$17.50
Last night, I sat down at the Bourbon Street spot at a good early hour. There was still daylight.
I was talking on my phone with Ted Broughey, my old high school and college friend, who was telling me that he would try to wire me some money today.
Ain't Nobody's Fault But My Own
It is my own fault that I hadn't eaten anything in 2 days except the piece of chicken which had fallen on the sidewalk; I mismanaged my food stamp money and will have to go the next 7 days without the "benefit" of it.
I had lost track of time when I was blogging and had missed the meal at the Rebuild Center that afternoon (my drive to write being stronger than my hunger drive) and my own fault that I was starting out with an empty case (I had spent the 5 bucks that I had borrowed from Howard on an energy drink and then a couple beers -which are *like* food- before going to my spot).
I should have known also, about the "slow season" from looking back one year at this blog.
One year ago, I was in jail in Baton Rouge, having fled to that city due to the slowness of New Orleans.
I could have put some money aside after getting the 175 dollar tip, but rather chose to buy a harmonica harness, picks, strings, a capo, a purple shirt; and a few packs of cigarettes when there were perfectly good ones on the sidewalks. And a few beers.
Jim
Jim, the guy that I had coffee with and who said that he had a Roland Micro Cube amp pulled up in his white van and parked directly across from me in the spot that is hardly ever available.
It was available because there were so few people at Lafitts Blacksmith Shop Tavern.
I was in a dilemma because I had Ted on the phone, talking about sending me money the next day; and Jim standing in front of me, who might have bought me a sandwich had I casually mentioned that I hadn't eaten in 24 hours.
I told Ted that "this guy that took me out for coffee" was there, as Jim was about to get back in his van.
Jim took out a harmonica and asked me if I could play in the key of A.
I played in the key of A and he tentatively blew some weak sounding notes.
I jumped in on my own harmonica and Jim soon appeared to be upset and told me "You sound like Troy!" (the guy who plays guitar and harmonica at Iberville and Royal and about whom Nervous Duane said "When he wants to, he can play the hell out of the blues!")
I thought it was a compliment.
"The guy that's pretty good?"
"The guy that used to be good!" said Jim and then went off in a huff.
The First Tipper
Then, I played as a handful of stragglers went by. Most of them were employees of the nearby places; or local residents.
One young lady stopped and asked me how I was doing.
"Well..."
She asked if I remembered her.
She looked vaguely familiar.
She used to work at Sydneys Beer And Wine store, she said; about a year ago.
I started to recognize her (I must have seen her at least 20 times at that store).
I think she is the one who gave me 5 dollars once and said: "Go! Leave here!" after I told her that I was thinking of taking the 5 dollar bus to Baton Rouge.
She dropped a dollar in my case, saying she was sorry that she didn't have more, then told me to be careful "because I care about you."
I always make an effort to try to charm beer store workers, as they are such important fixtures in my life..
Lilly Sees Red Over Yellow
Then, Lilly came out of the gate to my right with her youngest daughter in tow.
"I'll be back."
"You always will be back."
"I'm so tired, I cleaned the house all day."
"You're always so tired from cleaning the house all day."
And off they went, but not before Lilly admonished me not to ever use yellow to color my paragraphs here, because they don't show up against her phones background.
It was still only about 6 p.m. and I took a break to go spend the dollar at the Unique Boutique.
The Second Tipper
I was back at it by 7 p.m. with the new strings sounding good.
I decided to just do as good a job as I could.
I set up the full stage, signs, trinkets and all, and tried to play my best.
Shortly after dark, along came a tall thin young man who wears the white shirt of a restaurant worker, and who, only a couple weeks ago approached me and left a tip saying "I walk by you just about every night and you're always playing the perfect song."
"This is all I have," he said, as he placed $1.50 in my case.
He sat on the steps and talked for a while. He is learning the trombone.
The Third Tipper
As we talked, a couple came out of Lafitts and stopped in front of me and exchanged words; then the lady put 5 bucks in my case.
I wasn't playing at the time, but they had heard me on their way in.
