 
Louisiana Rain

T.J. Seitz

Copyright 2012 by T.J. Seitz

Smashwords Edition

Introduction

This story is a creative combination of recent, distant and imagined memory.

I believe that recent memory relies heavily on details to sustain itself and that distant memory is generated by embracing the spirit of pervious experiences. Imagined memories are created within the gray regions that exist somewhere between the past and present.

I began writing this story when I was a stereotypical undergraduate English major. I had long hair, a black leather jacket and a worthless chip on my shoulder. Despite my poetic aspirations I was essentially clueless when it came to expressing my thoughts effectively in writing.

What I wrote was ordinary or incomplete. It usually read like a contract or computer manual. I failed to understand that I also needed to develop those ideas; bringing them to life by creating an enchanted connection between the reader and the words I wrote.

After finishing an initial draft for a creative writing class, I lost track of the work during the next decade because life got in the way. Marriage, kids, jobs, grad school and a divorce distracted me from pursuing many of my interests.

Eventually the crazy making ceased and balance returned, allowing me to remember forgotten parts of myself with the benefit of hindsight and temperance. I began re-reading novels from my dusty bookshelves and writing prose again with a different perspective.

I recalled the piece after reading a magazine article about the aftereffects of Hurricane Katrina but could not find it in any of my files. I attempted to rewrite the essay from memory then impulsively contacted an old girlfriend from college, whom I happened to share an electronic version with, after finding her old e-mail address in a paperback copy of Still Life with Woodpecker.

Nikki never forgot or threw anything away, including our unresolved relationship, which I ended abruptly soon after meeting my now ex-wife.

It had been several years since I had slept with a woman so I was looking for any opportunity to get laid. She was currently living in Boston with her two daughters. My employer has an office on Bedford Street. I attend company meetings there every other month or so.

We met at her place, talked some, had dinner with her kids before sending them off to friend's house for the night then fucked each other's brains out; quickly crocheting the loose ends we left behind in college, before she gave me a photocopy of my story.

While lying in bed together, she informed me that she recently broke off a long term relationship with the father of her youngest child. I asked her who the father of her older girl was. She answered my question frankly and told me that I was the father.

But that's another story.

It was interesting to see how the two versions of the same story differed. The language was more flowing and expressive in the rewritten version because my writing style had matured but I had obviously forgotten a lot of the details over the years that were in my original account. I needed to think about and re-remember what happened.

Melding the two pieces into a third wholly new story relied on different kinds of memory to succeed.

Memory can play tricks on you, especially when it's not recorded or documented constantly. Imagined memory thrives on vagueness and will gradually replace factual details with fabricated ones as long as they don't conflict with the feelings associated with a person's distant memory. Feelings are subjective and can change with time thus allowing everything experienced to blend together and get mixed up, allowing an individual to perceive truth and fantasy as one in the same.

The classic example of a couple breaking up is a great way to articulate the differences between recent, distant and imagined memory. Immediately after a pair goes their separate ways each experiences the raw details and freshly hurt feelings of their separation. The emotions and particulars, be they positive, negative, unbiased or discriminating, are right there in their faces to acknowledge, deny, sort through, embrace and experience. Recent memory is usually pretty easy for a person to describe, ponder and relate to in a much more personal, tangible manner. Recent memory is vivid and driven by instinct and the moment. What we remember can be or is broken down into obvious facts that we organize in our heads to share with ourselves and others. Doing so helps with coping so that we can do things like blame, feel justified or just prepare ourselves to eventually accept or take responsibility for our part in what happened.

Over time though, people naturally become detached from their experiences and generally move on with their lives, distant and imagined memory merge and become active.

The spirit of an experience eventually takes over, unconsciously replacing specific details with impressions that sustain a transparent vagueness blurring the line between fact and feeling (imagined memory).

Distant and imagined memories are more powerful than recent memory in the long run. However they both depend on recent memory initially to set their foundations so that over time as the connection between past and present fades and the end results overshadows or overpowers the truth.

Imagined memory selectively censors and/or edits the truth while distant memory sustains the results.

Distant memory's source of existence is created similar to a habit by thinking about something over and over again inadvertently fabricating things like obsessions or in a positive sense helping a person truly realize their weaknesses, taking responsibility for their choices through authentic contemplation over time.

As years blend together, distant memory can fuel denial or ignorance, masking the true nature of what actually happened. Misleading someone into believe in a fantasy such as that love does or did still exists..

The timeless battle between idealistic and realistic takes place amongst the three memories. They can cause someone to become sentimental and reminisce or romanticize too much about their lost love creating a fantasy relationship and associated feelings in their head over an extended period of time that never existed yet is still feels real none the less (because many of the specific details became lost or forgotten.....(I believe that aporia is a Latin word for a forgotten memory)....from their memory over time after they moved on).

They can also work in the opposite direction through anger, wrongfully making a relationship out to be much worse than it really was overall by allowing a person to obsess over all the bad parts, exaggerating or elaborating them more to wrongly represent the whole experience as bad when in reality it just ran it course.

The Trip Down

I think it was late-February and snowing out. I was off from work for a week and fed up with everything in Rochester, New York. I wanted to do something besides sleep in, play video games or get drunk.

I lived with a rag tag group of Bohemians. We had very little in common with each other but since everyone was basically respectful conflicts were minimal.

The house matriarch only demanded civility and privacy from tenants, beyond that all rules or decisions were determined by majority vote. Tracy didn't give a shit if we were in our rooms getting stoned and staring at the ceiling all day or robbing a bank in another state, all she wanted was our monthly share of the rent and utility bills.

The arrangement worked well for about three years

The woman whom I loosely considered my girlfriend at the time lived in Connecticut. The relationship had not yet congealed into any sort of real commitment beyond conjugal visits between college semesters, midnight phone calls and lots of letter writing.

I had also been spending a lot of time hanging out with a seventeen year old punker girl who was easily four or five years younger than me. We met at a mutual friend's New Year's Eve Party and slept together that same night after getting drunk. It turned out that she was still a senior in a suburban Catholic High School and her parents were oblivious to the double life she lived.

She liked that I had a car and would take her to trendy boutiques along Monroe Avenue Saturday afternoons. I liked having sex with her.

I didn't coordinate my vacation with either person. Both young women had plans so I was free to do something alone.

With little or no thought I spontaneously decided to take a trip. I took a quick shower then removed all the money I had stashed in my bedroom nightstand and put it in my wallet.

No one was home. I departed soon after taping a handwritten note to the refrigerator door that informed my roommates I was going to Daytona Beach for a few days. I changed my mind though before leaving the New York and started heading towards New Orleans.

This was a bygone era before smart phones, text messaging and wireless internet access. My only communication or connection back to the world I was about to leave was a sloppily written message fastened to a Frigidaire with a broken kitty cat magnet amongst old grocery lists, Chinese takeout menus, a few business cards and scraps of paper inscribed with unlabeled phone numbers. It was quite possible that my absence would go unnoticed.

I left town with about two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, a Kodak automatic 35mm camera (with a single roll of film) and an American Express credit card in my pocket. I didn't bother packing any extra clothes or a toothbrush because I usually kept a duffle bag filled with those things in my car just in case I ever needed them.

Looking back, the whole experience felt like a plot taken right out of an Elmore Leonard novel.

I didn't use a map. I just followed signs from one big city to the next driving Westward first, then South. Playing a game I called, "Connect the Big City Dots;" starting with Cleveland, to Columbus in Ohio, then over to Indianapolis, Indiana and down to Louisville, Kentucky. From Louisville I kept going southward though Kentucky to Nashville then over to Memphis, Tennessee where I decided to stop and rent a hotel room for the evening.

The car stereo was my sole companion as I drove south. Satellite radio hadn't been invented yet so my listening choices were very limited.

I remember hearing Sinead O'Connor's song "Nothing Compares to You," on all the radio stations and playing the two tapes (The Eagles Greatest Hits and Frank Zappa's Apostrophe) I had in my car repeatedly. AM stations with 'Talk Radio' formats were also an option but most sane people can only tolerate so much Rush Limbaugh before they start shouting at the radio and are overcome by the urge to change the station.

Throughout the first leg of my trip I only stopped for gas, two or three piss breaks and one forty-five minute catnap at a random rest stop somewhere near Seymour, Indiana.

After twenty-two hours of tiresome, tedious driving, eating just a box of Hostess HoHo's and drinking a twelve pack of Diet Coke that I bought at a 7-Eleven after filling the car's gas tank in Rochester, I decided I should stop driving. I was in Memphis, Tennessee.

My body was exhausted, despite my racing mind. I needed to find a room with a bed, clean toilet and shower. I pulled off the highway and checked into a Marriot hotel.

After I was settled into my room I thought I'd unwind some and take a walk around the hotel neighborhood. I needed to move around after driving for so long and calm my mind so that I could get some sleep. I then got the stupid idea in my thick skull that I wanted to find Elvis' Graceland and began looking through the maps I found of the city in the Frommmer's travel book I kept in my car's glove box.

I should have just gone to bed. I walked what felt like ten miles, around the area where I thought the mansion was supposed to be. I even walked out the city limits into Germantown, not realizing how far off course I was. I must have looked like an idiot looking at my book, the street signs and building addresses in my John Lennon sunglasses, faded black Hard Rock Café t-shirt, ripped jeans and sandals.

I was so stubborn about finding the place that when I returned to the hotel I got back into my car and started driving deeper into city, looking impatiently for the Landmark. I was clueless on just how big the Memphis area actually was.

I was only interested in getting a quick snapshot of the estate's gate for a friend who liked Elvis Presley; to prove to them that I had actually been there, but couldn't find it! I was so frustrated with the whole situation from the lack of sleep and sore feet that I eventually gave up as the sun began to set. On the way back to the hotel I ordered a 'Cheese Burger Extra Value Meal' at a nearby McDonalds drive thru.

Because of my experience I have come to disregard everything I've heard about the musician's mansion over the years, good and bad. I think all the rumors were made up to lure people into the area to spend their money. Graceland to me was, and still is, only a legend, not a real place.

I have no memory of what the room looked like beyond the TV being located to the southwest of the bed. By the time I got back to the room my mind was in a serious fog. I was more concerned with eating the food I bought and lying down than the rooms layout. At that point I just wanted a safe place to sleep and take a crap.

I sat on the bed and ate my food. After devouring my cheap dinner consisting two smashed florescent orange-ish yellow sandwiches, a medium sized French fry and Coke, I laid down and started flipping through TV stations with the remote control. It only took me a few minutes on my back to pass out from exhaustion. I fell asleep fully dressed with my head propped up on several pillows, the remote in my hand and the TV tuned in on HBO, the movie "Major League."

I woke up early the next day and showered. Before checking out I grabbed a banana, raisin bagel, two donuts and three cans of warm cola from the continental breakfast table in the room next to the main desk. I was back on the road heading for New Orleans by 5:00AM.

