripper. I make my living off tips. I'm not comfortable not giving you any tip... Hold on just a second. I've got an idea."
She rummaged through her purse and pulled out three individually-wrapped, pre-moistened lens wipes, ("These are great for cleaning your glasses!") and two free passes to a Bourbon St. strip club ("This is where I work."). The passes had her signature on the back: QT Pie.
"I'm sorry that this is the best I can do this time," she said. "Please give me your card so I can call you to pick me some other time. I promise to take better care of you next time."
By the way, you can ask any of my fellow pedicabbies, and they'll tell you that strippers are generally generous tippers. It makes sense really. I myself have become a much more extravagant tipper since I've been earning my living from tips.
At the end of the ride she asked how much, and I asked if 5 bucks was Ok, and she said "sure" and handed me a 20 for me to make change. It had been a very slow day up to that point, and I didn't have change for a 20.
There were some shops nearby, but she balked at going inside to ask for change, muttering some explanation that I didn't quite catch. "Would you please do it for me?" she asked. "I'll stay here and watch the bike." This wasn't the way things usually work, but I didn't see any harm in it, so I agreed.
The shopkeepers weren't very helpful, but a customer in the second store I tried gave me four fives for the 20.
When I got back and handed her three of the fives, she exclaimed, "Oh no! I wanted to give you a tip!"
"Thanks, but it's Ok," I assured her. The five is fine."
"No, it's not Ok," she insisted. "I'm a stripper. I make my living off tips. I'm not comfortable not giving you any tip... Hold on just a second. I've got an idea."
She rummaged through her purse and pulled out three individually-wrapped, pre-moistened lens wipes, ("These are great for cleaning your glasses!") and two free passes to a Bourbon St. strip club ("This is where I work."). The passes had her signature on the back: QT Pie.
"I'm sorry that this is the best I can do this time," she said. "Please give me your card so I can call you to pick me some other time. I promise to take better care of you next time."
By the way, you can ask any of my fellow pedicabbies, and they'll tell you that strippers are generally generous tippers. It makes sense really. I myself have become a much more extravagant tipper since I've been earning my living from tips.
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