When I'm out on the trike I'm always on the lookout for people standing on street corners looking lost. If I don't manage to pick up a ride, I'll at least try to leave our guests with a impression that New Orleanians are friendly, helpful folks.
Yesterday I spotted a couple who looked like suitable targets, so I stopped to offer my assistance.
"We're just looking for a bar," they said.
"Which one?" I asked.
"No particular one. Just someplace to get a drink. "
Nice! Since my grade school days I've always had an overwhelming preference for easy questions over hard ones, and I'd be hard pressed to imagine an easier question in any field than, "Where do I go to get a drink in the French Quarter?"
Did I mention that we were just a block off Bourbon? Yep. A single city block. Even if I had managed to sell them a ride, it would have been a very, very short ride!
A couple of hours later, I came across another clueless-looking couple on a corner just a couple of blocks distant from the earlier encounter.
"Can I help you find anything?" I asked.
"Yes! We're so glad you came along! We've between walking for six blocks looking for a bar and we haven't seen anything. Where's the closest place to sit down and relax and get a drink?"
I helpfully pointed out a couple of bars within spitting distance, including one that they had passed just half a block back.
Today I've decided to do an experiment. As I'm riding around looking for riders, I'd like to see if it's even theoretically possible to go six contiguous blocks in the French Quarter without passing a single bar. I'll let you know how it turns out.
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tourists. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Monday, April 1, 2013
A real American hero?
A hero's serenade
So I'm hanging out in front of Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop last night waiting for a fare, and there are three college kids hanging out there as well. One male and two female. Good-looking kids, from Alabama if I remember right. Not wasted, but drunk enough to be pretty happy.
We start chatting, and they mention the name of a pedicab colleague and ask if I know him, and I say, "Yeah, I know who he is but don't really know him very well."
And they say, "Well, he's a real American hero! And so are you. So are all you pedicab guys."
And I say, "Really? What makes us heroes?"
And they say, "Because you save lives!... That and your calves."
And I ask, "How do we save lives?"
And they say, "Because you take drunk people home so they don't have to drive."
They ask me if I know the real American heroes song from the Bud Light commercial, and I say, "No, not really. I was out of the country for a long time, so I probably missed it.
One of the girls says, "Well Nate here can sing it for you. Can't you, Nate?" (I'm calling him "Nate" here, but I don't really remember the dude's name.)
And Nate says, "Sure!" And he serenades me with the advertising jingle -- cheerfully and badly.
And I say, "Well sometimes I don't feel so heroic because a lot of times I get drunk people on the pedicab who want me to take them to their car, and I really don't know what to do. Because the right thing to do is probably to take their car keys from them and throw them as far as I can, but I don't really have the balls to do that. So I always end up taking them to their car, and I worry about it. What do you think I should do in those situations?"
And they say, "Wow, we hadn't thought about that! That's a tough one. We don't know what you should do in a situation like that."
And I say, "Well, I write a blog about this job, so maybe I'll write a post about this and see if my readers have any wisdom to offer me." So here it is, dear readers. Jump in.
Playing the hero
Later that night I'm back in front of Lafitte's, and this drunk guy walks up. He can barely keep his feet.
"Where's Ursa...Ursa..." he stumbles, trying to pronounce "Ursulines."
"Ursulines Street?" I prompt. "It's just one block over."
"What about Bourbon Street?" he asks.
"You're on Bourbon Street," I answer. "This is Bourbon Street right here!"
"Oh," he says. "Life's a bitch", and he wanders off while I stand there wondering what the connection might be between Bourbon Street and "Life's a bitch." Who knows? Anyway, I'm not sorry to see him go.
Then he apparently changes his mind and wanders back in my direction. "How much to take me to Ursa...Ursa...?" He still can't get his tongue around the word.
"Which block of Ursulines do you need to get to?" I ask.
"The Empress Hotel," he replies, his speech so slurred that I can barely understand him. The Empress is a notoriously nasty place in a sketchy neighborhood. Actually, it's so bad that the reviews make really entertaining reading!
I'm counting up the blocks in my head to quote him a price, when he plops down in the seat of the pedicab and says, "OK, how much just to ride around?"
It makes me nervous whenever drunk people sit down on the pedicab before we've worked out where we're going and how much they're going to pay. But I answer him respectfully. "Well that would be a dollar a minute. Twenty dollars for a twenty minute ride, for example."
"OK, I'll give you twenty dollars just to ride me around." He takes his wallet out and fumbles with it for a couple of minutes. Finally he turns it upside down and shakes the entire contents out on the seat of the pedicab: a couple of business cards and a single dollar bill.
"OK, take me to an ATM," He says.
Against my better judgment I agree to do the ride. Along the way he blurts out, apropos of nothing, "You gotta pay the piper!"
"Um, yeah," I say to be agreeable. "You've definitely got to pay the piper."
He mumbles something else, the only part of which I catch is "I just want to be left alone."
I'm sure that this is not directed at me, so once again I decide just to go along. "Yeah, we all want to be left alone, don't we?" I say.
I take him to a little daiquiri shop on Decatur Street with an ATM just inside the front door. I sit outside and watch as he stumbles up to the machine, pulls his wallet out, and fumbles with it again, this time dropping the contents onto the floor. He shuffles through them, unable to find the ATM card. Finally he chooses one of the business cards and stands there stabbing at the ATM slot, so drunk that he lacks the dexterity to actually insert the card.
By this time, it's clear to me that there's no way I'm not going to get paid for this ride. I consider riding away. I don't owe this guy anything, do I? To the contrary, he owes me! I'm supposed to pay $155 to lease the bike tonight, and I can't afford to be wasting time like this. On the other hand, this guy is now several blocks farther from his hotel than when we started our little ride. And if I don't take him, how's he ever going to get back?
I watch as he finally gives up on the ATM and walks up to the counter to talk to the bartender. I sit there stewing while they converse for a couple of minutes. It's obvious that this isn't going anywhere. What was he expecting the bartender to do for him?
Still tempted to cut my losses and run, I'm remembering those college kids earlier who said that I was a hero because I take drunk people home. So I decide to live up to their estimation of me and be a hero. I'm going to get this guy back to his hotel. As I walk up I hear the bartender telling him, "You need to leave. You're so drunk that you don't know what you're doing. I'm sorry, I can't help you."
"Get on the bike," I order the drunk guy. "I'm taking you back to your hotel for free." Looking defeated, he stumbles along behind me and collapses into the passenger seat.
Along the way he suddenly blurts out with some new-found (and completely unfounded) resolve, "I'm going to pay you! I'm not going to let you take me for free."
"Well I would love to get paid," I admit. "But I don't see how you're going to do that. Anyway, don't worry about it. I'm going to get you there one way or the other."
When we arrive at the Empress, he instructs me to wait. "I'm going to pay you! You can't leave. Wait right here."
I really don't want to waste any more time. I hand him my business card and say, "If you think about it later and want to get in touch with me and pay me, that would be great. But it's no big deal. Anyway, have a great night. I need to get moving."
"No, no" he says shouting. "Please, I can't let you leave without paying you. I'm going to pay you. Just wait two seconds! Just two seconds!"