The Last Tipper
Then another couple approached and asked me what my story was and dropped 10 bucks after I told them the abridged version of my story.
Chicken Bag War II
I put the 17 dollars and 50 cents in my pocket a little after midnight and made my way towards Rouses Market; where the same basic group of people were sitting on the curb across the street.
I overheard the biggest and blackest one giving what sounded like instructions and orders to the others.
I approached him and asked "Are you in charge of the chicken bag, or something?" trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.
"Yeah," he said, and before I could respond with any more sarcasm, he said "Everyone is gonna get some; that's the way it's gonna go down tonight..."
Well, to make a long story short; I had drifted off to the nearest trash can about 75 feet down the sidewalk when the chicken bag came out the door; but rather than walk it to the trash cans, which would have been in my direction, Tiffany handed it off to the biggest and blackest man; and it went in the opposite direction, with about 8 guys swarming around it.
In the few seconds in which it took me to close the 75 foot gap which was separating me from the chicken bag; it had been placed on it's customary ledge and set upon by the 8, so that when I arrived; all the containers of chicken and ribs and vegetables had been accounted for and were being bagged up, in lots of 4 or more each (2 or 3 for the couple of white men there).
I again asked if I could have some chicken from someone.
One of the white guys gave me a thigh piece which was hot and moist and tasted good and I had no complaint with God for having provided enough to get me through the night (combined with a loaf of the ever abundant bread) but I had a problem with the stone age mentality which is harkened back to when the biggest blackest man has control over the chicken bag.
"You gotta just grab it, man" said one young man to me.
I threatened to do something to make Rouses stop putting the bag out each night; even making up a phoney person whom I purportedly went to high school with and who could stop the flow of chicken bags with one phone call.
The biggest blackest man started towards me; pointing his finger and saying "Let me tell you something...!" but before he could tell me; the other white guy said: "We aren't in orange jump suits!"
This got the big guy off of me and onto him; but it was just a verbal exchange.
Fisticuffs would draw the attention of the cop stationed at Rouses Market and would put the chicken bags future in jeopardy.
I complained to the cashier, briefly, asking her who put the biggest and blackest man in charge of the chicken.
She just shrugged her shoulders, but the cop followed me outside and said, and I parapharase:
Listen, we have nothing to do with that bag once it's out the door; it's supposed to go in the trash; but we're nice enough to give it to the homeless; the executive management over at the big store doesn't even know we do this.
They chop theirs up and pour bleach on it; they do the same thing over on Carrollton Street...
You guys are just going to have to work it out yourselves; because if it becomes a problem; then they're gonna put a dumpster out here and lock it at night...
You need to find a way to work it out.
Famine Relief
My Friend Ted in Boston has called to say that he has wired me 70 dollars; and given me the test question and answer in order to pick it up.
I know that is kind of "cheating" as the scope of this blog is to see if I can go from the streets to superstardom; on my own,
I'm glad he didn't do it last night when I was so angry.
I probably would have gone into Rouses at about 11:45 p.m. and purchased a lot of chicken; so that when I emerged; the guys across the street would think that it was the chicken bag and would become indignant and feel like they had been betrayed and would surely ask me "What dat is?"
To which I would reply; "It's a bag of chicken," coolly and then added something like "If I had wanted to*; I could have taken the whole thing. There's still more coming out for you all..."
I might have even bought a fifth of liquor and made a show of standing in the light of Rouses entrance and hoisting it up and tilting it over my cup, as I spiked a juice drink with it; so that it would appear to them like a gemstone.
And then have "When I asked you for some chicken what did you say?!?" locked and loaded in the chamber, ready for the first one who tried to skeeze me.
Thanks to the cash from Ted, I should be able to tide myself over until the Southern Decadence Festival this weekend.
This festival is right up my alley; both literally and figuratively in that I play in the gay part of the quarter, so that the revelers will be all around me; and in that I play a pretty gaily tailored set list; having learned through trial and error which artists works work the best to bring in tips....commencing countdown; engines on...
