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!

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.

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.

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.

Breaking news

I just hauled three LSU players who were in a hurry to get back to the hotel before curfew. They weighed 215, 235, and 325 pounds respectively for a combined total of 775. Now I know what to say the next time someone asks me, "Are you sure you can haul our fat asses?"

The fly in the Sugar Bowl

In the interest of full disclosure let me start by saying that I did have a dog in the race -- albeit one very recently acquired. I picked up the mother of Hokies quarterback Logan Thomas on my pedicab last Friday. She seemed like a really nice lady, and I promised her that I would root for Virginia Tech for her sake.

I wasn't working the game, so I watched it on TV. Whenever they showed the view of the Superdome from the blimp cam I tried to catch a glimpse of my colleagues patrolling Poydras on their pedicabs, but they always cut away too quickly for me to get a good look.

Concerning the game itself, it was a hard-fought battle between two well matched adversaries, and I think that Mrs. Thomas had good reason to be proud of her son's performance.  He made some impressive plays both rushing and passing. In the end I was disappointed to see him denied a beautiful touchdown pass in OT by a questionable call from the review booth. I told some Hokies fans this morning that it looked to me like they got robbed and that last night's game should probably be included in the Crescent City's crime stats.

For those of you who would question my right to question the call of those who are highly trained and highly paid to make those kinds of calls, I'd like to pass on a story told to me by a friend from Kosova.

There was a terrible traffic accident and two victims were lying on the road. When the doctor arrived on the scene, he checked them out and pronounced them both dead.

"NO!" one protested vehemently. "We're not dead!"

"Would you shut up?" said his companion. "Where did you get the idea that you're smarter than the doctor?"