Weddings

A colleague of mine commented a while back that one of the main reasons our job is so much fun is that we're working with happy people so much of the time. I think he has a point. In the first place, most of our passengers have come to the French Quarter for a good time, so they're already pre-disposed to have a pleasant experience on the pedicab. And let's face it: the pedicab isn't the cheapest way to get from Point A to Point B, so when people get on board the bike, they're generally expecting to have fun. When I'm hauling happy people around all night long, it's easy to be happy along with them. (I guess that pedicabbing is kind of the opposite of working in the complaints department or the emergency room.) All of this is amplified when it comes to weddings, which is why working weddings on the pedicab is such a treat to me.

There are two common kinds of wedding rides that we do. The first involves a distinct New Orleans tradition called the second line, a kind of parade, in which friends and family of the newlyweds strut and prance down the street waving white handkerchiefs and decorated parasols to the accompaniment of a brass band. Usually my role is to transport elderly or handicapped relatives and guests. (See here for the story of my first -- and most memorable by far -- second line experience.)

The use of pedicabs in second lines seems to me a clear case of an innovation that manages to enrich an already priceless tradition. Let's say the groom has a seventy-something-year-old grandmother with bad hips and knees. If her grandson had gotten married a year and a half ago (before the introduction of pedicabs to New Orleans in September 2011), she would have been excluded from the second line experience. Nowadays she rides like royalty right in the middle of the happy, hankie-waving throng.

The second kind of wedding ride involves transporting the new couple from the reception site to their hotel. Typically the newlyweds are giddy with love -- not to mention relief that the whole happy ordeal of the ceremony and reception is finally over. Their joy overflows not just to me but also to the people we pass on the street who shout out their congratulations as we roll by.

(By the way, I'm evidently uniquely qualified for this kind of ride. No less an authority than USA Today recognized riding with the Crescent City Pedicabbie as one of the most romantic things to do in New Orleans!)

Recently I did a wedding ride, which turned out a bit less pleasant. I had waited outside the reception venue for a good half hour till the party wound down enough for the couple to make a graceful exit. There's nothing unusual about this. Most wedding rides require a bit of waiting around on my part. Even 45 minutes or an hour is not uncommon. Naturally, I need to be compensated for my time since every minute that I'm not cruising around looking for fares is money lost. A dollar a minute is the usual rate, and a tip on top of this is customary. In most cases the fare has been negotiated well beforehand so that the newlyweds don't have to bother themselves with such logistical minutiae on their first night of matrimonial bliss.

On this particular occasion, no sooner had the couple waded through the crowd of well-wishers and boarded the bike than the bride began reading aloud the posted, by-the-block fare structure. She quickly did the mental math and blurted out happily, "Oh, this is only going to be $10! That's not bad at all!"

I swallowed hard and kept my mouth shut. This was supposed to be one of the most joyful moments in the lives of these two people. I wasn't about to spoil the first night of their honeymoon by haggling with them over a few bucks. If it ended up costing me $30, I would just have to consider that my wedding gift to a pair of strangers.

When we arrived at the hotel, the groom pulled out his wallet, and the bride ordered him to give me fifteen dollars.

"Oh, I want to give him a tip," he protested. "I'll give him $20."

"But $15 includes a tip! The fare is only ten bucks. Fifteen is plenty," she said

"OK babe," he said looking a little embarrassed as he handed me a ten and a five.

He hung back a minute as if unsure what to do while his new wife walked toward the door of the hotel. Then he pulled out another five and handed it to me. "It's my money!" he said, trying to sound defiant, but keeping the volume low enough that his bride wouldn't hear him. "I can do what I want with it!"

I wish them well. I really do. I'm not a gambling man, and even if I was, I would never want to bet against anyone's marital happiness. But in terms of cold hard cash, I think I would be pretty safe betting that $20 against the long-term prospects of that marriage. I really hope I'm wrong.

On being a professional athlete

Some time back, Russell, a fellow pedicabbie, approached me about getting involved with a foundation he had founded. The purpose of the foundation as my colleague explained it was to get professional athletes engaged in philanthropy and community service.

Reading the "OK,-but-what-does-that-have-to-do-with-me?" look on my face, he said to me: "You know we're professional athletes, right?"

My first reaction was sheer bafflement. We ARE?... I AM?... How do you figure that? But after giving it some thought, I decided that Russell had a point.

Pedaling three- or four-hundred pounds (occasionally much more) of human flesh around all night long is physically demanding, of course. But that fact alone just isn't enough to qualify us as professional athletes. I have worked brief stints as a roofer, a plumber's helper, and an oilfield roustabout. These jobs may have been more physically demanding than pedicabbing; but roofers, plumbers and roustabouts are clearly not professional athletes.

The thing that we pedicabbies have in common with sports stars is that we rely on a mixture of athleticism and entertainment to make our living. Qualities like speed, strength, stamina, and physical skill are vital, of course; but ultimate success requires a bit of showmanship as well. That's true for Lebron James, and it's true for me. (Yes, I'm putting myself in the same category with Lebron James, but only to the extent that you put a chihuahua and a rhinoceros in the same category by acknowledging that they both have four legs.)

So if Russell and I are right that I'm a professional athlete (technically "semi-pro" now that I'm only pedicabbing part-time), this is bizarre turn of events to say the least. If anyone in the class of '84 at Pearl River High School had been named "least likely to grow up to be a professional athlete", I'm pretty sure I would have won that distinction. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I would have utterly crushed the competition! Let's put it this way. When it came time to pick teams, most of the girls went higher in the draft than me. To this day I can't hit a softball with a bat or catch it with a glove.

My junior year in high school I finally worked up the nerve to start playing touch football with the guys at lunch. I soon earned the nickname Swivel because I was so uncoordinated that it seemed to my classmates as though all my body parts were randomly rotating independently of each another.

Who would have dreamed back then that at the age of 46, I, Mark "Swivel" Orfila would find myself a professional tricyclist! You know, I've never been to any class reunions. Never had much desire till now. But  I'm thinking maybe I'll go to the next one. Maybe I'll wear shorts so everyone can admire my monster calves!