Last night, I sat down at the Bourbon Street spot at a good early hour. There was still daylight.
 |
| The Guy Who Dyes Himself Red |
Ain't Nobody's Fault But My Own
It is my own fault that I hadn't eaten anything in 2 days except the piece of chicken which had fallen on the sidewalk; I mismanaged my food stamp money and will have to go the next 7 days without the "benefit" of it.
I had lost track of time when I was blogging and had missed the meal at the Rebuild Center that afternoon (my drive to write being stronger than my hunger drive) and my own fault that I was starting out with an empty case (I had spent the 5 bucks that I had borrowed from Howard on an energy drink and then a couple beers -which are *like* food- before going to my spot).
I should have known also, about the "slow season" from looking back one year at this blog.
One year ago, I was in jail in Baton Rouge, having fled to that city due to the slowness of New Orleans.
I could have put some money aside after getting the 175 dollar tip, but rather chose to buy a harmonica harness, picks, strings, a capo, a purple shirt; and a few packs of cigarettes when there were perfectly good ones on the sidewalks. And a few beers.
Jim
Jim, the guy that I had coffee with and who said that he had a Roland Micro Cube amp pulled up in his white van and parked directly across from me in the spot that is hardly ever available.
It was available because there were so few people at Lafitts Blacksmith Shop Tavern.
I was in a dilemma because I had Ted on the phone, talking about sending me money the next day; and Jim standing in front of me, who might have bought me a sandwich had I casually mentioned that I hadn't eaten in 24 hours.
I told Ted that "this guy that took me out for coffee" was there, as Jim was about to get back in his van.
Jim took out a harmonica and asked me if I could play in the key of A.
I played in the key of A and he tentatively blew some weak sounding notes.
I jumped in on my own harmonica and Jim soon appeared to be upset and told me "You sound like Troy!" (the guy who plays guitar and harmonica at Iberville and Royal and about whom Nervous Duane said "When he wants to, he can play the hell out of the blues!")
I thought it was a compliment.
"The guy that's pretty good?"
"The guy that used to be good!" said Jim and then went off in a huff.
The First Tipper
Then, I played as a handful of stragglers went by. Most of them were employees of the nearby places; or local residents.
One young lady stopped and asked me how I was doing.
"Well..."
She asked if I remembered her.
She looked vaguely familiar.
She used to work at Sydneys Beer And Wine store, she said; about a year ago.
I started to recognize her (I must have seen her at least 20 times at that store).
I think she is the one who gave me 5 dollars once and said: "Go! Leave here!" after I told her that I was thinking of taking the 5 dollar bus to Baton Rouge.
She dropped a dollar in my case, saying she was sorry that she didn't have more, then told me to be careful "because I care about you."
I always make an effort to try to charm beer store workers, as they are such important fixtures in my life..
Lilly Sees Red Over Yellow
Then, Lilly came out of the gate to my right with her youngest daughter in tow.
"I'll be back."
"You always will be back."
"I have to go get my other daughter."
"You always have to go get your other daughter.""I'm so tired, I cleaned the house all day."
"You're always so tired from cleaning the house all day."
And off they went, but not before Lilly admonished me not to ever use yellow to color my paragraphs here, because they don't show up against her phones background.
It was still only about 6 p.m. and I took a break to go spend the dollar at the Unique Boutique.
The Second Tipper
I was back at it by 7 p.m. with the new strings sounding good.
I decided to just do as good a job as I could.
I set up the full stage, signs, trinkets and all, and tried to play my best.
Shortly after dark, along came a tall thin young man who wears the white shirt of a restaurant worker, and who, only a couple weeks ago approached me and left a tip saying "I walk by you just about every night and you're always playing the perfect song."
"This is all I have," he said, as he placed $1.50 in my case.
He sat on the steps and talked for a while. He is learning the trombone.
The Third Tipper
As we talked, a couple came out of Lafitts and stopped in front of me and exchanged words; then the lady put 5 bucks in my case.
I wasn't playing at the time, but they had heard me on their way in.
The Last Tipper
Then another couple approached and asked me what my story was and dropped 10 bucks after I told them the abridged version of my story.