"OK, I say. Two seconds." I watch as he walks up to the counter and begins talking to the clerk, apparently a replay of the conversation with the guy at the daiquiri shop. It's been two seconds. I start pedaling away. He runs out after me yelling, "No, no I've got to pay you!"
And just then he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet again, and this time he pulls out an ATM card, which apparently had been in the pocket but not in the wallet. "Look!" he exclaims waving the card in my face.
"Glad you found it!" I say, riding away as fast as I can pump the pedals. There's no way in the world I'm letting that guy back on my bike to go searching for an ATM. If it were possible to peel out on a pedicab I would have done it.
Aiding and abetting
Later that night the hypothetical dilemma that I had discussed with the college kids presents itself. Two forlorn-looking young ladies are sitting on a dark sidewalk. I ask them if they need a ride, and they say, "We need to know where St. Louis Street is. We're parked on St. Louis, and we can't find it. Everybody keeps telling us different stuff, and we're totally lost!"
"I don't know where exactly on St. Louis you're parked, but St. Louis Street is just two blocks that way," I say, pointing.
"Are you sure?" they ask. "Because every time someone tells us somewhere to go we just end up more lost."
"Get on the bike," I tell them. "I'll take you there."
They protest that they don't have any money, but I'm in hero mode now. And anyway, St. Louis really is very close. "It's free," I say. "Hop on!" They obey.
Along the way, they offer me booze, Adderall, and cigarettes in lieu of cash. I turn all of these down. It soon becomes apparent that, while they're not nearly as drunk as that other guy, they're clearly not in any condition to be behind the wheel. Nevertheless, I deliver them safely to their car, hoping fervently that they won't hurt themselves or anyone else on their way home.
What really happens
Thinking back on the sweet college kids and their flattering assessment of my colleagues and me, it occurs to me just how wrong they are. The scenario they described -- driving drunks home so that they don't have to drive -- rarely if ever happens with a pedicab. When it comes to taking intoxicated people places, here are the actual scenarios that we regularly encounter in our work:
1. Transporting drunks tourist back to their hotel rooms, e.g., the guy at the Empress. In this case, I'm preventing drunk walking, not drunk driving. I heard a guy on the radio one time arguing that, statistically, drunk walking is more dangerous than drunk driving. So maybe in this scenario we really are saving lives. But saving the life of an irresponsible person (the drunk pedestrian) seems much less heroic than saving the life of an innocent person (the drunk driver's victim).
2. Transporting drunken locals home. This would almost always apply to those locals who live within the relatively small radius in which pedicabs commonly operate: the French Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, and the Warehouse District. In other words, these are people who haven't driven anywhere in the first place. Once again, we may be preventing drunk walking, but not drunk driving. New Orleanians who live in more far-flung parts of the city would invariably take a taxi home rather than a pedicab. As much as it pains me to admit it, taxi drivers are the ones who are doing the heroic work of keeping drunk drivers off the streets.
3. Transporting drunks (locals or tourists) between bars, strip clubs, the casino, restaurants, etc. This is a big part of what we do, but not much heroic here.
4. Transporting drunken locals to their parked cars, e.g, the two young ladies. This is the troubling scenario in which we may actually be enabling drunk driving. Whatever hero status we might legitimately claim for numbers 1 and 2 is canceled out by this. But how can we avoid it? Once again, I'd love to hear from my readers.
Back to those three college kids at the beginning. I think that they were right about at least one thing. We pedicabbies do have some heroic calves!
So I'm hanging out in front of Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop last night waiting for a fare, and there are three college kids hanging out there as well. One male and two female. Good-looking kids, from Alabama if I remember right. Not wasted, but drunk enough to be pretty happy.
We start chatting, and they mention the name of a pedicab colleague and ask if I know him, and I say, "Yeah, I know who he is but don't really know him very well."
And they say, "Well, he's a real American hero! And so are you. So are all you pedicab guys."
And I say, "Really? What makes us heroes?"
And they say, "Because you save lives!... That and your calves."
And I ask, "How do we save lives?"
And they say, "Because you take drunk people home so they don't have to drive."
They ask me if I know the real American heroes song from the Bud Light commercial, and I say, "No, not really. I was out of the country for a long time, so I probably missed it.
One of the girls says, "Well Nate here can sing it for you. Can't you, Nate?" (I'm calling him "Nate" here, but I don't really remember the dude's name.)
And Nate says, "Sure!" And he serenades me with the advertising jingle -- cheerfully and badly.
And I say, "Well sometimes I don't feel so heroic because a lot of times I get drunk people on the pedicab who want me to take them to their car, and I really don't know what to do. Because the right thing to do is probably to take their car keys from them and throw them as far as I can, but I don't really have the balls to do that. So I always end up taking them to their car, and I worry about it. What do you think I should do in those situations?"
And they say, "Wow, we hadn't thought about that! That's a tough one. We don't know what you should do in a situation like that."
And I say, "Well, I write a blog about this job, so maybe I'll write a post about this and see if my readers have any wisdom to offer me." So here it is, dear readers. Jump in.
Playing the hero
Later that night I'm back in front of Lafitte's, and this drunk guy walks up. He can barely keep his feet.
"Where's Ursa...Ursa..." he stumbles, trying to pronounce "Ursulines."
"Ursulines Street?" I prompt. "It's just one block over."
"What about Bourbon Street?" he asks.
"You're on Bourbon Street," I answer. "This is Bourbon Street right here!"
"Oh," he says. "Life's a bitch", and he wanders off while I stand there wondering what the connection might be between Bourbon Street and "Life's a bitch." Who knows? Anyway, I'm not sorry to see him go.
Then he apparently changes his mind and wanders back in my direction. "How much to take me to Ursa...Ursa...?" He still can't get his tongue around the word.
"Which block of Ursulines do you need to get to?" I ask.
"The Empress Hotel," he replies, his speech so slurred that I can barely understand him. The Empress is a notoriously nasty place in a sketchy neighborhood. Actually, it's so bad that the reviews make really entertaining reading!
I'm counting up the blocks in my head to quote him a price, when he plops down in the seat of the pedicab and says, "OK, how much just to ride around?"
It makes me nervous whenever drunk people sit down on the pedicab before we've worked out where we're going and how much they're going to pay. But I answer him respectfully. "Well that would be a dollar a minute. Twenty dollars for a twenty minute ride, for example."
"OK, I'll give you twenty dollars just to ride me around." He takes his wallet out and fumbles with it for a couple of minutes. Finally he turns it upside down and shakes the entire contents out on the seat of the pedicab: a couple of business cards and a single dollar bill.
"OK, take me to an ATM," He says.
Against my better judgment I agree to do the ride. Along the way he blurts out, apropos of nothing, "You gotta pay the piper!"
"Um, yeah," I say to be agreeable. "You've definitely got to pay the piper."
He mumbles something else, the only part of which I catch is "I just want to be left alone."
I'm sure that this is not directed at me, so once again I decide just to go along. "Yeah, we all want to be left alone, don't we?" I say.
I take him to a little daiquiri shop on Decatur Street with an ATM just inside the front door. I sit outside and watch as he stumbles up to the machine, pulls his wallet out, and fumbles with it again, this time dropping the contents onto the floor. He shuffles through them, unable to find the ATM card. Finally he chooses one of the business cards and stands there stabbing at the ATM slot, so drunk that he lacks the dexterity to actually insert the card.