When I stopped for gas in Mississippi it was easy to tell I was an outsider. I could tell that I was now in the Deep South of Confederate country and my Northern Yankee ass was not particularly welcome, though I'm pretty sure my money was.

A small group of local residents standing outside the run down station I pulled into got quiet and stared at me while I filled my tank and went inside to pay.

An old back guy was doing a weird trick with his lighter that was making the fat white cashier laugh, at least until I came in. The elderly person quickly put his lighter into his pocket and cast his eyes downward as I walked by.

The slovenly, overweight man tending the register was wearing worn denim overalls without a shirt underneath and looked (and smelled) as if he had not bathed in over a week. I grabbed two Snickers candy bar and put them on the counter to add to my purchase. He told me the total of how much I owed and I paid him.

Before leaving I asked if I could use their bathroom and he matter-of-factly replied, "No."

I got the hint and left. I could hear everyone inside the building laughing at me as soon as I got to my car.

The further South I drove the more I noticed how the highways were littered with old abandoned cars, trucks and associated parts like rusted bumpers and grizzled, chunks of tire. I wondered if people down here simply dumped their broken down cars along the roadside rather than trading them in or selling them to junk yards.

Geographically, or at least along the freeways, there did not seem to be much of a difference between Mississippi and Louisiana.

I remember driving through a quick morning downpour as I crossed from one state into the other. The humidity of the air also jumped up a notch soon afterward and did not go down until I started working my way back north, towards home, several days later

Driving through Bayou country was a very new experience for me. I was on the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, a highway built on a system of bridges over swamps and wetlands. Everything was so green and all I could see from the road was the tops of trees and draping moss that spread for miles in all directions. It was all very different looking than what I was used to back home.

I was welcomed to the region a by a pickup truck, whose body appeared to be constructed entirely of duct tape. It was transporting a gaggle of backwoods hicks who drove up next to me honking the horn, hooting and hollering while holding up a New York license plate they found in their passenger side window. The five men sitting in the flatbed section all flashed me the bird and the handsome woman in the passenger seat flashed me an eye full of stretch marks on a deflated chest.

Once in inside the New Orleans City limits, finding The Marquette House Hostel on Carondelet Street was my next undertaking. I drove around the Downtown area for a while but could not get my coordinates straight or find any of the street names labeled on the cheesy map I was using.

I eventually found Carondelet Street and parked my car at a meter. I started walking towards the buildings listed address under the impression I might have better luck finding the hostel on foot.

I was a naive northern boy strolling through a neighborhood I did not belong in. The area was run down. Buildings were falling apart or abandoned. Bricks, glass, rusty car parts and garbage were strewn all over the street and sidewalks. I noticed strange looks from all the people just hanging out on their porches.

I saw an officer in a patrol car parked nearby and asked him if he knew where the hostel was. He laughed at me and frankly told me that I shouldn't be walking around this neighborhood alone. He told me to go back to my car and gave me what he thought were safer directions to the hostel. When walking back to my car it occurred to me that I was the only white person there and that the hostel might be a lot further down Carondelet Street than I initially assumed.

I followed the policeman's directions and drove up St. Charles Street. The side street he told me to look for was easy to find and the hostel was nearby, just a few houses from the intersection. I parked my car and proceeded to check in. I think it was around ten dollars a night plus two or three dollars for sheet and pillow rental.

This section of Carondelet Street was another world compared to the part I first saw. I wondered if it was near the Garden District. Many of the surrounding homes were old, nineteenth century style mansions. The fenced in lawns were all well-tended. There were lots of huge oak and willow trees along the street and in the yards. Most of the houses also had pillared front porches and balconies ornamented with thoughtful flowerbeds and vines. I felt like I was in an Anne Rice novel.

Soon after paying a deposit I was directed to another building across the street where I found a room, selected a bed, made it up then dumped my denim jacket and duffle bag of essentials from the car on it.

The area was set up in a typical dorm style with five or six metal frame bunk beds. The brown Berber carpeting was very worn and stained in several spots. The walls were painted off white and had a few gashes and punch holes memorializing the escapades of former lodgers.

The converted house was thankfully was air-conditioned but smelled like mildew, cigarette smoke and stale beer. There was only one small window on one wall of the room up by the ceiling that did not open. The building had a single large bathroom with several sinks, toilet and shower stalls for boarders.

Overall the facilities were clean enough for transients but far from pristine. I was glad to have a cheap place to sleep, shower and meet new people.

After settling in I wanted to explore the City and start socializing. It was only 2PM and there was still a full day ahead of me.

Armand

I quickly struck up a conversation with the guy on the bunk across from me. I asked him if he knew where I could buy a sandwich and soda to eat.

He smiled and said with what sounded to me like a German accent, "Dare ist ein schmal stor ont Zant Karls tat ist nich far von heer."

While pulling out and lighting a cigarette to smoke, he then asked, "Vee do Americaner's trink zo viel soda pop? Ist zo not hellty und taistes abzolutlee dreadful!"

His name was named Armand. He was a medical student from Hamburg, Germany who was traveling abroad for a while. Working his way from Vancouver, Canada where he started his trip four months ago to Miami, Florida where he planned on flying back home in eight weeks or so. His English was not very good and my German from High School was not much better but we could carry on a coherent conversation by mixing and matching words from both languages that we both understood.

Armand was in his early or mid-twenties and stood about six foot tall. He had short brown hair, pierced ears and was slim looking. He was wearing black leather loafers, faded jeans with a frayed hole in the left knee and a blue scrub top.

He only checked in to the hostel a few hours before me and just woke up from a nap. He acknowledged that he was hungry too and wanted to sightsee.

We decided to go out for a walk, get some lunch at the deli he mentioned then find a way to get to the French Quarter.

I overheard several conversations at the hostel and quickly figured out that I arrived the day after Fat Tuesday. A lot of people were still lingering around the Marquette and St. Charles Street, sightseeing or participating in post Marti Gras revelries, but probably nowhere near the numbers that were there for the official celebration in previous days.

The weather was very hot and humid compared to Rochester, New York. The neighborhood smelled like a damp garden forest most of the time. Possibly because of the torrential thunderstorms that occur daily.

I was glad that I had a few extra T-shirts in my bag to wear. Shorts would have been nice too but the Levis I was wearing were all I had and much more practical for traveling purposes.

We got sandwiches and ate them while we walked towards a nearby trolley stop.

The store was small but had a good selection of stuff to eat. It appeared to mainly cater to customers from both the pension and neighborhood. There were basic staples like bread, beer, milk and eggs along with a good selection of premade, ready to eat foods and a deli counter.

I bought an assorted medium sub, bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and a Coke. Armand got a tuna on rye and drank water from a canteen he brought along with him. He also continued to reiterate his previous sentiments about the soda I was drinking and how he believed that Americans consumed a lot of what he considered garbage with a look on his face that clearly displayed his revulsion. No words needed to be spoken; it was obvious to me what he was thinking as I drank my pop and at the junk food.

After getting his point across, Armand pulled out another cigarette, lit and started smoking it.

I replied, "I agree with you. A lot of what I eat is probably not very healthy but that won't stop me from eating it because it still tastes good, despite being bad for me. Your cigarette smoking is probably just as harmful, if not worse than my eating habits!"

He smiled at my response and changed the topic saying, "Da trollee ist almost at our stop."

He quickly finished his cigarette before getting on the trolley.

While riding the trolley to the French Quarter Armand asked, "Are you attending ooniversitee? Vas subyect are you stooding?"

I answered, "I just earned an Associate's Degree in Liberal Arts and started working on a Bachelors Degree in English at another school last semester."

Armand then asked, "Vee ist es taking zo long tzoo get your degrees? You appeer tzoo be alter tan da oosooal Americaner ooniversitee yooneerr."

I explained, "I also work full time fixing computers. I've been attending school part time afternoons and nights for over five years now. I initially had a hard time focusing one subject so it took a while for me to decide on what degree to earn but since my employer pays for my classes as a benefit, the cost and the time it was taking me to graduate did not matter so much."

He thought a moment about my response then pointed out that that the education system is different in Europe. He sometimes wished that he had the option to attend university part time but since he does not have to pay for his education, getting a job to help pay for the debt was unnecessary.

Armand also added that it would be very difficult for him to devote himself to his studies if he had to work even a few hours a week. His nine month _Zivildienst obligation, when he was nineteen, and t_ his trip set him back some.

Regardless of the delay he considered his time in America a well-deserved break between his clinical science studies and final clinical specialty years of college.

He wants to be a working as a general practitioner in his father's office (who is a family doctor) before turning twenty-eight so he needs to be serious and stay focused to meet that personal goal.

The topic was then changed abruptly, Armand inquired "Are you reading booken fur leesure or shoola?"

I said, "Yes. Milan Kundera's Unbearable Lightness of Being. I read it a couple weeks ago for a contemporary literature course. I also finished Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf a few days ago."

He countered, "Hesse ist yoofinile leeteraoora. Im Deutchland wir read tsose booken vor grammer shoola. I love Kundera thoe. Die Unertragliche Leichtigkeit des Seins ist not hiz best booke. Da popular filme made it zeem better tan itz really waz becutz von itz janeric subyect matter. I preferred and alwayz recokommend Das Buch Vom Lachen Und Vom Vergessen. Itz mutch better und tutchez on var deeper zentimentz."

I took his suggestion to heart and eventually did read The Book of Laughter and Forgetting. I've actually read the book numerous times over the years since and consider it my favorite novel. Armand's assessment was correct. I think that ULB is more political in nature and TNLF is more personal.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking around the French Quarter of the city. The cable car dropped us off on Bourbon Street where we wandered around aimlessly looking for familiar sights, like St. Louis Cathedral and Antoine's, taking a few pictures of the buildings and listening to the street musicians.

The streets were very alive with smells, sounds, shapes and colors. Above us were the proverbial cast iron railed balconies and on both sides of us were lots of kitschy souvenir shops and bars. I could not tell if it was all authentic or just an act to attract people from out of town (and their money).

The main stretch felt very touristy for the most part, but if you strayed away onto some of the adjacent side streets there appeared to be many other equivalently interesting places to visit that seemed oriented towards residents rather than the tourists. I learned about those places later on in the evening.

When you travel somewhere over thirteen hundred miles away from home with only a few hundred dollars in your pocket, your budget is quite limited if you plan on having enough money to get back home with. Whenever feasible I prefer walking around cities instead of riding public transportation or driving my car.

I did it during my backpacking trip to Europe a few years before as well as a recent weekend visit I made to New York City. Walking saves money because it's free and I think you end up seeing a lot more sights on foot that would be missed otherwise.

There were all sorts of street performers, vendors and swindlers touting their skills and wares to everyone who passed by. People selling tie dye bandannas, cheap sun glasses and watches from canvas backpacks. Several groups of young boys dressed in black, whom I suspect were playing hooky from school, tap danced synchronized routines with pennies taped to the bottoms of their sneakers in three or four locations.