Chicken Bag War II
I put the 17 dollars and 50 cents in my pocket a little after midnight and made my way towards Rouses Market; where the same basic group of people were sitting on the curb across the street.
I overheard the biggest and blackest one giving what sounded like instructions and orders to the others.
I approached him and asked "Are you in charge of the chicken bag, or something?" trying to keep the sarcasm to a minimum.
"Yeah," he said, and before I could respond with any more sarcasm, he said "Everyone is gonna get some; that's the way it's gonna go down tonight..."
Well, to make a long story short; I had drifted off to the nearest trash can about 75 feet down the sidewalk when the chicken bag came out the door; but rather than walk it to the trash cans, which would have been in my direction, Tiffany handed it off to the biggest and blackest man; and it went in the opposite direction, with about 8 guys swarming around it.
In the few seconds in which it took me to close the 75 foot gap which was separating me from the chicken bag; it had been placed on it's customary ledge and set upon by the 8, so that when I arrived; all the containers of chicken and ribs and vegetables had been accounted for and were being bagged up, in lots of 4 or more each (2 or 3 for the couple of white men there).
I again asked if I could have some chicken from someone.
One of the white guys gave me a thigh piece which was hot and moist and tasted good and I had no complaint with God for having provided enough to get me through the night (combined with a loaf of the ever abundant bread) but I had a problem with the stone age mentality which is harkened back to when the biggest blackest man has control over the chicken bag.
"You gotta just grab it, man" said one young man to me.
I threatened to do something to make Rouses stop putting the bag out each night; even making up a phoney person whom I purportedly went to high school with and who could stop the flow of chicken bags with one phone call.
The biggest blackest man started towards me; pointing his finger and saying "Let me tell you something...!" but before he could tell me; the other white guy said: "We aren't in orange jump suits!"
This got the big guy off of me and onto him; but it was just a verbal exchange.
Fisticuffs would draw the attention of the cop stationed at Rouses Market and would put the chicken bags future in jeopardy.
I complained to the cashier, briefly, asking her who put the biggest and blackest man in charge of the chicken.
She just shrugged her shoulders, but the cop followed me outside and said, and I parapharase:
Listen, we have nothing to do with that bag once it's out the door; it's supposed to go in the trash; but we're nice enough to give it to the homeless; the executive management over at the big store doesn't even know we do this.
They chop theirs up and pour bleach on it; they do the same thing over on Carrollton Street...
You guys are just going to have to work it out yourselves; because if it becomes a problem; then they're gonna put a dumpster out here and lock it at night...
You need to find a way to work it out.
Famine Relief
My Friend Ted in Boston has called to say that he has wired me 70 dollars; and given me the test question and answer in order to pick it up.
I know that is kind of "cheating" as the scope of this blog is to see if I can go from the streets to superstardom; on my own,
I'm glad he didn't do it last night when I was so angry.
I probably would have gone into Rouses at about 11:45 p.m. and purchased a lot of chicken; so that when I emerged; the guys across the street would think that it was the chicken bag and would become indignant and feel like they had been betrayed and would surely ask me "What dat is?"
To which I would reply; "It's a bag of chicken," coolly and then added something like "If I had wanted to*; I could have taken the whole thing. There's still more coming out for you all..."
I might have even bought a fifth of liquor and made a show of standing in the light of Rouses entrance and hoisting it up and tilting it over my cup, as I spiked a juice drink with it; so that it would appear to them like a gemstone.
And then have "When I asked you for some chicken what did you say?!?" locked and loaded in the chamber, ready for the first one who tried to skeeze me.
Thanks to the cash from Ted, I should be able to tide myself over until the Southern Decadence Festival this weekend.
This festival is right up my alley; both literally and figuratively in that I play in the gay part of the quarter, so that the revelers will be all around me; and in that I play a pretty gaily tailored set list; having learned through trial and error which artists works work the best to bring in tips....commencing countdown; engines on...
You've got to find some way of living so you're not fighting over the chicken bag.
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