By this time, it's clear to me that there's no way I'm not going to get paid for this ride. I consider riding away. I don't owe this guy anything, do I? To the contrary, he owes me! I'm supposed to pay $155 to lease the bike tonight, and I can't afford to be wasting time like this. On the other hand, this guy is now several blocks farther from his hotel than when we started our little ride. And if I don't take him, how's he ever going to get back?
I watch as he finally gives up on the ATM and walks up to the counter to talk to the bartender. I sit there stewing while they converse for a couple of minutes. It's obvious that this isn't going anywhere. What was he expecting the bartender to do for him?
Still tempted to cut my losses and run, I'm remembering those college kids earlier who said that I was a hero because I take drunk people home. So I decide to live up to their estimation of me and be a hero. I'm going to get this guy back to his hotel. As I walk up I hear the bartender telling him, "You need to leave. You're so drunk that you don't know what you're doing. I'm sorry, I can't help you."
"Get on the bike," I order the drunk guy. "I'm taking you back to your hotel for free." Looking defeated, he stumbles along behind me and collapses into the passenger seat.
Along the way he suddenly blurts out with some new-found (and completely unfounded) resolve, "I'm going to pay you! I'm not going to let you take me for free."
"Well I would love to get paid," I admit. "But I don't see how you're going to do that. Anyway, don't worry about it. I'm going to get you there one way or the other."
When we arrive at the Empress, he instructs me to wait. "I'm going to pay you! You can't leave. Wait right here."
I really don't want to waste any more time. I hand him my business card and say, "If you think about it later and want to get in touch with me and pay me, that would be great. But it's no big deal. Anyway, have a great night. I need to get moving."
"No, no" he says shouting. "Please, I can't let you leave without paying you. I'm going to pay you. Just wait two seconds! Just two seconds!"
"OK, I say. Two seconds." I watch as he walks up to the counter and begins talking to the clerk, apparently a replay of the conversation with the guy at the daiquiri shop. It's been two seconds. I start pedaling away. He runs out after me yelling, "No, no I've got to pay you!"
And just then he reaches in his back pocket and pulls out his wallet again, and this time he pulls out an ATM card, which apparently had been in the pocket but not in the wallet. "Look!" he exclaims waving the card in my face.
"Glad you found it!" I say, riding away as fast as I can pump the pedals. There's no way in the world I'm letting that guy back on my bike to go searching for an ATM. If it were possible to peel out on a pedicab I would have done it.
Aiding and abetting
Later that night the hypothetical dilemma that I had discussed with the college kids presents itself. Two forlorn-looking young ladies are sitting on a dark sidewalk. I ask them if they need a ride, and they say, "We need to know where St. Louis Street is. We're parked on St. Louis, and we can't find it. Everybody keeps telling us different stuff, and we're totally lost!"
"I don't know where exactly on St. Louis you're parked, but St. Louis Street is just two blocks that way," I say, pointing.
"Are you sure?" they ask. "Because every time someone tells us somewhere to go we just end up more lost."
"Get on the bike," I tell them. "I'll take you there."
They protest that they don't have any money, but I'm in hero mode now. And anyway, St. Louis really is very close. "It's free," I say. "Hop on!" They obey.
Along the way, they offer me booze, Adderall, and cigarettes in lieu of cash. I turn all of these down. It soon becomes apparent that, while they're not nearly as drunk as that other guy, they're clearly not in any condition to be behind the wheel. Nevertheless, I deliver them safely to their car, hoping fervently that they won't hurt themselves or anyone else on their way home.
What really happens
Thinking back on the sweet college kids and their flattering assessment of my colleagues and me, it occurs to me just how wrong they are. The scenario they described -- driving drunks home so that they don't have to drive -- rarely if ever happens with a pedicab. When it comes to taking intoxicated people places, here are the actual scenarios that we regularly encounter in our work:
1. Transporting drunks tourist back to their hotel rooms, e.g., the guy at the Empress. In this case, I'm preventing drunk walking, not drunk driving. I heard a guy on the radio one time arguing that, statistically, drunk walking is more dangerous than drunk driving. So maybe in this scenario we really are saving lives. But saving the life of an irresponsible person (the drunk pedestrian) seems much less heroic than saving the life of an innocent person (the drunk driver's victim).
2. Transporting drunken locals home. This would almost always apply to those locals who live within the relatively small radius in which pedicabs commonly operate: the French Quarter, the Marigny, the Central Business District, and the Warehouse District. In other words, these are people who haven't driven anywhere in the first place. Once again, we may be preventing drunk walking, but not drunk driving. New Orleanians who live in more far-flung parts of the city would invariably take a taxi home rather than a pedicab. As much as it pains me to admit it, taxi drivers are the ones who are doing the heroic work of keeping drunk drivers off the streets.
3. Transporting drunks (locals or tourists) between bars, strip clubs, the casino, restaurants, etc. This is a big part of what we do, but not much heroic here.
4. Transporting drunken locals to their parked cars, e.g, the two young ladies. This is the troubling scenario in which we may actually be enabling drunk driving. Whatever hero status we might legitimately claim for numbers 1 and 2 is canceled out by this. But how can we avoid it? Once again, I'd love to hear from my readers.
Back to those three college kids at the beginning. I think that they were right about at least one thing. We pedicabbies do have some heroic calves!
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
News flash: Idaho joins the Union!
I did it! I can now boast that I have transported passengers from all 50 states... Wait, that's not quite right, is it? I mean, I haven't actually transported anyone across any state lines. After all, hauling someone from Hawaii to New Orleans on a pedicab would be problematic, right? Anyway, I think that you get what I'm trying to say.
Yesterday, within a couple of hours of posting this entry, I picked up a pair of passengers from Idaho. I had been riding around looking for a fare, when I spotted a middle-aged couple poring over a map and looking a bit lost on the corner of Bourbon and Dumaine, so I stopped to ask them if they needed directions. (This is something that I make a practice of. It gets me rides sometimes, though not as often as you might think; but either way, I want my city's guests to have an impression of New Orleans as a friendly, helpful place. I know that sounds corny, but it's true.)
In this case the couple seemed happy for my help. They wanted to know if I could show them where they were on the map and where they might find a good seafood restaurant. This was right up my alley. "Sure!" I said. And just about that time I noticed that the man was wearing a Boise State baseball cap.
"Are you from Idaho?" I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
"Yes, we are," they said.
"Then hop on," I ordered them, "because you're going to get a free ride anywhere you want to go!" Looking back, that was a bit rash. It's a good thing they didn't say, "OK then, take us back to Idaho!" As it turned out, I just took them a couple of blocks -- far enough for me to explain a bit breathlessly (Like I said, I was excited, not to mention the fact that they were as plump as a pair of Idaho potatoes, bless their hearts.) why I was so thrilled to have riders from Idaho.
When they got off, they asked how much, and I told them again that there was no charge. I didn't want them to think that the whole story was just a ploy to get them on board and get a fare. But they insisted on giving me a ten, which I finally (after a solid three or four seconds!) accepted.