Mimes and magicians entertained onlookers with their acts by pretending to be statues and puppets or pulling handkerchief rainbows and foam balls out of their sleeves and children's ears. Jugglers blew fire, tossed balls and bowling pins while telling tawdry jokes.

Music was everywhere. Banjo players, trumpet players and makeshift Dixieland bands played classic standards and original material. Soloists, duets, trios and quartets played on corners and under street lamps. There was even an obligatory Bolivian music band amongst the variety with their pan flutes, charangos and bombos, a form of bass drum.

(It seems to me that there's one of these Central American bands in every city I go to. I saw them in Burlington Vermont, New York City and throughout Europe.)

One unusual sight I noticed, compared to other big cities I'd been to, were the homeless and down and out types. The beggars in New Orleans did not seem very ambitious to me because they didn't ask passer-bys for money.

Vagrants simply sat on the curb, looking deprived, pathetic or as if they spent the night sleeping in a dumpster with their tattered hats placed on the ground in front of them. People in turn just tossed their spare change into the caps or cups.

Maybe their demeanor was caused by the oppressive heat or opportunism of the areas they frequented. They also could have been taking advantage of loopholes in City ordinances against aggressive panhandling by not asking for handouts directly.

It was a strange sight for me because in other places bums usually harassed or entertained for money, but not here.

After sitting and watching the riverboats and cargo ships for a while by the Mississippi waterfront we started working our way back towards the hostel on the other side of the city.

We began talking about music. Armand asked, "Do you listin tzu Yazz?"

I responded, "I'm not very familiar with Jazz beyond what I learned from my High School Sweetheart. She played the Euphonium and was in the school Jazz band. What I know is probably dated and very limited. I've heard of Glenn Miller and Benny Goodman but beyond that I'm lost."

He smiled and said, "Itz ein shaime thatz you var never ectspozed tzu more. You shuld listzen tzu Louis Armstrong, Billie Holiday and Stan Getz atlzo. I beleaf tat Yazz ist ein form von poetry tat efolks itz majics tru listzening and tat veeling zounds can bee az eemoshunnally poverful atz earing anz tincting aboutz da meening von spoken verds."

As we wound our way out of the French Quarter back towards the hostel I noticed something unusual in front of us. Someone with long, flowing, dirty blond locks, wearing tight designer jeans, a frilly pink peasant shirt and wooden platform sandals, came out of a souvenir shop drinking a Mr. Pibb about twenty yards or so ahead of us. My gut told me something was not right and I became suspicious. The person's walk, hair and the lingering fragrance of Chanel No 5 in the air gave their identity away, to me at least.

I recalled seeing a club that showcased transvestite acts somewhere near Bourbon Street. The person in front of us looked familiar. I thought I remembered the individual from the pictures posted around the theatre we passed when wandering around.

I asked Armand, "Does that person in front of us look familiar to you?"

He gave me a look of confusion and said, "I do knot remember tzaulking tzu any vimens backs in da Quarter."

I retorted, "Are you sure that the person is a woman? I used to be a regular at an American movie called The Rocky Horror Picture Show where men often dressed as women and think that the 'woman' walking in front of us was actually a 'man'."

Armand continued to insist that the person in front of us had to be a woman, "Nein das ist ein Vooman!. I vill buy youz a beerz if da ist ein man! "

I won the wager. A couple blocks up the guy turned into the same club I saw the picture of his 'female' alter ego posted outside of. I believe that he overheard Armand's and my conversation. Before going inside the transvestite paused, smiled and blew us a kiss. I smirked at Armand.

He was speechless and still did not understand so I showed him the poster of the act and told him, "Er ist warm." (He is gay in German).

He quickly figured out what was going on and let out a big laugh of embarrassment, stating that he was lost in the translation between the language and culture, noting that that the homosexual men he knew in Germany didn't dress or act like women so he was misled by their appearance.

Afterward we went into a nearby Dixieland Jazz bar and he bought us both a beer to go.

We were back back the Hostel by 7PM. Armand went off with some of other Germans he made plans with earlier. They wanted to go out for dinner at a place I didn't have proper clothes for and couldn't afford. I walked to the nearby corner store again instead got more food to eat from the deli.

Daydream (or Pivotal Moment)

Supper was nothing special, another sandwich, soda and Doritos. Eating was the last thing on my mind because I still wanted to meet more people at the hostel. I sat on a plastic porch chair and ate my food hoping to strike up a conversation with someone or just people watch.

A couple of girls were talking about themselves and smoking cigarettes while loitering on the nearby stairs. From their discussion I surmised that they were a punker from Detroit, Oregon and a hippie from Flagstaff Arizona who had hooked up sometime last week at a Greyhound bus terminal in Atlanta, Georgia and were now traveling together.

The rougher looking of the two was stocky but not fat, had small perky breasts, stood about five foot tall and faded orange hair with a bob style cut. Her eyes were green and she wore Buddy Holly horned rimmed glasses. She was wearing a tan tank top, with no bra underneath, jeans with holes worn into both knees and hiking boots. Both of her ears were pierced multiple times and a silver loop hung between her nostrils. Several multi-colored dancing bear tattoos covered her left forearm, a blue gnome with a Mohawk on her right shoulder and a green Celtic knot above her upper right breast.

Her voice was poised and hypnotic. The structure of her sentences felt like she considered the gravity of every word she spoke before saying them. I had a feeling that she was manipulative and taking advantage of her travel companion.

The other girl was real skinny and easily over six foot tall. She had almost no chest to speak of, long dirty blond hair with messy dreadlocks that hung down several inches past her shoulders and an enchanting smile that pulled at both my heart and loin strings. I wondered if she was anorexic or did heroin.

Her skin was pristine. I couldn't see a single freckle, mole or pimple; it was lightly tanned from being outside in the sun.

The fine hair on her legs and arm pits was nearly as long as mine. Her downiness didn't detract me. It had the opposite effect, complimenting her natural beauty making her seem exotic and interesting.

She wore a flowing, pink tie dye skirt that hung an inch or so blow her knees with a Che Guevara t-shirt. The smell of vanilla surrounded her.

The pair were considering the idea of renting a car and driving to Austin, Texas or maybe Mexico for something to do tomorrow. Marti Gras was over and all the action was winding down here.

The gruffer of the two was doing most of the talking while the other listened intently with a blank look on her face. I was not sure if she was stoned or thinking about her cohorts proposition.

I was quickly drawn into their conversation when they noticed I was listening.

It occurred to me that I was now in a position where I could change the whole course of my future and become another person. Little did I know at the time but it was one of those pivotal moments that life randomly throws at us, in which the choices we make determine our Fate.

In those few seconds of contemplation I saw myself forswearing everything back in Rochester, New York and driving to Mexico City with two seemingly smart and beautiful young women. What fool would turn down that once in a lifetime opportunity?

My mind began flirting with Possibility.

We would spend a few weeks partying in Mexico City with a guy I met over the internet through a writers group. He'd let us crash at his place for a while and then we'd figure out what to do or where to go from there.

Perhaps moving further south, exploring all the ruins, rainforests, people and cultures; spending some time in Honduras , Belize or Nicaragua before working our way through Central America with money earned from whatever work we could find then onward to Equator, Peru, Brazil and maybe even Argentina or Chile eventually.

I then imagined the three of us getting an apartment, learning Spanish from our neighbors and finding jobs to support ourselves because it turned out that the acquaintance I knew lied and did not live in Mexico City. He really lived in Lansing, Michigan in his parents' basement.

After a few months things change and the erotic love triangle is broken. The mood of my daydream plays out like an unwritten Harry Chapin song.

The punker chick's true colors begin to show. She becomes loud and judgmental.

Initially she gets pissed off at the other girl because she no longer wants to be part of an open relationship and then at me because I have a halfway decent job working for a Fortune 500 American company that makes us all too comfortable and materialistic.

Eventually she storms off one night because she can't deal with our boring Bourgeois lifestyle anymore, never to be heard or seen again.

Feelings between the hippy girl and I also shift to an intimacy beyond sex and going places together. As it turned out she was not anorexic and did not care for drugs in general. Her metabolism made her so skinny and she loved to cook and eat. She eventually gave up smoking when she saw how it affected my allergies.

Familiarity causes us become closer, more open and honest with each other than we initially imagined would happen.

I translate Octavio Paz poems and recite the verses to her afterward. She teaches herself classical guitar on an instrument she bought from a street vendor and practices for hours at night on the apartment balcony.

After a few years of living together abroad she gradually decides that the free spirit act is too much work to uphold and not necessary around me. She begins to shave her legs and becomes more conventional.

The desire to get married and raise a family is revealed. The feeling is mutual.

She gets pregnant, has a miscarriage then wants us to move to Flagstaff to be closer to her family. I agree and apply for a company transfer.

We get married in a suburban protestant church, buy a house, have three kids and eventually get bored of each other after all our children leave home after finding lives of their own. Our love remains and keeps us together but we don't know what else to do with ourselves beside drink top shelf scotch on the rocks and watch TV to avoid talking.

We miss the passion of our past but don't remember how to evoke its magic anymore or have the energy to try harder.

She still smells like vanilla after all the years.

Then there is always the possibility that the three of us never make it to Mexico City because our car is commandeered off the highway by a gang of bandits who work for a regional drug cartel.

The thugs take us to their boss who immediately sells the girls to a Columbian pimp and takes me prisoner; giving me a choice to work for him to have my head lopped off by one of his lackeys with a dull machete.

It's was an easy choice.

My new employer eventually lightens up when he learns that I'm an experienced technician. He decides to spare my life and hires me to support the sophisticated computer systems that are installed throughout his organization.

I live comfortably for several years until the government storms a compound I'm working at in a raid. I get killed in the crossfire.

So in my head I'm thinking, "Is a rollercoaster drama worth all the stress to end up dead or living a similar life if I just say no and go home?"

I thanked them and elaborated, "The offer sounds exciting. Unfortunately I don't have enough money, time off from work or school to do the side trip.

Also my current girlfriend back North would probably hunt me down to the ends of the Earth and put me on notice for eternity for not inviting her along too."

They thought that my response was funny and said that they understood.

The girls then changed the subject and ask me where I was from up North and how long it took me to drive here. I told them I was from Rochester, New York. One immediately inquired "How close to New York City is that?"

Before I could answer their question, from inside the open window behind me, someone suddenly interrupts us by saying, "Hi I'm Hipergausimic. I'll be out in a minute to talk. I just need to finish warming up my dinner."

It appeared to me that the two girls outside that I was chatting with had already met the person overhearing our conversation from the kitchen. I heard the Hippie chick quietly mumble the name 'Jackie' and saw both of them roll their eyes in annoyance before the Hippie said that she needed to go check something in her dorm room.

The punk girl muttered that she spent enough time yesterday around Jackie then announced that she was going for a walk, leaving me alone.

