I know, I haven't been writing much lately. Part of the problem is that I haven't been pedicabbing much -- once a week maybe, sometimes not even that, and only on weeknights when things are slow and the people on the street are mostly sober, which naturally makes for fewer stories. My main gig is the mule carriage, which, while paying the bills much better than the pedicab, tends to produce less blog-worthy material.
Sometimes I wonder though whether these are just excuses. In the early days it seems like every time I finished a shift I had a story to tell. I used to say, "If I don't end up writing a book about this, it won't be for lack of material!" Lately I've been wondering whether the stories have really stopped happening or if I have somehow lost my ability to see them. I have a hard time admitting it to myself, but my last few shifts on the pedicab had been -- dare I say it -- boring. Perhaps the real problem is that I've lost my my sense of wonder.
Last Wednesday was about what you might expect from a summer weeknight shift -- in a word, slow. I was grateful to pick up a family of three -- dad, mom and daughter -- who needed transport from a French Quarter restaurant to the St. Charles streetcar stop.
I'm guessing that the girl was six or eight years old. Secure in her father's lap, she commented, "This is good because it has three wheels so you can't fall over."
"You're right." I said. "Look at me! I'm 48 years old, and I'm still riding a tricycle."
"You know, if you can have fun at your job, consider yourself fortunate," the dad chimed in. "I have the worst job in the world! I work for the TSA as an airport security screener."
"Oh my!" I replied. "I imagine that would be a pretty tough job." I spent 16 years in a career that involved a lot of international travel, I thought back over the long hours I spent waiting in airport security lines. If those hours seemed long to me, what about the guy who has to be there all day long, day in and day out!
But the worst job in the world? "What about being a repo man?"I countered."I think that it would be even worse to be the dude who has to show up and take away someone's truck or TV set."
"No!" he said emphatically. "Trust me. My job is way worse."
"Well, I don't know whether or not anyone has ever said this to you," I told him. "But let me just say thank you for keeping us safe and protecting us from terrorists!"
"What terrorists?" he scoffed. "It's a joke!"
"Hey man, I'm trying to be on your side," I protested. "Wanna work with me a little?!"
"I really appreciate the effort," he said. "But the truth is we're not doing anything but creating illusions! I might as well be working at Disney World. At least there I would be creating illusions for people to love me, whereas at my job I'm creating illusions and everyone hates me."
As the conversation moved on to other topics the guy got a lot less grumpy, and we ended up having a pleasant ride. They were carrying a big bag of to-go boxes from the restaurant, and as they got off at their destination, they asked whether I might pass a homeless person to whom I could pass on the food, and I assured them that I would be glad to do that.
Not five minutes after dropping them off I saw a guy sitting on the sidewalk with one of those cardboard signs, and I pulled up beside him and said, "Do you think you might know someone who could use this food?" And he smiled and said, "I sure do!", and accepted it eagerly and gratefully.
I couldn't help thinking that this guy would probably be happy to trade places with the TSA officer. But as for me: I'm 48 years old; and I ride a big yellow tricycle around the French Quarter; and for that moment at least, I don't think I would have traded places with anybody in the world!