And so -- barely four months into my pedicabbie career -- I have had the honor of transporting tourists who have come to the great city of New Orleans from every single state in the Union. I've also had riders from most of the provinces of Canada and from a number of other countries, including: Mexico, Argentina, the United Kingdom, Ireland, the Netherlands, Greece, India, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Syria, Taiwan, and Japan. What a wonderful job I have!
Yesterday, within a couple of hours of posting this entry, I picked up a pair of passengers from Idaho. I had been riding around looking for a fare, when I spotted a middle-aged couple poring over a map and looking a bit lost on the corner of Bourbon and Dumaine, so I stopped to ask them if they needed directions. (This is something that I make a practice of. It gets me rides sometimes, though not as often as you might think; but either way, I want my city's guests to have an impression of New Orleans as a friendly, helpful place. I know that sounds corny, but it's true.)
In this case the couple seemed happy for my help. They wanted to know if I could show them where they were on the map and where they might find a good seafood restaurant. This was right up my alley. "Sure!" I said. And just about that time I noticed that the man was wearing a Boise State baseball cap.
"Are you from Idaho?" I asked, barely able to contain my excitement.
"Yes, we are," they said.
"Then hop on," I ordered them, "because you're going to get a free ride anywhere you want to go!" Looking back, that was a bit rash. It's a good thing they didn't say, "OK then, take us back to Idaho!" As it turned out, I just took them a couple of blocks -- far enough for me to explain a bit breathlessly (Like I said, I was excited, not to mention the fact that they were as plump as a pair of Idaho potatoes, bless their hearts.) why I was so thrilled to have riders from Idaho.
When they got off, they asked how much, and I told them again that there was no charge. I didn't want them to think that the whole story was just a ploy to get them on board and get a fare. But they insisted on giving me a ten, which I finally (after a solid three or four seconds!) accepted.
And so -- barely four months into my pedicabbie career -- I have had the honor of transporting tourists who have come to the great city of New Orleans from every single state in the Union. I've also had riders from most of the provinces of Canada and from a number of other countries, including: Mexico, Argentina, the United Kingdom, Ireland, the Netherlands, Greece, India, Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Syria, Taiwan, and Japan. What a wonderful job I have!
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
The winners of the Golden Rickie
Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome to the presentation of the 2011 Golden Rickshaw Rider -- or the Rickie as it is more commonly known. I'm the Crescent City Pedicabbie, and I'm delighted to be your host for this evening's event.
I must acknowledge at the outset the many wonderful passengers I've been privileged to transport on my pedicab over the past couple of months: Passengers who have tipped me generously. Passengers who have said all kinds of complimentary things about my calves. Passengers who have graciously forgiven me when I hit a pothole at full speed and made them spill their hurricanes all over themselves. There are dozens of riders who richly deserve special recognition and would have been a credit to this evening's prize. I regret that my time with each of these beautiful, captivating, and kind people has been so brief -- not to mention that my back was turned to them for almost all of that time.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for this year's runner-up: Mr. Justin Chambers. I must confess that as the sole member of the nominating committee and the jury, I was sure after meeting Mr. Chambers that he would take this year's prize. (Those of you who follow the adventures of the Crescent City Pedicabbie online will be familiar with the story of JC's historic ride.) If not for a truly extraordinary occurrence just two days later, Mr. Chambers would undoubtedly have walked away tonight as the richly deserving recipient of the 2011 Rickie. Congratulations, Mr. Chambers, and one more round of applause!
And now the moment you've all been waiting for: The Golden Rickshaw Rider for the most amazing, wonderful, kind, and generous passengers of 2011. Once you hear the story, I think you'll agree that if there was a Nobel for niceness, this couple would win it hands down.
And the winner is... Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I must confess that I don't know their names, nor even where they're from. They had that certain glow that makes me inclined to believe that they were newlyweds, but I can't say for certain. All those details must have come up in our conversation, but the memories were undoubtedly flushed from my mind by that afternoon's powerful surge of adrenaline. Nevertheless, their story must be told, even if they are to remain nameless.
It was a quarter to 4 in the afternoon, and I was sitting at my daytime sweet spot on the corner of Decatur and Toulouse in the French Quarter when this lovely young couple approached me. The man showed me a slip of paper with the name and address of a rum distillery. Could I get them there in time for a 4 o' clock tour?
I glanced at the paper. Frenchmen Street. Yes, of course, I told them. For us New Orleans pedicabbies the path between the French Quarter and Frenchmen Street is our bread and butter. I've pedaled this route so many times that I could probably give my pedicab its head, and it would take me there without my having to steer.
Looking back, I was vaguely uneasy that as many times as I had traversed Frenchmen Street, I had never noticed any rum distillery; but I put my doubts aside and started pedaling. We caught a couple of red lights along the way, but even so, we made it to Frenchmen in five minutes flat. I asked to see the address again in order to pinpoint the location of the distillery.
2815 Frenchmen St.
2815?
Did Frenchmen really have 28 blocks?
I knew every club and cafe in the 400, 500, and 600 blocks. I knew the exact spot on the sidewalk where "the burrito man", an aging hippie whose rent is always due the next day, sets up every night at 11:30 to peddle his burritos for $5 each. (They're really good, by the way.). I knew every pothole in the road for those three blocks. Theoretically, I should have known that the street kept going past the point where I always turned off. But I had honestly never really thought about there being a 700 block of Frenchmen -- much less a 2800 block.
It was ten minutes till four. My passengers needed to be there at four. We were twenty-two blocks away.
It was at this point that I made a very poor decision. I should have helped them get a taxi. I mean the type of taxi with four wheels and an engine. That would have been the right thing to do in this situation. But I didn't do the right thing. Instead I announced: "I can get you there by four," and I started pedaling again.
The next few blocks were nice. I was pushing too hard to truly appreciate the scenery, but I overheard my riders remarking at the beauty of the leafy streets and old homes and congratulating themselves on having chosen the most pleasant mode of transport. Basking in their pleasure, I found the strength to pick up the pace just a little.
I believe it was at St. Claude Avenue that the change occurred. I don't remember showing anyone my passport, but we must have crossed into another country. Jared Allen recently remarked that New Orleans looked like some bombed-out, third world country. Considering Katrina, the comment was certainly insensitive; considering neighborhoods like this one, it wasn't in the least inaccurate.
People sitting on the steps of ramshackle houses hooted at us as we passed by. Apparently, we were quite the spectacle. I mentioned the sense of having crossed into a foreign country; all of the words that were shouted at us as we flew down the street were totally incomprehensible to me. Once I even asked my riders, "What did that guy just say?", but they hadn't understood either. There was no mistaking the mood though. It was a strange mix of amusement and hostility, equal in their intensity. My passengers weren't singing the praise of the pedicab as a means of transport any more; but I no longer needed their encouragement to keep up the blistering pace.
I was drenched in sweat by now. I glanced down at my watch and up at the addresses of the houses we were passing.
"Seventeen blocks to go!" There was an audible gasp from the passenger seat. "Don't worry! We're going to make it on time," I promised them.