Jackie

A few minutes later Jackie came out to the porch, sat down on a step and began eating a steaming big bowl of white rice and kidney beans. With a mouth full of food she nonchalantly stated, "Whiff rye don't eat sormefthing wright nowr rye will go crazy again!"

Between mouthfuls, she then asked me, "Do you smoke?"

I told her, "No."

Jackie was a very ordinary looking young woman. She had a bad perm from a box shoulder length brown hair. Her eyes were also brown and her skin was lightly bronzed.

She was neither ugly nor beautiful. I thought she was attractive in a plain Jane sort of way. It felt comfortable to be around her even though I hardly knew her. She was not intimidating and seemed like someone I could easily talk to.

She appeared to be neither fat nor skinny. It was hard to tell her true shape because the baggy clothes she wore hid those details. There were no distinguishing marks on her face or arms either. She smelled like stale tobacco smoke and ivory soap.

She wore a pair of loose fitting blue jeans and a purple V-neck short sleeved blouse that showed more chest than buxom. She could easily pass through a crowd unnoticed if she kept to herself and did not speak.

The one aspect or quirk that did stand out about her was that she kept scratching her arms and legs. I asked, "Are you alright? You keep itching yourself. Do you have a rash?"

She claimed, "Oh, I'm just allergic to the cheap soap I'm using. It's all I have for taking showers right now."

Her random scratching was annoying. It's not easy to have a conversation with someone who keeps itching themselves. She didn't seem overly bothered by her condition but it was very distracting to me.

I remembered that I had several bars of soap with my stuff and offered, "I might have a bar of soap in my travel bag that won't bother you or I could buy you another bar if that helps."

She smiled and said, "Thanks, that's real nice of you but I'll be fine. I just need to get used to it for a few days. I have sensitive skin."

I began to wonder if she was not telling me the truth and really had something nasty going on like scabies or crabs. Her hands and arms didn't have any scabs on them but I couldn't see her legs or torso so I was not sure.

Jackie was one of those people who absentmindedly grumble or talk softly to themselves when they think no one can hear or is listening to them. It was hard to hear the words she mumbled at times but the tone was obvious. She also had a habit of bumming cigarettes off of the people she met or passed.

As she quickly inhaled her food she started telling me more about herself. With maws full of half chewed red-white goo sticking to her teeth and tongue she explained how she returned to New Orleans just two weeks ago after hitchhiking the entire way from Jacksonville, Florida. She used to live here, but left about eight months ago to see if the grass was greener in Florida.

She asserted that, "Moving to Florida ended up being a bad idea.

I didn't know anyone there and could only find part time work waitressing at Pizza Hut or working at a nursing home.

I worked in a laundry room washing stinky poop and pee stained sheets with two Dominican chicks at the Emeritus at Mandarin. Yuck!

I really thought I'd find a halfway decent receptionist or secretary job somewhere, not collect food stamps and live in subsidized housing.

I tried to make things better but was getting nowhere fast. I was two months behind on the rent for a run-down studio apartment. I kept missing my appointments at the State of Florida Children and Families Department because I had to work and I was only bringing home about fifty five dollars a week from my job. I knew I needed to cut my losses soon and do something else.

I finally gave up after getting a shut off notice from the electric company. I could not afford to eat and pay that fucking bill. It was then that I decided to immediately pack up the few things I had in my room and come back to New Orleans.

Unfortunately life has not been working out so well for me here either. I'm thinking now that I should just say goodbye to a few people then move on again.

I need to figure out a way to get to Hawaii. I think that's where I'm supposed to go next. I could at least hitchhike my way to San Diego or LA then figure out the rest of the details from there."

Upon her return to New Orleans, Jackie initially stayed with someone she referred to as an old housemate and his wife in the Seventh Ward but that didn't last long.

Jackie alleged, "His wife didn't want to put out anymore since having their baby last year so in his hormone driven desperation he tried to get a piece from me instead and when the woman got suspicious, the shit hit the fan.

Honestly, nothing happened. He's not my type and is just a friend but try explaining that to an insanely jealous woman whose husband is looking for a meal she refuses to cook. It was pointless and I can't blame her for reacting the way she did.

My ass was back out on the street with a backpack and grocery bag full of dirty laundry. After going through my bags later on I noticed my best pair of jeans and the only jacket I owned were missing. It wasn't worth the trouble of going back and asking for them. I thought I had better options than risking my life over a second hand swede jacket and faded pair of jeans with a heart patch on the left back pocket."

For the next nine days Jackie told me that she spent a night here and there with other 'friends' and 'associates' as well as a few nights under some bushes in local parks where the cops and rapists could not find her.

She eventually ended up here at the Marquette and was now down to her last ten dollars with no job beyond helping clean up around the hostel in exchange for nightly accommodations.

My upbringing and experience prevented me from fully understanding at this time how the she got herself into this mess.

It wouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Soon enough, I would understand.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had just ditched Jackie at this point and gone out with the two girls that just left. Though, if I had done that I probably wouldn't be narrating this story.

Jackie ate her food pretty fast, but considering that she was probably starving it made absolute sense to me.

When she was finished she asked me, "Do you want to come with me over to a friend's house around the corner?

She owes me some money and I might be able to score some weed for free off of her. I don't want to walk there alone. It's not good for a woman to walk around these neighborhoods alone after dark. You smoke pot right?"

She did not wait for me to respond before moving on to another topic. She never noticed that I did not answer either of her questions. I get the impression that she sensed that I was going to spend the next few days escorting and chauffeuring her around town.

Before leaving Jackie asked, "Do you have a jacket I could borrow? It's getting chilly and I have no jacket."

I had a spare jean jacket I kept in the car. I almost never used it because it didn't fit me right. I said, "Yes."

We went to the car and got it for her. She was grateful, thanked me then carried on with her story.

Jackie was twenty-four, a year older than me, and divorced.

A few weeks before setting off for Florida Jackie left her two year old son 'Little Alex' in the care of her ex-in laws, who lived in Troy, Texas.

Jackie said, "My former father in law was once the Mayor of the City. As much as it hurt me I knew that my baby would be much better off there than with me. I have no money, no job or home. I can still love the child in my heart and not fuck his life up by depriving him of important stuff he could easily get from his grandparents"

She explained that, "Me and their son were only married for less than a year. The baby was born several weeks before the divorce was finalized.

I was too impulsive and should have thought two minutes before pushing the marriage idea after I got pregnant. I wish I never got tangled up with the dude to begin with, but shit happens.

I hardly knew him and naïvely thought that because he was from Texas and since I lived there for a while too that it would all work out fine. I was so fucking stupid. I thought that being married would change everything and make it all better.

All I was doing was just running away from my shit and denying the truth about it.

We were both way too immature. All he wanted to do was smoke weed and party all the time, not take care of a family.

I have a feeling that the relationship was doomed right from the beginning. The day the divorce was finalized, I came home from the grocery store to find the asshole fucking some stoner chick with his buddy in our own Goddamn bed.

Little Alex was sleeping in the crib right next to them. I packed a couple bags, grabbed the baby and left.

Living alone with a little kid and no support sucks. My former in-laws were helpful but I always felt that they silently blamed me for their son's issues when in reality they predated me.

I couldn't take the stress anymore. I was tired of begging for money from my in-laws and friends to pay for rent, diapers and food. I had no skills for a good paying job and could not afford daycare.

I knew was that leaving Little Alex with his grandparents until I got my life back in order was a better situation for the boy than staying with me.

According to my former brother-in-law my ex-husband quickly found a whore girlfriend in Colorado who wanted nothing to do with his child and has dropped off the face of the Earth since. His parents are more pissed at him right now than at me.

Thankfully they are not taking it out on the baby and raising him properly.

After leaving Alex with his Grandparents I bought a one way bus pass to New Orleans. It was all I could afford."

It was not clear to me if the grandparents actually agreed to care for the kid or if Jackie just dumped him on them. She didn't elaborate all the details to me and I did not feel like it was my business to ask for more.

Jackie said that she initially returned to New Orleans before going to Florida because she needed to figure a way to find and reunite with her true love, a fifty-four year old psychology professor.

As it turned out he took a new job during the time period Jackie lost contact with him. While she was living in Texas he moved from New Orleans to Honolulu, Hawaii.

On the way to her friend's house we stopped at the nearby corner store. She wanted to get some peppermint gum for her breath. She asked me if I could buy the gum for her since she was so low on cash. I agreed. On the way out of the store she stopped someone walking by and asked them for a cigarette. They gave her one and she started smoking it.

Another Side of New Orleans

We walked back to Carondelet Street, turned right and began moving in the opposite direction of the hostel, away from the nicely kept houses toward the less desirable sections of the neighborhood.

It was getting dark and it appeared that most people were going inside for the evening.

After several blocks we came upon a on a residence located at the corner of Carondelet and a side street that I did not see the name of because the sign post had been removed. I also noticed that all but one or two streetlights in the area were broken.

The entire property was surrounded by thick and thorny hedgerows that could not be seen through or over. It smelled like someone was smoking meat or doing a bonfire nearby.

We stopped. I saw a single cast iron entrance gate placed within a sculpted archway carved into the bushes.

Jackie yelled "Hey!", through the shrubbery.

A scruffy, paranoid looking guy with wide wild eyes materialized from the shadows behind us. In a direct, I'm serious and mean business kind of voice he asked, "What the fuck do you two want?"

The dude appeared to be in his late forties to early fifties. He looked like a cross between Timothy Leary and Hunter S. Thompson. His hair was medium length, sandy gray and was styled as if he just got up from a nap. His face was all stubble from a week of not shaving.

The wary man was wearing a black T-shirt, cut off jeans and K-mart Blue Light Special flip flops. He looked like someone to avoid and gave me the creeps. I also noticed that he had what looked like a shotgun hidden in the bush next to him within arm's reach. That also bothered me.

Jackie calmly replied, "I'm here to see your old lady."

He recognized her and seemed marginally tolerant about her being there but was obviously suspicious of me. Jackie reassured him and interjected, "He's OK. "

After looking me over and staring me down for a tense minute or two, he smiled, stepped aside and said in a much more cordial tone, "Go on inside. Looks like you caught yourself a smart one there Jay Girl. If he tried to bullshit small talk me, like your Ex, instead of keeping his trap shut and being respectful I would have shot his kneecaps off!"

I thought the guy was nuts and wondered what the hell I was getting myself into here. He disappeared back into the bushes as we passed under the pergola. Jackie told me, "Just ignore him. He does that shit to almost everyone when he first meets them.

I've only seen him actually shoot someone once. Two dumb kids were being initiated into The Gangster Disciples or some another local gang. Henry caught them casing the house and let off a few pistol rounds at them. He hit one of them in leg. The other one just crapped his pants and ran away.

Cindy and I took pity on him. He was scared and crying.

Cindy distracted Henry, who wanted to finish the future thug off, while I bandaged him up enough so that he could walk home and go to a doctor. The wound was probably more painful than bloody."

