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.
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