More sweat. More catcalls. Block after block of graffiti-scarred, Katrina-devastated urban wasteland. "Don't worry. I'll get you there!" I called out from time to time -- as much to reassure myself as my riders.
At precisely 3:59 PM we reached the end of the 2700 block and realized with deep dismay that Frenchmen street came to an abrupt end here at Florida Avenue. There were railroad tracks in front of us and just beyond the tracks we could see our destination: The Old New Orleans Rum Distillery, 2815 Frenchmen St. There it was, tantalizingly close and totally inaccessible. Apparently, Frenchmen Street resumed on the other side of the tracks.
"No problem," my riders said recovering their cheerfulness after the momentary shock. "We'll just hop off here and cross the tracks on foot. Thank you so much! You actually got us here right on time. You did it!"
I wasn't really comfortable with this arrangement, but I didn't see that we had much choice if they were going to make it in time for the tour. "Are you sure you're OK with that?" I asked, still panting from the wild ride.
"Yes, we're sure. Look, it's just right there! All we have to do is cross the tracks."
As I pulled up to the edge of the road to let them off, we got another nasty shock. Running alongside the railroad tracks was a canal, which we hadn't seen heretofore. It was deep and wide and had steep concrete sides; without a bridge or a boat there was no way across it.
Not knowing what else to do, I pedaled up Florida to the next intersection looking for a way across the canal. No luck. We sat there in the middle of the deserted street for a minute trying to decide on our next move. By now four o' clock had come and gone. Darkness would be closing in soon.
A car approached, slammed to a stop next to us, and the window went down. "What are you doing here?" the driver demanded. She was a middle-aged African-American lady, probably from that neighborhood. "This is no place for you to be sitting in the middle of the street!" she said. "Please, get out of here. Now!" I looked at her face and saw raw fear. Up to that point I had been a bit anxious, but suddenly I was shaken. Seeing how frightened this complete stranger was for us, I realized that we had reason to be really scared.
There wasn't any more question about what to do. We had to get back where we had come from -- but not by the way we had come. Even apart from the safety issue, Frenchmen is a one-way street, so there was literally no going back that way.
We found our way to Elysian Fields Avenue and began the trek toward familiar territory. Elysian Fields is a bigger, busier street, so it felt a little bit safer, but not much. Exhausted from the race to the end of the road and weighed down by fear and failure, it was all I could do to keep the pedals turning. Somehow I also found the spare breath to apologize to my passengers. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I can't believe I wasted your time. And made you miss your tour. And risked your lives. I'm so sorry."
They would have none of it. "No way," they said. "It wasn't a waste of time. It was an adventure. And anyway, if it's anybody's fault, it's ours. We should have known how to get there before we set out."
This was pure nonsense. When a tourist gets in a taxi, the taxi driver is the one with the obligation to know how to get there, not the tourist. But nonsense or not, it sure was nice! I've been called names to foul to print in the dictionary for offenses of a much lesser magnitude. If they had chosen to give me a good cussing out, what could I have done but say, "Guilty as charged, your honor"?
These guys were going out of their way to show me grace when we all knew how badly I had blown it. And they just kept piling on more and more niceness. Sensing my exhaustion, they actually offered to take a turn pedaling for me! (It was a beautiful gesture, but as long as I was conscious I wasn't going to surrender the handlebars.)
At some point along the way I began to wonder whether I had gotten myself turned around somehow during the traumatic return trip. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Why was it taking so much longer to get back than it had taken to get there? Was it possible that with every turn of the pedals, I was actually taking us further away from the French Quarter? I voiced my concern, and the young man behind me spoke reassuringly: "No, I'm sure that this is the right way." Still, I wasn't fully convinced until I finally caught sight of the skyline of the Central Business District ahead of us in the distance.
Knowing that at least we were going the right way was a relief, but it was nothing compared to that sweet feeling that flooded over me when we finally crossed St. Claude Avenue. We still had some distance to cover, but the dangerous part was behind us. Oddly enough it was this moment of relief rather than the terror preceding it that triggered a vivid flashback to one of the scariest situations that my family and I had faced during our years in the Balkans.
It was early autumn 1999, about three months after the end of the Kosovo War. On an outing in western Kosovo we had unwittingly wandered across the Montenegrin border and deep into a dangerous situation, the details of which I will not take the time to recount here. Fleeing back toward home in a battered Land Rover, we slid around a switchback on the dusty road and came upon an Italian military checkpoint -- the symbol of safety that we had been desperately hoping for.
As we crossed St. Claude Avenue on the rickshaw I instantly recognized the same emotions that I had experienced twelve years earlier crossing that remote checkpoint in Kosovo's Accursed Mountains. But even the relief, intense as it was, did nothing to relieve my shame at having let my riders down. I offered another round of apologies, and once again this couple responded with their sweet assurances that it really wasn't my fault and that everything was fine now anyway.
When we came to the end of the ride, I had no intention of taking money from them. I really didn't. I tried to tell them that. Oh, I deserved payment alright, but not that kind. They could have reported me to the Taxicab Bureau, and they would have been well within their rights. Causing them to miss their tour, exposing them to mortal danger and all-around ruining their vacation might even have been grounds for a lawsuit. If any money was going to change hands, it should have been from my hand to theirs.
But when it came down to it, they got off the bike, and they thanked me; (They actually thanked me!) and the young man held out his hand to me with some bills in it; and I said, "No way!"; and he, still smiling, pressed the money into my hand; and they walked away holding hands; and I looked down at the money in my hand and realized that they had just given me the biggest tip of my career.
During the course of the ride, I mentioned to them that I had a blog, and they acted interested. So I'm hopeful that they will read this and know how much I appreciated their kindness. I actually hope that I get to see them again some day. Not that I could ever make it up to them, but I would really love another chance to give them a nice, relaxing, romantic -- and uneventful ride. This one for free, of course. But if they would prefer never to get on another pedicab, I wouldn't blame them at all.
I must acknowledge at the outset the many wonderful passengers I've been privileged to transport on my pedicab over the past couple of months: Passengers who have tipped me generously. Passengers who have said all kinds of complimentary things about my calves. Passengers who have graciously forgiven me when I hit a pothole at full speed and made them spill their hurricanes all over themselves. There are dozens of riders who richly deserve special recognition and would have been a credit to this evening's prize. I regret that my time with each of these beautiful, captivating, and kind people has been so brief -- not to mention that my back was turned to them for almost all of that time.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause for this year's runner-up: Mr. Justin Chambers. I must confess that as the sole member of the nominating committee and the jury, I was sure after meeting Mr. Chambers that he would take this year's prize. (Those of you who follow the adventures of the Crescent City Pedicabbie online will be familiar with the story of JC's historic ride.) If not for a truly extraordinary occurrence just two days later, Mr. Chambers would undoubtedly have walked away tonight as the richly deserving recipient of the 2011 Rickie. Congratulations, Mr. Chambers, and one more round of applause!
And now the moment you've all been waiting for: The Golden Rickshaw Rider for the most amazing, wonderful, kind, and generous passengers of 2011. Once you hear the story, I think you'll agree that if there was a Nobel for niceness, this couple would win it hands down.