We closed the gate behind us. As we strolled towards the porch Jackie advised me, "Stay on the pavement. They don't like people wandering on their lawn.

My 'friend' Cindy lives here. She owes me a few dollars. I'm also thinking I might be able to score some weed from her too."

As soon as she opened the screen door and we were inside the house Jackie yelled, "Hi Cindy!"

I was immediately overwhelmed by the strong odor of fresh marijuana.

A very large, at least six foot five and over three hundred pounds, intimidating, barefoot guy with polished ebony skin, carrying a grey duct tapped woofle-ball bat casually walked into the entry room though a nearby doorway. I noticed that he was wearing a green John Deere cap, red gym shorts and a tight fitting navy blue half shirt.

He had a long gold chain with BMW hood drooped around his neck and a smoldering a corn cob pipe clinched between his lips. He welcomed us by offering a toke of whatever he was smoking after saying, "Hi"

His voice did not match his demeanor. It seemed high and effeminate for such a large scary looking male. I declined, but Jackie gladly accepted and inhaled deeply.

A voice, which I assumed was Cindy, echoed from the neighboring room, "Hi Jackie come on in and sit down for a while."

The space looked like a normal living room except that it contained an extra card and banquet table. Each had a scale and was covered with assorted bags filled colorful pills, dried pot and white power which I assume was cocaine. The person whom I believe is Jackie's friend Cindy was separating, weighing and re-bagging the substances.

The oversized man led us into the sitting area; left then came back with a few beers. He quietly offered each of us one.

We both accepted. It was a piss warm Budweiser but better than nothing considering it was free.

He then turned on a nineteen inch color TV and changed the channel to MTV. After staring at the screen a couple seconds he placed the remote control on a nearby end table then sat down in a newer looking tan overstuffed chair with his loose change filled bat resting between his legs. Othello's understudy casually sipped his beer and took occasional tokes from his pipe.

We quietly watched a rerun of Remote Control while Jackie and Cindy chatted behind us. I paid more attention to what the two women talked about than the game show.

Jackie introduced me, "How've you been Cindy? This is TJ. I met him at the hostel a little while ago.

Cindy was about five foot three and easily under one hundred and thirty pounds. I don't think she was much older than thirty. Her hair was jet black and her skin was olive in complexion. She could have been Mexican, Spanish, Italian or Portuguese for all I knew.

It turns out she was Jewish. Her parents were Israeli.

I quickly figured that out when I saw the gold Star of David hanging around her neck and some pictures of her with her family on the wall at the Tel Aviv Stock Exchange (I got the impression her father might have worked there) , Kikar Malchei Yisrael and Tel Aviv University (Cindy and/or a family member may have attended school there for a while).

Jackie confirmed my assumptions later on during one of our many conversations.

The room had plaster walls and a tin ceiling all painted white. There floor had grey wall to wall carpeting that had cigarette burns and various stains scatters throughout it. There were family pictures hanging on some walls and a couple paintings of fruit on tables on others. There was a couch, TV a couple of chairs, several small tables and a Radio Shack component stereo system.

Cindy was wearing a coffee colored, low cut, loose fitting, ankle length sun dress with a plain white t-shirt underneath and a pair of well worn drab blue sneakers with white anklet socks. She had forest green eyes and wore stylish gold framed glasses with one and a half inch diameter slightly tinted lenses.

While packaging her wares Cindy spoke up and apologized directly to me, "Don't mind Henry's unusual greeting style TJ. It has more to do the neighborhood's ambiance and his stint as a 'government contractor' stationed in Central America ten years ago than you.

I wouldn't take it too personally. He's always on edge and hasn't slept more than an hour and a half at night for as long as I've known him. We've been living together for over eight years now and I can count on my hand the number of times he slept a full night."

I thought to myself that there was a lot more to Henry than he or his girlfriend were revealing. I also thought that he was more likely strung out on something like amphetamines than sleep deprived but knew better than to say anything. Instead I said, "It's OK. I get it to some degree. An old housemate of mine had a similar demeanor. He used to grow pot in our basement and sold it for a living. Not out of the house though.

I was more unnerved by the shotgun in the bushes than Henry's leeriness."

Cindy then looked up at us and revealed, "As Jackie already knows. We or more accurately the entire household were ripped off real bad a few years ago.

Henry was so freaked by the experience that it caused him to have flashbacks from his tours in Vietnam when he was a Marine.

Rather than waste time chasing after half-assed solutions, Henry decided to take matters into his own hands.

First he stopped renting rooms out to people like Jay Girl's ex.

Since cops don't patrol this neighborhood often and what we are doing here isn't exactly legal Henry believed that having the yard patrolled by armed people, with an invested interest in the household, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, would eliminate most problems.

He replaced transient or unreliable tenants with more committed ones like Dwain, the Zambian Warrior sitting on the chair over there and another chick, who's even more crazy than Henry, who likes to hide in unusual places and pretend she's a ninja assassin or special forces sniper, depending on her mood."

Cindy also noted that they used shit covered punji sticks and buried a few nasty bear traps in the yard to help detract unwanted visitors.

She then asserted, "We have not had any problems since changing our business model. Even local gangbangers respect us now and tell everyone to leave us alone if they want to leave the property alive and with all their body parts."

Jackie then started getting to the point on why she came to visit Cindy. She asked, "Do you remember the money you offered to pay me for the good mushroom source I set up for you?

I'm broke and really need some money now. Is there any chance you could pay me for that?"

Cindy replied, "No.

Henry said to not to give you a bloody cent because your ex still owed him for three months' rent when you guys lived here.

Also it turns out that the person you recommended was actually under surveillance and being investigated by the Louisiana State Police for a whole laundry list of shit. Henry can smell that stuff a mile away."

A look of surprise came across Jackie's face and her jaw dropped. She said, "I'm so sorry! I had no idea."

Cindy assured, "It wasn't your fault. The Feds busted the guy soon after you told us about him. One of Henry's old ATF buddies tipped him off long before any of us could get into trouble."

Jackie started scratching herself more than usual. It was easy to see that she was getting pretty anxious as she continued to plead her cause further with Cindy.

Jackie hastily updated Cindy on what she'd been up to since they last saw each other. Cindy listened attentively but was obviously indifferent.

Jackie asked again for money, "I REALLY need some cash Cindy. I need to eat and a safe place to sleep. I thought we were friends."

Jackie's begging didn't change Cindy's mind. After about twenty more minutes of listening to Jackie's sob stories it looked like Cindy was starting to get fed up with Jackie.

It then dawned on me that that Cindy and Henry were only acting polite as a courtesy and to not draw any unwanted attention that might come from Jackie's haphazard visit.

Jackie continued to nag Cindy about needing money. Cindy simply ignored her and focused on her work instead.

Cindy eventually became fed up with Jackie's whining. She responded in a cold serpentine voice, "Jackie I'm done listening to your bullshit. I think it's time for you to fucken go.

If you don't leave NOW I will personally rip her Goddamn arms off!"

Dwain and I silently looked at each other and shrugged at hearing the remark.

It had nothing to do with either of us but was a queue to both Dwain and I to escort Jackie out; separating the two women and preventing any problems from occurring.

Thankfully Jackie got the hint and told me it was time to go.

It was obvious that she was embarrassed and nervous from the troubled look on her face, color of her skin and how much more she was scratching herself.

I said good bye to Cindy and Dwain, thanking him for the beer. We were escorted out of the house and off the property.

While leaving we passed Henry in the yard. I was worried that something nasty might go down and I didn't want any part of it. Whatever was going on involved Henry, Cindy and Jackie, not me (or Dwain).

I awkwardly said, "See you later Henry. It was nice meeting you."

Henry replied with a devilish grin, "Yes, if you go to Panama on a regular basis!"

I got the impression then (from his response) that they weren't the least bit worried about me but if Jackie ever showed up again there might be trouble.

Jackie was several feet ahead of me and heard the exchange between Henry and me. She asked me, "What did he say to you?"

I said, "We just said goodbye."

She did not believe me and tried pressing me more by giving me a dirty look that she hoped would make me feel guilty, but dropped the issue quickly because she was probably thinking about our next stop.

While we were walking back towards the hostel I asked Jackie, "Is Henry for real?"

She answered, "Yes; from all I know about him, but since I'm no expert and Henry is not very talkative there's probably a lot no one knows other than maybe Cindy."

I didn't tell Jackie my thoughts about Henry, despite her occasional prying, until a couple days later. It turns out that she sort of knew anyway.

She told me that Henry did covert 'contract' work for the CIA in Central America. I asked, "How do you know?"

Jackie confessed, "I snooped through some of his stuff. I was looking for some cigarettes and a lighter one day and was poking through his office desk.

There were papers and letters in a drawer. They were all official and business looking, not what I would have expected. Nothing gory or incriminating; which is probably why they were not locked up or hidden."

That was the piece I needed to complete the puzzle in my head of Henry. I figure he probably still works with the CIA as a consultant from time to time. I read once somewhere that people never totally leave that organization once they are indoctrinated.

Wandering Around

The night had just begun for us. It was a little before 9PM.

On the way back to the hostel Jackie decided to change course. We walked to the Trolley Stop on St. Charles instead of the pension house.

She told me, "I have stuff to do downtown. Wanna come with me?"

I said, "Sure. Why not? I've got nothing else to do."

Jackie then pulled a pass out of her purse as a trolley approached. I started digging for change in my pants pocket. "The fare's on Cindy. Don't worry about paying."

I quickly surmised that Jackie swiped a pass from the house when no one was paying attention.

The French Quarter appeared to be a completely different place at night. It had a very eerie and grim feeling or mood about it.

Drunks, freaks and show callers littered the streets.

Darkness dispelled the whitewashed illusions of daytime Bourbon Street. The area felt more real or authentic versus a movie set filled with actors trying to entertain an audience.

A more subdued sort of music lingered in the background. Its source originated from somewhere within the shadows and alcoves. The nocturnal melodies mingled modestly amongst all the other sounds reverberating throughout the purlieu.

Jackie obviously knew her way around this area well. She told me, "I'll give you a grand tour after we have a beer and get something I've been craving to eat for months."

Jackie led me directly to a small restaurant that I would have easily missed if she had not stopped. The eatery was very crowded and filled with customers whom I assumed were regulars, not tourists. There were a lot of older men speaking Greek to each other. Jackie quickly found a vacant table.

The place was well lit and had a large ceiling fan that was not turned on. The air inside was sweltering and stagnant from all the people. It smelled like marinated rotisserie meat, body odor and stale beer.

After sitting down by an open window Jackie called an order out to a nearby waiter, "The lo ena some French fries, a bowl of tzatziki and a pitcher of Athenian zythus paraka lo."

The waiter grinned as he listened to the order and seemed impressed Jackie actually knew some Greek. She completed the order before I could say anything. I figured I'd just drink the beer if I didn't like the food she ordered.