And the winner is... Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, I must confess that I don't know their names, nor even where they're from. They had that certain glow that makes me inclined to believe that they were newlyweds, but I can't say for certain. All those details must have come up in our conversation, but the memories were undoubtedly flushed from my mind by that afternoon's powerful surge of adrenaline. Nevertheless, their story must be told, even if they are to remain nameless.
-----------------------------
It was a quarter to 4 in the afternoon, and I was sitting at my daytime sweet spot on the corner of Decatur and Toulouse in the French Quarter when this lovely young couple approached me. The man showed me a slip of paper with the name and address of a rum distillery. Could I get them there in time for a 4 o' clock tour?
I glanced at the paper. Frenchmen Street. Yes, of course, I told them. For us New Orleans pedicabbies the path between the French Quarter and Frenchmen Street is our bread and butter. I've pedaled this route so many times that I could probably give my pedicab its head, and it would take me there without my having to steer.
Looking back, I was vaguely uneasy that as many times as I had traversed Frenchmen Street, I had never noticed any rum distillery; but I put my doubts aside and started pedaling. We caught a couple of red lights along the way, but even so, we made it to Frenchmen in five minutes flat. I asked to see the address again in order to pinpoint the location of the distillery.
2815 Frenchmen St.
2815?
Did Frenchmen really have 28 blocks?
I knew every club and cafe in the 400, 500, and 600 blocks. I knew the exact spot on the sidewalk where "the burrito man", an aging hippie whose rent is always due the next day, sets up every night at 11:30 to peddle his burritos for $5 each. (They're really good, by the way.). I knew every pothole in the road for those three blocks. Theoretically, I should have known that the street kept going past the point where I always turned off. But I had honestly never really thought about there being a 700 block of Frenchmen -- much less a 2800 block.
It was ten minutes till four. My passengers needed to be there at four. We were twenty-two blocks away.
It was at this point that I made a very poor decision. I should have helped them get a taxi. I mean the type of taxi with four wheels and an engine. That would have been the right thing to do in this situation. But I didn't do the right thing. Instead I announced: "I can get you there by four," and I started pedaling again.
The next few blocks were nice. I was pushing too hard to truly appreciate the scenery, but I overheard my riders remarking at the beauty of the leafy streets and old homes and congratulating themselves on having chosen the most pleasant mode of transport. Basking in their pleasure, I found the strength to pick up the pace just a little.
I believe it was at St. Claude Avenue that the change occurred. I don't remember showing anyone my passport, but we must have crossed into another country. Jared Allen recently remarked that New Orleans looked like some bombed-out, third world country. Considering Katrina, the comment was certainly insensitive; considering neighborhoods like this one, it wasn't in the least inaccurate.
People sitting on the steps of ramshackle houses hooted at us as we passed by. Apparently, we were quite the spectacle. I mentioned the sense of having crossed into a foreign country; all of the words that were shouted at us as we flew down the street were totally incomprehensible to me. Once I even asked my riders, "What did that guy just say?", but they hadn't understood either. There was no mistaking the mood though. It was a strange mix of amusement and hostility, equal in their intensity. My passengers weren't singing the praise of the pedicab as a means of transport any more; but I no longer needed their encouragement to keep up the blistering pace.
I was drenched in sweat by now. I glanced down at my watch and up at the addresses of the houses we were passing.
"Seventeen blocks to go!" There was an audible gasp from the passenger seat. "Don't worry! We're going to make it on time," I promised them.
More sweat. More catcalls. Block after block of graffiti-scarred, Katrina-devastated urban wasteland. "Don't worry. I'll get you there!" I called out from time to time -- as much to reassure myself as my riders.
At precisely 3:59 PM we reached the end of the 2700 block and realized with deep dismay that Frenchmen street came to an abrupt end here at Florida Avenue. There were railroad tracks in front of us and just beyond the tracks we could see our destination: The Old New Orleans Rum Distillery, 2815 Frenchmen St. There it was, tantalizingly close and totally inaccessible. Apparently, Frenchmen Street resumed on the other side of the tracks.
"No problem," my riders said recovering their cheerfulness after the momentary shock. "We'll just hop off here and cross the tracks on foot. Thank you so much! You actually got us here right on time. You did it!"
I wasn't really comfortable with this arrangement, but I didn't see that we had much choice if they were going to make it in time for the tour. "Are you sure you're OK with that?" I asked, still panting from the wild ride.
"Yes, we're sure. Look, it's just right there! All we have to do is cross the tracks."
As I pulled up to the edge of the road to let them off, we got another nasty shock. Running alongside the railroad tracks was a canal, which we hadn't seen heretofore. It was deep and wide and had steep concrete sides; without a bridge or a boat there was no way across it.
Not knowing what else to do, I pedaled up Florida to the next intersection looking for a way across the canal. No luck. We sat there in the middle of the deserted street for a minute trying to decide on our next move. By now four o' clock had come and gone. Darkness would be closing in soon.
A car approached, slammed to a stop next to us, and the window went down. "What are you doing here?" the driver demanded. She was a middle-aged African-American lady, probably from that neighborhood. "This is no place for you to be sitting in the middle of the street!" she said. "Please, get out of here. Now!" I looked at her face and saw raw fear. Up to that point I had been a bit anxious, but suddenly I was shaken. Seeing how frightened this complete stranger was for us, I realized that we had reason to be really scared.
There wasn't any more question about what to do. We had to get back where we had come from -- but not by the way we had come. Even apart from the safety issue, Frenchmen is a one-way street, so there was literally no going back that way.
We found our way to Elysian Fields Avenue and began the trek toward familiar territory. Elysian Fields is a bigger, busier street, so it felt a little bit safer, but not much. Exhausted from the race to the end of the road and weighed down by fear and failure, it was all I could do to keep the pedals turning. Somehow I also found the spare breath to apologize to my passengers. "I'm so sorry," I said. "I can't believe I wasted your time. And made you miss your tour. And risked your lives. I'm so sorry."
They would have none of it. "No way," they said. "It wasn't a waste of time. It was an adventure. And anyway, if it's anybody's fault, it's ours. We should have known how to get there before we set out."
This was pure nonsense. When a tourist gets in a taxi, the taxi driver is the one with the obligation to know how to get there, not the tourist. But nonsense or not, it sure was nice! I've been called names to foul to print in the dictionary for offenses of a much lesser magnitude. If they had chosen to give me a good cussing out, what could I have done but say, "Guilty as charged, your honor"?
These guys were going out of their way to show me grace when we all knew how badly I had blown it. And they just kept piling on more and more niceness. Sensing my exhaustion, they actually offered to take a turn pedaling for me! (It was a beautiful gesture, but as long as I was conscious I wasn't going to surrender the handlebars.)
At some point along the way I began to wonder whether I had gotten myself turned around somehow during the traumatic return trip. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Why was it taking so much longer to get back than it had taken to get there? Was it possible that with every turn of the pedals, I was actually taking us further away from the French Quarter? I voiced my concern, and the young man behind me spoke reassuringly: "No, I'm sure that this is the right way." Still, I wasn't fully convinced until I finally caught sight of the skyline of the Central Business District ahead of us in the distance.
Knowing that at least we were going the right way was a relief, but it was nothing compared to that sweet feeling that flooded over me when we finally crossed St. Claude Avenue. We still had some distance to cover, but the dangerous part was behind us. Oddly enough it was this moment of relief rather than the terror preceding it that triggered a vivid flashback to one of the scariest situations that my family and I had faced during our years in the Balkans.
It was early autumn 1999, about three months after the end of the Kosovo War. On an outing in western Kosovo we had unwittingly wandered across the Montenegrin border and deep into a dangerous situation, the details of which I will not take the time to recount here. Fleeing back toward home in a battered Land Rover, we slid around a switchback on the dusty road and came upon an Italian military checkpoint -- the symbol of safety that we had been desperately hoping for.
As we crossed St. Claude Avenue on the rickshaw I instantly recognized the same emotions that I had experienced twelve years earlier crossing that remote checkpoint in Kosovo's Accursed Mountains. But even the relief, intense as it was, did nothing to relieve my shame at having let my riders down. I offered another round of apologies, and once again this couple responded with their sweet assurances that it really wasn't my fault and that everything was fine now anyway.
When we came to the end of the ride, I had no intention of taking money from them. I really didn't. I tried to tell them that. Oh, I deserved payment alright, but not that kind. They could have reported me to the Taxicab Bureau, and they would have been well within their rights. Causing them to miss their tour, exposing them to mortal danger and all-around ruining their vacation might even have been grounds for a lawsuit. If any money was going to change hands, it should have been from my hand to theirs.
But when it came down to it, they got off the bike, and they thanked me; (They actually thanked me!) and the young man held out his hand to me with some bills in it; and I said, "No way!"; and he, still smiling, pressed the money into my hand; and they walked away holding hands; and I looked down at the money in my hand and realized that they had just given me the biggest tip of my career.
During the course of the ride, I mentioned to them that I had a blog, and they acted interested. So I'm hopeful that they will read this and know how much I appreciated their kindness. I actually hope that I get to see them again some day. Not that I could ever make it up to them, but I would really love another chance to give them a nice, relaxing, romantic -- and uneventful ride. This one for free, of course. But if they would prefer never to get on another pedicab, I wouldn't blame them at all.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Regarding fat derrieres and massive calves
The mules and me
I picked up a lady and her little girl the other day. The mother informed me that her daughter had wanted to ride in a mule-drawn carriage, but that she (the mother) had been dead set against it.
"Well I'm glad you chose me, but I'm curious as to why you weren't comfortable getting in a carriage," I asked.
"I guess I just feel sorry for the mules hauling all that weight," she explained.
I stifled a snort of laughter lest the lady think me ungrateful for her business. Actually, I can kind of see her point if I squint just right. I mean the mules didn't really choose the job, right?
Every street name is a shibboleth.
Unlike this particular lady (who was actually quite trim), many female passengers express their self-consciousness about their weight in the form of pity for me. "Oh, I feel so sorry for you. I know I must be really heavy for you to haul," they say.
Last night I picked up three such ladies, girlfriends from out of town having a good time in the city. (We're allowed to carry up to three, but the passenger seat only fits two adults, so in cases like this somebody has to sit on somebody's lap.) They were a real hoot -- the kind of folks who make my job so much fun.
They did seem genuinely concerned that their weight would be too much for me, and I reassured them that it wasn't going to be a problem.
That's not to say that there wasn't any problem. The real problem was going to be finding the place they wanted to go. They asked to be taken to a bed and breakfast in the Marigny, out on the edge of the territory we generally cover. In my first week's work I've grown a lot more confident about navigating New Orleans' narrow streets, but I've still got a lot of learning to do. I told the ladies upfront, "We may not get there by the most the efficient route, but I promise we'll find it."
As it turned out I took a couple of wrong turns and had to stop and ask directions a couple of times. I kept apologizing to my riders, but they were very encouraging. "Oh no, don't worry about it. We're having fun! We just feel sorry for you having to haul our three fat asses around."
I need to interject a little explanation at this point. Going into the job, my mom's greatest fear was that I would be stabbed by a junkie for the cash to buy his next fix. My greatest fear, on the other hand, was butchering a street name in front of a local.
Having grown up across the lake from New Orleans, I don't stumble at all over words like Tchoupitoulas, which totally intimidate tourists. For me the really scary ones are those that appear simple and straightforward. Like Conti for example, which New Orleans natives pronounce "Kon-tie" with a long "i" at the end. Or "Burgundy" with the accent not on "Bur" but on "gun". (Given New Orleans' notorious murder rate, maybe there's some Freudian thing going on with this one.)
The names of the city's streets are a mixture of Spanish, French, native American, and heaven-only-knows what else; but there is no discernible pattern to the pronunciation. I say "discernible", because I suspect that there really is a pattern known only to insiders. I'm convinced that it's all a carefully thought out conspiracy designed to easily identify who's local and who's not. There's probably some kind of code, for instance, that dictates that French names will be pronounced according to the rules of native American pronunciation; native American words will be pronounced according to Croatian rules; and so forth.
I really thought I was figuring it out and that I was going to be spared any major shame. The previous night I had actually laughed at some poor tourist (Not one of my riders. I would NEVER laugh at a rider.) who pronounced "Marigny" (the "g" is supposed to be silent) "margin-y".
So here I found myself -- a man transporting three female passengers, upon whom I hoped to make a reasonably good impression if for no other reason than to get a generous tip -- being forced to stop and ask directions. Everyone knows that this in itself is agonizingly embarrassing for us men. But it was about to get a lot worse.
"Do you mean St. Roch?" he clarified, pronouncing it like "rock". (Which as it turns out is the proper French pronunciation. I'll have to find a way to accommodate this fact to my conspiracy theory.)
I don't think that the ladies noticed all that much. They were from out of town, and it wasn't as if they had known the proper pronunciation after all. Like I said, they were pretty gracious for the most part,.
Did you get your license in a box of Cracker Jacks?
One of them couldn't resist a deep dig though. They asked me about the job, and I mentioned that there was a fairly rigorous process for obtaining a permit to be a pedicabbie. There was a pause, and one of them said, "Really?" (Since you, dear reader, weren't present to hear the inflection, an explanation is necessary. One can say "Really?" merely as a friendly way of showing interest and keeping the conversation moving; or one can say "Really" as a way of expressing genuine incredulity. This was definitely the latter.) Ouch!
I finally found the hotel and dropped them off safe and sound. Ten minutes later, I picked up a pair of ladies who also seemed self-conscious about their weight and expressed it in precisely the same way. "Are you sure that you're really up to hauling our fat asses?" they asked. "We don't want to kill you or break the bike!"
Again, I promised them that it wasn't a problem. "You should see the ladies I just hauled," I said. "There were three of them, and they were way fatter than y'all!"
(For the record, I have to admit that I really don't know which group was fatter. I was just trying in my own clumsy way to be nice. Looking back, I can see that I went about this in the altogether the wrong way; telling a woman who's worried about her weight, "I've seen worse," isn't very helpful, is it? I've always been awkward when it comes to this kind of thing.)
"So where are you headed?" I asked. "Balcony Bed and Breakfast," they answered. "It's on the corner of Royal and St. Roch."