Jackie then interrupted and asked the group at the station next to us, "Excuse me, do you smoke? Yes? Could I have a cigarette?

One of the patrons gave her one; she thanked them and began to smoke it. The breeze coming in from outside was refreshing compared to the stifled air a few feet from us.

The server returned with our order quickly. While wolfing down her portion she complained, "The itching is over my damn body."

The comment then caused her to start scratching herself all over vigorously again.

She continued eating and rubbing, "It's not a normal rash. It moves randomly all over the place and there's no red bumps or hives. That's why I think I'm just allergic to the soap or something in those lines."

I just let her ramble and did not respond. I had a few fries and tried the dip after Jackie kept insisting I try it. She was right it was not that bad and tasted good with the beer. I was not that hungry though so I let her eat most of the food.

After the food and beer were gone Jackie said. "I need to go to a bar around the corner to see if this guy named Frenchy is there. He let me live in one of his furnished studio apartments above the place for a while, until he found someone who wanted to sign a lease. I accidently left a suitcase with some of my stuff in it there. He said that he'd store it for me until I came back for it."

Swiftly weaving our way through the nearby dark alleys and side streets we eventually came upon and open air hole in the wall dive bar filled with all kinds of characters, young and old, seedy and straight looking. She told me to order a beer and wait for her. She assured me that she would be gone only for a little while. Jackie then walked to the back of the bar and up a set of stairs.

While waiting I listened to a weird house band called the Isotopes. The group consisted of two electric guitar players, a drummer and a bassist. They all were dressed all in black t-shirts and slacks with white high top sneakers and wore large plastic red cups on their heads like a hat.

I think they were mimicking the New Wave 80's group Devo. It was hard to tell though.

They mainly played instrumental stuff, mainly surfer type music by The Ventures and Duane Eddy but peppered their set with old jazz standards such as "In The Mood" as well as something by Chet Atkins. They even had three shapely and scantily clad go-go dancers who mimicked scenes from the TV Show Laugh-In for some of the numbers to entice the audience.

The band would play songs while the girls danced to flashing random lights then suddenly stop. A spot light would then shine on one of the dancers who would then act like a dingbat, crack a cheesy joke about sex or ask a band member a stupid question. The show worked well and everything sounded good to me.

I overhead someone next to me talking about the band and how it's leader, the bassist was rumored to be undead and that the band has been around in one form or another since the Jazz Age back in the 1920's or maybe even longer thus explaining their large, unique selection of music.

The tale states that he was an overly ambitious and very talented musician who allegedly pissed off a voodoo queen when she caught him sleeping around on her with a well known courtesan (who just happened to be her sister). She then hexed him out of revenge.

His curse is to spend eternity attempting to keep a good band together while remaining semi-anonymous. Neither is easy because performers will always grow older, get married, have kids and move on leaving him behind to keep putting things back together. Fame is also problematic because people would get suspicious if they knew the truth and noticed that he never aged. The man was compelled to move every few years or so to where he's unknown so that he can safely start over again.

Presumably this was the most recent incarnation of the band. To evolve with the times the leader replaced a brass section with the dancers. While living in Montreal Quebec he modeled the group after Spike Jones and the City Slickers. They did psychedelic music when based in Eugene Oregon.

I noticed it was taking Jackie a bit longer than a little while and wondered what was going on. Just as I finished my 2nd beer about thirty minutes later, she abruptly appeared from another dark doorway on the left side of the bar. She angrily barked at me, "We're going now."

She looked very pissed off.

Following right behind her was a short, round, middle aged guy with thin hair who sounded like he was shouting at her in French and shaking his fist.

As we walked away I asked, "What happened? What's up with Danny DeVito?"

She said, "The little fucker threw my suitcase out! That's what's up! He lied to me because I would not sleep with him in exchange for rent!"

It turns out that he was Frenchy was both the bar's owner and her old landlord.

Jackie snapped, "When I went upstairs to ask for my suitcase back he told me that he was not in the business of storing ex-tenants' shit. He only claimed to be my friend hoping it would lead to more. FUCKING ASSHOLE!!! There were clothes and a hundred dollars in the luggage.

I think he took the money and gave the clothes away. I should tell the prick's wife but figure it would be a waste of time because she's probably well aware of his bullshit and does not want to be reminded.

What woman in her right mind would want to sleep with that sick smelly bastard anyways? His idea of showering is to pour a gallon of windshield wiper fluid over his body?"

Jackie then pulled out the last cigarette from a crumpled pack she had buried in her purse and lit it.

I asked her, "What do you want to do now?"

She tersely told me, "To see a couple of people she hoped were still her friends.'"

Tadgh

Jackie gradually settled down and regained her composure while we walked and she smoked her last rationed cigarette. I silently followed her as she guided me through the rowdy groups of bar hopping college kids and sleazy out of town businessmen looking for after-hour thrills at one of the many peep or transvestite shows. We eventually came upon a kitschy looking tourist trap voodoo shop.

I think it was around 10:30PM. A 'We Are Closed' sign hung on the door but that did not seem to bother Jackie in the least bit as she proceeded to push it open.

A bell rang on the door as we walked in. A medium sized grey parrot perched by the door squawked in response then said something in French.

There was a man behind a cash register who looked like he was counting the store earnings for the day. Jackie turned her head to him and said "Hey Kevin. I know you're closed. I'm just here to say hi to Amber",

Kevin was a be-speckled husky man who stood just under six feet tall. He had a calm, friendly demeanor about him and appeared to be in his early to mid forties. His frizzy long brown and greying hair went down to the middle of his back.

The man was wearing clothes made entirely black leather and hides, looking more like a biker or trapper than a shopkeeper. He was also wearing a silver Ankh around his neck and several large rings with inscribed Celtic markings.

As he continued to count the money, Kevin replied in a monotone voice, without looking up from his work, "Hi Jackie. No problem. How have you been? It's been a while. I thought you moved to Florida? Amber's upstairs if you want to talk to her."

Jackie answered, "Oh I'm OK. My plans changed though and I needed to come back for a while."

She then grabbed my arm and led me past a workbench of some sort, to the back of the store, then up a stairway that went to the second floor of the shop.

At first glance the downstairs area looked more like a jewelry store than an occult five and dime. Yes, there were the obligatory made in China mummified monkey paws, dehydrated alligator heads and cheesy Marti Gras masks but those things were displayed on one relatively small area towards the front of the showroom. The rest of the shop was filled with locked cases of what looked like handmade jewelry that I assumed Kevin and other local artisan's made.

When we reached the top of the stairs Jackie yelled, "Hi Amber. I'm going to use your bathroom. I really need to take a wizz. Thanks."

Jackie then went through a doorway to our right. Leaving me alone in a dimly lit room with a woman dressed in a light green dress. The shopkeeper was on the far end of the room and appeared to be labeling containers and re-stocking shelves.

Amber was short and full figured. She had auburn hair rolled up into a bun secured to the back of her head with fancy looking bejeweled pins.

Her eyes were brown and her skin was pale white with freckles on each of her cheeks. She wore no shoes or earrings but had a thin loose leather strap around her neck with a small burlap talisman attached that swung around when she moved.

With her back to us, calmly responded, "No problem Jackie,"

A moment or two later something nearby appeared to spook her. Amber paused to listen or consider what she felt, then abruptly turned around and glared at me.

The look she gave me was simultaneously shock, astonishment and vague recognition. She then paused another second or two to regain her composure, smiled and called me, "Tadhg."

I was puzzled and politely said, "I'm sorry. I think you've mistaken me for someone else. My name is TJ and I don't remember ever meeting you before."

Amber smiled, then strolled over to me, grabbed my hand, held it firmly, and drew me closer. While looking deep into my eyes she drew a deep breath through her nose to smell my scent.

Her actions caused a big chill to go through my entire body. My knees weakened a bit and I became slightly lightheaded. I felt like she was touching my soul or connecting with my aura in some way I could not explain with words.

I was very confused and not sure how to interpret her behavior but after a few seconds I could sense that she meant no harm. It was just her unique way of greeting some people.

Amber then hugged me as if she had not seen me for several decades and kissed me hard on my left cheek. She looked very happy and teary eyed. It felt like she considered me a sibling, cousin or childhood friend. She smelled like spearmint. I was very confused.

She backed away, assessed me again and laughed. She seemed even more sure about whom I was than before and asserted, "Oh you are Tadhg alright! You just don't remember because it was a long time ago and another life. You probably don't realize, let alone understand, it right now but you are a very old and wise spirit.

The last time I saw you was about three thousand years ago in what is now known as Ireland. We lived together in the same clan. You were a renowned falconer and my big brother. You disappeared one day during a hunting trip with several other clansmen. All of you were never seen again. They assumed you were all killed by a pack of wolves. I didn't believe them and thought you were all captured and enslaved by Fomoiri. "

I politely listened but was not really sure about what she way saying to me.

Amber sighed then continued, "I looked up to and depended on you after our father died. Without you around to care for me I was considered both a burden and affliction to the clan. It was rumored that I was touched and attracted unwanted fairy folk. Clan elders quickly married me off to a Ordovices chief from across the sea as a gesture of peace and to be rid of my unsettling strangeness.

I mourned your loss for my entire life."

This was a lot to take all at once. I was glad she at least was being nice to me. Even if she really was crazy I wouldn't want to risk upsetting her by challenging or questioning her sanity. I also though who am I to judge. As far as I know she could be right so I just let things be and changed the subject.

The upper floor was more reflective of the store's true nature. The room was filled with numerous lit candles and oil lamps for night time illumination. The lighting made it difficult to tell if the walls and ceiling were painted flat white or a slightly off shade.

The floor was made of planks and stained a medium shade of oak. Its surface was well worn; full of scuff marks, dents and scratches from the boxes and furniture moved across it over the years.

A funky smell of lavender, sweaty socks, witch-hazel and clove cigarette smoke permeated the room. A stained glass Wicca Pentacle hung in a half circle window pane behind me. There was a druid symbol (three parallel lines with dots above them surrounded by a circle) painted on a wall between two oak shelves of jars, potion bottles and plastic bags filled with herb mixtures. It felt a little eerie there at first but in the end was more fascinating than fearful to me, especially after being greeted by Amber.

Containers of spices, powers and potions lined two entire walls of the room. Another wall contained books on witchcraft, Pow-wow magic and other occult subjects. The left wall was covered with mystical objects like voodoo dolls, amulets and Egyptian statuettes.

To keep things from becoming more awkward than they already were I asked Amber, "How did you come about opening this business?"

She explained, "Despite first impressions the store was mainly a herbal shop or apocathary associated with our professional practices. Both Kevin and I are certified nutritionists. Kevin also has a doctorate in Chiropractic and I'm a trained acupuncturist.

Kevin though enjoys creating artisan jewelry and running the downstairs more than treating patients lately; His artwork actually earns us more money and is less stressful for him. I though like working more with people and helping them with their ailments.

My husband was given the building by his parents when they retired with the understanding he'd keep it in the family and not sell it for a profit. Kevin's grandparents did the same for his father. Family history says that the property was initially purchased sometime during the early eighteen hundred's by Parisian relatives as an investment and mainly used by their friends and family when conducting business in New Orleans.

Possession of the land eventually ended up in the hands of an aged great uncle who happened to be a priest that frequently moved. He was appointed to various administrator and teaching positions at Catholic schools located all over the world. When he moved away to Australia or Indonesia and ceased corresponding with the attorney who managed his family assets in America it was assumed that he died of old age. The lawyer's firm tracked down the first living American relative they could find and discreetly transferred ownership."

Amber then asked, "What about you? What have you been up to? Do you have a job or girlfriend? Are you going to school? Where do you live now?"

She listened intently as I told her, "I live in Rochester, New York. I'm currently working and a computer technician and that I just finished earning an associate's degree and am now working on a bachelor's degree at another college. My life is pretty boring between working and going to school. I don't have a lot of free time"

I was careful to not be too specific with details because I did not really know her and was not sure if I should be that open or not about myself just in case she was a nut.

She sensed that I was being reserved. My brief and censored self-assessment amused her, as if she expected me to be that way and it was a 'trait' of the Tadgh person she was mentioning. She was polite though and did not call me out. But the look on her face called my bluff.

After I finished regurgitating the cliff notes version of my uninteresting life Amber noted that our time together today was limited and that she had some important questions for me, "How is your mother's health? She had a mastectomy a while ago and I was wondering if the chemotherapy worked? I also want to know if you've talked to Hanorah lately?"

Her probing really creeped me out. I was dumbstruck and wondered how the Hell she knew my mother was a breast cancer survivor and that I had recently made amends with my High School sweetheart after breaking up and not talking for several years. I didn't know how to answer but that did not seem to faze her. She knew

Amber then took my right hand, looked at my palm and told me, "Your relationships with women will be complicated but don't worry too much because they're all necessary. All the conflict they may cause you and others will serve a much higher purpose that you won't appreciate for many years still."

She then looked at my left hand said, "You will be a great, loyal father, friend, husband and soul mate to a number of people. Don't listen to the negative voices that will try to get you to doubt yourself or stray from your life path. It will all come together fine in the end. The crazy making associated with your family curse will gradually go away when you are in your early fifties and the second half of your life will be very stable and prosperous."

Jackie came back from using the bathroom at that moment and interrupted the conversation. She was scratching her right side and asked, "Amber do you have any advice or a concoction that could help me with this annoying itching I've been dealing with?"

Amber stared at her blankly for a few seconds, touched Jackie's forehead with her right hand and placed her other hand over her heart. She then replied matter-of-factly, "Sorry, There's nothing I can help you with. The itching is caused by a hexed ring you stole."

The answer obviously frustrated Jackie. She immediately retorted, "The chick owed me money. I needed to do something. It's too small for me to wear on any of my fingers. The pawnshop didn't want any more turquoise bands. I might be able to trade it for some food stamps or a couple packs of Marlboros at the bus station."

Resolved that her condition wouldn't be easily fixed Jackie asked Amber, "Well then can I at least bum a cigarette from you?"

Amber gave her one from a pack she had in a nearby drawer.

Jackie quickly changed the subject again as she lit the cigarette and vigorously scratched her stomach underneath her shirt. She asked Amber, "Is the all night bookstore around the corner still there?"

Amber answered, "Yes."

Jackie said, "See you later Amber. Thanks for the smoke. Come on TJ lets go to a bookstore that's open twenty four hours a day. I want to look for something there. I forgot the title but I'll know it when I see the cover."

Amber walked up to me and proclaimed "I'm not letting you go off this time without a prober kiss and hug good bye!"

She then embraced me and planted a melancholy kiss on my cheek. I reciprocated out of compassion. The hug felt comforting and strangely familiar.

As I walked down the stairs Amber shouted, "Stay away from Buddhists; especially old Tibetan Lamas! They will recognize you and try to drag you back into their celestial crazy making!"

Kevin was in the back of the shop doing something. He looked up waved goodbye to us and we went back out onto the street.

Bookstore

The book shop was about a block's walk from Amber and Kevin's store. Its entrance was on a side street and there were no window as far as I could tell. I assumed that the building was a warehouse that someone converted at some point into lofts, offices and/or retail space. I was excited and was generating a quick list in my head of all the hardcover versions of Somerset Maugham books I was missing and wondered if I'd find any undiscovered literary gems.

Once inside my enthusiasm diminished considerably. The business was not the bibliophilic wet dream I envisioned it would be.

There was lots of dust and cobwebs and almost no decent lighting. The shelves that filled the place were made of cheap sheet metal and press board. Books and magazines in every kind of condition were sloppily stacked everywhere in no particular order. At least a quarter of the floor space was dedicated to pornography.

I was no longer very excited. The 'used bookstore' in picture that I had in my head was probably tainted from reading too many stories and watching cliché-ic movies over the years.

I was expecting something more magical and mysterious in an older city not a local library book sale crossbred with an adult book shop. I just assumed they were all interesting and filled with caches of literary masterpieces not gently used copies of Swank Magazine and infinite piles of Thomas B. Constain novels.

Jackie rushed in immediately, darted down one of the aisles and started browsing through that section of the store. I entered more slowly and looked around.

It felt weird to be hanging in a bookstore at 11:15 at night. I noticed that we were the only people in the store besides the cashier.

He was a creepy looking dude with long greasy dirty blond hair and a seventies porn star mustache. The faded yellow t-shirt he was wearing was too small for his girth and splattered with coffee stains. My gut told me the man was the epitome of the kind of person mothers warn their children to stay away from. He openly leered at Jackie and I as if he'd drop his pants and guiltlessly fuck either of us up the ass if given the opportunity.

I could see a small drop of drool forming on the left corner of his mouth. It glistened as light reflected upon it from the bright reading lamp he had set up on the counter next to him. I could also see a big buggar barely hanging from the tip of his nose.

He eventually lost interest, looked back down at whatever he was reading before we came in and blindly removed the nugget off his nostril and placed it in his mouth when he thought no one was looking.

The place smelled like raw sewage and mildew. I had to be careful then walking to not trip on any of the piles of disintegrating periodicals dumped on the floor. I looked at titles and poked through random heaps. Nothing looked interesting or made an impression on me enough to pick it up and look closer. Most of the titles were familiar and the ages of the books were more hand-me-down than old.

I soon found Jackie lying on the ground engrossed in an old copy of Life magazine. She was admiring an issue with photos from what looked like the Korean War.

I told her, "This place really sucks Jackie. It's a crap hole. I don't see anything very interesting. It's disappointing. The fantasy I had in my head and the reality of being in this place is humbling. I'm thinking we should head back to the hostel soon. It's getting late"

Jackie retorted, "You're crazy! You just haven't looked around hard enough."

She then attempted to prove to me that I was wrong by dragged me over to a far corner of the place where she went to a table and proceeded to finger through a large mound of yellowed papers. Within a minute or two she found something and pulled it out for me to see. Jackie said, "Look here. This was signed by Abraham Lincoln! It's got to be worth something!"

I read it and noticed that it was a copy of Gettysburg Address and laughed. She apparently didn't know that the paper she handed me was just a replica. I replied, "Jackie, it's just a copy. The few authentic versions of this speech were secured and stored in hermetically sealed containers at the Library of Congress or famous museums somewhere."

I then thumbed carefully though the same pile of papers further down and, pulled out three more copies of the document, then showed them to her.

Jackie was astounded for a few seconds but was still insistent on the genuineness of the place. She obstinately went over to another aisle and pulled off a worn book with a broken binding and opened it up to show me a copyright date. The date was nineteen eleven.

I told her, "Yes, the book is relatively old but I own a couple books that predate that one by one hundred years easily. Also the author does not look familiar. To be honest Jackie I'm really more interested in finding diaries and handwritten memoirs or records from the first quarter of the nineteenth century than mass produced books. The four or five books I saw in this place with dates before eighteen fifty are in awful condition. My mother has lots of books in her attic that were a lot older than the ones in this dive and they are in a lot better condition."

Jackie was quiet for a minute then reluctantly asked, "So you want to leave now?"

I said, "Yes. I'm starting to get tired of standing and walking around. I've been on my feet all day."

Final Stop of the Evening

We found a trolley waiting at a nearby stop then road it back towards the hostel (using Jackie's filched pass). It was around midnight and I was tired.

Upon arrival at the boardinghouse Jackie suddenly remembered something and asked, Could you please drive me to one last place? It's not far and I promise I won't be that long. I really want to say hi to another friend that I haven't seen in a while who might be able to help me."

I reluctantly agreed, "OK. I'll drive you there. Please don't take too long. I've been up since before five in the morning and would like to get to bed sometime tonight. Tomorrow will probably be just as busy as today."

Jackie assured me, "It won't be more than an hour or so," as she vigorously scratched her legs.

The address was about seven or eight minutes away, but on the other side of St. Charles. The neighborhood appeared more troublesome than the one Cindy and Henry's house was located in.

Jackie said, "Stop here. Park the car in front of that group of brick row houses where we can see the car from inside."

I noticed that there was a sign that said 'No Parking' and asked, "Will I get a ticket or the car towed if I park here?"

She assured me," Just ignore the sign. The cops and traffic enforcement people never come to this neighborhood during the day so why would they show up at night."

It was dark and most of the streetlights were either missing or in pieces on the ground so it was hard to tell what the area really looked like. All windows were shut and blocked with plywood or heavy curtains. It was impossible to see inside any of the residences or if anyone was home.

I smelled rotting garbage and saw what looked like a dead or stuffed cat hanging upside down from a broomstick over a lit candle. The deceased feline had a red bandana around its neck and a big cigar stuck in its mouth. The unusual display was on a ledge outside an upstairs window across the street.

A shotgun was discharged a few blocks over. Jackie pointed out, "We shouldn't linger and need to get inside soon."

I pointed and inquired, "What is going on with that dead cat across the street?"

She said, "Oh, it probably had something to do with voodoo. I think a lot of Haitians live in that building."

Jackie pressed the buzzer by the door. A female voice answered through a speaker and asked, "Who the fuck is it?!! We just got home from work and don't feel like dealing with any neighborhood bullshit! If you know what's good for you go the fuck away! NOW!"

Jackie then identified herself, "Tamika. It's me, Jackie. I just came by to say hi for a little while."

The person responded over the speaker with a laugh then told Jackie to come inside. The door buzzed then automatically unlocked. We went inside.

We were greeted by a younger Black couple. A droopy eyed toddler dressed in Barney the Purple Dinosaur print pajamas was in the woman's arms. Jackie introduced them, "TJ, these are my friends Tamika, Jonathan and Jonny Jr. Guys this is TJ. We've been hanging out together for a few hours tonight."