"You're kidding!" I blurted out. "What a coincidence. I just finished taking three ladies there to that very same place."
My passengers burst into laughter. "The ones who were way fatter than us?" one of them asked when she could get her breath.
I must have gone pale. "So you know them then?" I asked weakly.
"We're not old friends or anything, but we met them there at the guest house. Hey, don't worry about it. We wouldn't dream of telling them that you said their asses were way fatter than ours!"
A freak show on three wheels
I've mentioned a couple of times the attention that my calves have been attracting. Well it just keeps getting crazier. As I noted before, it makes sense that the backs of my lower legs would be the most noticeable part of my anatomy from the passenger seat of the cab. But lately people have been calling out to me from the street as I ride by. Drunk women. Gay men. All kinds of people.
To tell the truth, I was enjoying the admiration at first, but now I'm starting to feel a bit like a freak show on wheels. Maybe my calves are destined to be one of New Orleans' major tourist attractions. I guess that's OK as long as it helps me get more riders and bigger tips.
I picked up a lady and her little girl the other day. The mother informed me that her daughter had wanted to ride in a mule-drawn carriage, but that she (the mother) had been dead set against it.
"Well I'm glad you chose me, but I'm curious as to why you weren't comfortable getting in a carriage," I asked.
"I guess I just feel sorry for the mules hauling all that weight," she explained.
I stifled a snort of laughter lest the lady think me ungrateful for her business. Actually, I can kind of see her point if I squint just right. I mean the mules didn't really choose the job, right?
Every street name is a shibboleth.
Unlike this particular lady (who was actually quite trim), many female passengers express their self-consciousness about their weight in the form of pity for me. "Oh, I feel so sorry for you. I know I must be really heavy for you to haul," they say.
Last night I picked up three such ladies, girlfriends from out of town having a good time in the city. (We're allowed to carry up to three, but the passenger seat only fits two adults, so in cases like this somebody has to sit on somebody's lap.) They were a real hoot -- the kind of folks who make my job so much fun.
They did seem genuinely concerned that their weight would be too much for me, and I reassured them that it wasn't going to be a problem.
That's not to say that there wasn't any problem. The real problem was going to be finding the place they wanted to go. They asked to be taken to a bed and breakfast in the Marigny, out on the edge of the territory we generally cover. In my first week's work I've grown a lot more confident about navigating New Orleans' narrow streets, but I've still got a lot of learning to do. I told the ladies upfront, "We may not get there by the most the efficient route, but I promise we'll find it."
As it turned out I took a couple of wrong turns and had to stop and ask directions a couple of times. I kept apologizing to my riders, but they were very encouraging. "Oh no, don't worry about it. We're having fun! We just feel sorry for you having to haul our three fat asses around."
I need to interject a little explanation at this point. Going into the job, my mom's greatest fear was that I would be stabbed by a junkie for the cash to buy his next fix. My greatest fear, on the other hand, was butchering a street name in front of a local.
Having grown up across the lake from New Orleans, I don't stumble at all over words like Tchoupitoulas, which totally intimidate tourists. For me the really scary ones are those that appear simple and straightforward. Like Conti for example, which New Orleans natives pronounce "Kon-tie" with a long "i" at the end. Or "Burgundy" with the accent not on "Bur" but on "gun". (Given New Orleans' notorious murder rate, maybe there's some Freudian thing going on with this one.)
The names of the city's streets are a mixture of Spanish, French, native American, and heaven-only-knows what else; but there is no discernible pattern to the pronunciation. I say "discernible", because I suspect that there really is a pattern known only to insiders. I'm convinced that it's all a carefully thought out conspiracy designed to easily identify who's local and who's not. There's probably some kind of code, for instance, that dictates that French names will be pronounced according to the rules of native American pronunciation; native American words will be pronounced according to Croatian rules; and so forth.
I really thought I was figuring it out and that I was going to be spared any major shame. The previous night I had actually laughed at some poor tourist (Not one of my riders. I would NEVER laugh at a rider.) who pronounced "Marigny" (the "g" is supposed to be silent) "margin-y".
So here I found myself -- a man transporting three female passengers, upon whom I hoped to make a reasonably good impression if for no other reason than to get a generous tip -- being forced to stop and ask directions. Everyone knows that this in itself is agonizingly embarrassing for us men. But it was about to get a lot worse.
"Excuse me, sir," I said to a fellow on a street corner who looked suitably local. "Can you tell me how to get to Royal and St. Roch?" And I pronounced "Roch" -- Oh the shame! -- like "roach". Which is pretty hilarious if you think about it. St. Roach, of all things!
"Do you mean St. Roch?" he clarified, pronouncing it like "rock". (Which as it turns out is the proper French pronunciation. I'll have to find a way to accommodate this fact to my conspiracy theory.)
I don't think that the ladies noticed all that much. They were from out of town, and it wasn't as if they had known the proper pronunciation after all. Like I said, they were pretty gracious for the most part,.
Did you get your license in a box of Cracker Jacks?
One of them couldn't resist a deep dig though. They asked me about the job, and I mentioned that there was a fairly rigorous process for obtaining a permit to be a pedicabbie. There was a pause, and one of them said, "Really?" (Since you, dear reader, weren't present to hear the inflection, an explanation is necessary. One can say "Really?" merely as a friendly way of showing interest and keeping the conversation moving; or one can say "Really" as a way of expressing genuine incredulity. This was definitely the latter.) Ouch!
I finally found the hotel and dropped them off safe and sound. Ten minutes later, I picked up a pair of ladies who also seemed self-conscious about their weight and expressed it in precisely the same way. "Are you sure that you're really up to hauling our fat asses?" they asked. "We don't want to kill you or break the bike!"
Again, I promised them that it wasn't a problem. "You should see the ladies I just hauled," I said. "There were three of them, and they were way fatter than y'all!"
(For the record, I have to admit that I really don't know which group was fatter. I was just trying in my own clumsy way to be nice. Looking back, I can see that I went about this in the altogether the wrong way; telling a woman who's worried about her weight, "I've seen worse," isn't very helpful, is it? I've always been awkward when it comes to this kind of thing.)
"So where are you headed?" I asked. "Balcony Bed and Breakfast," they answered. "It's on the corner of Royal and St. Roch."
"You're kidding!" I blurted out. "What a coincidence. I just finished taking three ladies there to that very same place."
My passengers burst into laughter. "The ones who were way fatter than us?" one of them asked when she could get her breath.
I must have gone pale. "So you know them then?" I asked weakly.
"We're not old friends or anything, but we met them there at the guest house. Hey, don't worry about it. We wouldn't dream of telling them that you said their asses were way fatter than ours!"
A freak show on three wheels
I've mentioned a couple of times the attention that my calves have been attracting. Well it just keeps getting crazier. As I noted before, it makes sense that the backs of my lower legs would be the most noticeable part of my anatomy from the passenger seat of the cab. But lately people have been calling out to me from the street as I ride by. Drunk women. Gay men. All kinds of people.
To tell the truth, I was enjoying the admiration at first, but now I'm starting to feel a bit like a freak show on wheels. Maybe my calves are destined to be one of New Orleans' major tourist attractions. I guess that's OK as long as it helps me get more riders and bigger tips.
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