Jonathan had a short sleeve white shirt on with a University of New Orleans name tag hanging from the pocket and a pair of black slacks. Tamika was dressed in blue scrubs with LSU Health System embroidered on the right side of her top. Both were lanky but not especially tall and had short cropped hair.

Tamika excused herself, "It's getting late. I need to get the baby to bed upstairs." Jackie followed her, leaving Jonathan and I alone in the living room.

He told me to sit and got us each a beer from the kitchen. I sat on overstuffed tan suede couch covered with juice stains and had a slight smell of maple brown sugar instant oatmeal.. I cringed at the thought of sticking my hand between or underneath the cushions.

I noticed that there was plywood covering the entire picture window overlooking the street and that the curtains were drawn to hide the modification. I thought to myself, "It must suck to not be able to open a window. "

The living room was set up like most for a young family with kids. None of the furniture matched. There was a wooden rocking chair, a maroon recliner with torn or significantly worn upholstery in several spots, a glass topped coffee table with chipped corners and a warped poorly assembled entertainment center covering an entire wall.

The entertainment center contained a twenty one inch color TV with a cable TV box sitting on top of it, a VCR and a component stereo system. One shelf was full of Sesame Street and Walt Disney videos. Another had bootleg tapes of several Police and Sting concerts and a few adult oriented movies like Footloose, The Graduate, Blade Runner and Angel Heart. There were music cassette tapes from every genre stacked on all the shelves. The ones I noticed were Boston's Boston, Lyle Lovett and His Large Band, Dr. John's Gumbo and something by Mozart.

They also had one shelf dedicated to books. I think the books people read are often a good indication of their personalities. Dry, logical and structured people like scientific books, business books are favored by people who are driven by money and competition, while literary books are cherished by the abstract.

On this shelf I saw four books on culture and race, Bureaucracy by James Q. Wilson, The Signifying Monkey by Henry Louis Gates, several text books on radiology, a Betty Crocker Cookbook, Margaret Attwood's A Handmaid's Tale , Anne Tyler's Morgan's Passing, a King James edition of The Bible, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and The 158 Pound Marriage by John Irving. I stopped reading book titles from a distance when Jonathan came back to the room with our beers after stopping at a thermostat on the wall and flipping the air conditioning on.

He seemed like a very friendly and open person for just meeting me. We spent the next ninety minutes drinking beers and talking while the girls put the baby to bed and caught up with each other upstairs.

Jonathan grinned at me and frankly asked, "What's a Northerner like you doing in New Orleans with a whack job like Jackie? I'm surprised that you didn't turn around and run back home after being alone around her more than five minutes."

I smiled and replied, "How did he know I was from up North?"

He told me, "I saw the license plate on your car when I pulled up. Your accent when talking gives you away too."

I said, "I met Jackie by accident at the hostel I'm staying at."

He commented, "It figures she'd find a sympathetic sucker there. Don't take me wrong. Jackie's a good friend of ours but she's obviously got issues. You need to be leery when spending time around her. She has a tendency to grow on you. Just remember to not to feel obligated to rescue her or fix all her problem. That's her responsibility to own up to and no one else's."

I assured him, "That was exactly what I was trying to undo. She's got this crazy idea in her head about hitchhiking to California to chase some fifty four year old college professor she claims to be in love with. It sounds like he left town in a hurry to avoid her but I don't think she sees it that way."

Jonathan added, "I personally knew the incompetent dipshit. He was very personable and well-liked by most of his students. What they didn't realize is that he also had a longstanding reputation with Administration and faculty for taking advantage of younger co-eds and boozing that was difficult to substantiate until recently. No one ever wanted to say anything bad about him on record.

Jackie and her group of friends were 'the straw that broke the camel's back' in regard to his long list of unofficial indiscretions at the University of New Orleans.

Times change and the cost of his bullshit outweighed his value as a popular teacher.

The Board of Directors no longer wanted to assume his liability. Several costly sexual misconduct lawsuits related to his unusual treatment of female students were settled out of court to keep things quite in the media.

He was a smart guy and knew just how far to push the envelope to not get in any legal trouble or lose his job. Nothing he was accused of or caught doing was criminal just inappropriate.

His most recent probation period was just about to end. He had put him on notice that one more infraction would get him terminated. The boss men soon discovered that he was hanging out with Jackie and several other people from his classes. They gave him a choice to quit or get fired.

He quickly found a new job in Hawaii and skipped town before anything serious could happen."

I pointed out, "I didn't know that Jackie attended college."

Jonathan responded, "She tried auditing a few classes but was not very successful. She was smart enough but got distracted easy and had lots of issues in her life that always seemed to get in the way of her studies."

I sighed and said, "She needs to get her butt back in school, not run off to Hawaii."

He quickly retorted, "Good luck on getting that stubborn woman to change her mind once she's made it up!"

After making the remark Jonathan proceeded to ask me about myself. I gave him a quick rundown of my life at that moment.

He seemed impressed and commented, "If I could do it all over again I would have not gotten married so quickly. Marriage complicated things for me at times; like when I was working forty hours plus a week and carrying a full time course load at school.

Women, especially wives, usually want to spend time doing stuff with their men outside the bedroom. For several years I was not that much fun considering all I did was work, attend classes, study and sleep. I'm surprised Tamika put up with me for so long. I would not have blamed her one bit for leaving me and I'm thankful that she didn't."

I then reciprocated and inquired, "Well I know your married, have a kid and went to college. Did you grow up in New Orleans?"

Jonathan told me that he was twenty six. He's lived in New Orleans his entire life, other than the few summers he spent in Chicago during the late nineteen sixties-early nineteen seventies, with his mother and father while they helped organize meetings and protests.

He elaborated by saying his parents were originally from Chicago and active members of the Black Panthers during its beginning stages.

Fred Hampton was his father's cousin.

Jonathan's grandparents were overprotective and cautious when it came to rebelling against establishment. Their idea of taking action was to move north to Chicago when they first got married to start a new life for themselves instead of subjecting themselves to or fighting against rural Alabama's longstanding tradition of discrimination.

In their eyes the Black Panther Organization was just another form of discrimination.

As he recalled the past Jonathan smiled and said that his Grandpappy would always say, "Why da Hells can'ts you damn kids jus learn to gets along wid ever'y one and stop stirrin da pot. Find yooz a good woman, marries her, have babies and gets you'r selves an honest job to supports dem. You'd be too busy den to worry and bitch about equal rights and ever'y one willd bees happy!"

His grandparents insisted on keeping Jonathan and his cousins away from all the crazy making and questionable activities associated with the Black Panther organization as its purpose evolved from ideology into action.

Instead of attending rallies and protests with his parents Jonathan went fishing with his grandfather. He also learned about gardening and helped his grandmother grow vegetables in a rooftop plot and flowerboxes that hung outside the window of their flat.

His Granny used to preach, "Learn'ins to plant and makes good food iz far mo pract'cal and peastful way toos promotes indepen'dince and equalities den yellin blacks power, shakin yurz fist ats a bunch of cameraz and shootins peoplz!"

His mother and father eventually dropped out of the organization as they got older. Grandpappy's words of wisdom began to make more sense when family life and job responsibilities started taking priority over the group's radical beliefs. The disillusionment and fear caused by Fred's murder did not help matters either considering they had a small child and another on the way.

Jonathan's mother was a HS dropout and his father barely graduated from HS. Both had to work to help support their families as soon as they were old enough. They vowed to not do the same with their kids and were major advocates of education.

Both Jonathan and his little sister graduated from HS with honors and went on to attend college despite growing up in a tough neighborhood. He earned a BA and MA in Sociology and another MA in History.

Tamika and he met at college at a dorm party. They got married within a year of getting together and had Jonny Jr. a few years later, after he finished grad school.

Jonathan now works full time at the University of New Orleans as an administrative assistant for the grants office and teaches two adjunct introduction to Sociology classes a week. Tamika is an x-ray technician.

The topic of our conversation gradually shifted to how many of our peers have a lousy work ethic. It was difficult for either us to relate to the average college student.

Both Jonathan and I worked full time and earned a formal college education simultaneously. While most of our class mates were sleeping in late and getting drunk we were working crazy hours, trying to get last chapters in reading assignments completed and papers written.

Being married made it even harder for Jonathan because once Tamika graduated with her AS degree she has no desire to continue her studies any longer while he was still finishing up the last few classes of his BA and thinking about graduate school.

He called Tamika as 'his saint'. He stated, "She is my savior. No one else would have had the patience and faith in me that she and waited so long for me to get where I needed to be."

We were both proud and relieved at how at this point in our lives we didn't have the added stress of a having to pay back college loans.

I noted that, "Working full time also saved me a lot of money and the extra experience put me several years ahead in my career paths than most people our age".

Jonathan then snickered, "Don't you get a good laugh at how naive some recent graduates are regarding what they believe their starting salaries will be? Their grandiose dreams of being offered fifty thousand dollar a year by fortune five hundred companies are quickly squelched by the fact that Burger King may not want to pay more than minimum wage for their skills and knowledge! I get real pissed off at administration and other teachers for nurturing that academic fantasy. My students don't always take kindly to hearing about reality even though it's the truth. Heck my employer the freaking 'University' does not pay those wages to anyone I know, even though they act like they do. The bean counters who control the purse strings are obviously not on the same page as the Spin-doctors"

We then changed the subject of our discussion over to the concept of race.

Jonathan said, "I'm working on an idea in my head for a formal paper or essay about race for publication. I think that the angry rhetoric that grew from the Black civil rights movement of the nineteen fifties and sixties has become obsolete. Young people don't get it anymore nor do they want to hear it because it does not work the same way anymore. Materialism is more of a motivator than opportunity. What's your opinion on race? Does what I'm saying make sense""

I replied, "I work with an older guy whose family moved to Rochester from Georgia in the nineteen fifties. He brought up the same subject every once in a while.

I wonder if the interest has something to do with Northern and Southern culture in the United States. How both regions wrestle or have been wrestling with the concept of race and discrimination for the last two hundred years. Things though got more complicated with time because the demographics associated with the context of race expanded and included more than just African Americans.

It can't be easily presented in black and white (or black versus white) terms anymore. There is also a significant Hispanics and Asian population in the US now who consider themselves neither black nor white but they are certainly affected by perceptions of race.

I agree with you and am beginning to think the problem of race is a battle our parents and grandparents championed. Over time though, those causes have lost a lot of meaning with the younger generation. We tend to be more open-minded about skin color, acknowledging differences but not using it against someone, and not look at race as an issue the same way as our predecessors who fought for equality. It's the same with feminism.

As with any war the survivors long for their ideological glory days and try to resurrect the past with every opportunity instead of letting go, moving on and accepting that the world has changed.

The younger people I know see the physical and cultural differences but generally speaking embrace the idea of equality and diversity so people are measured by their strengths and weaknesses as individuals not stereotyped by their race.

Interracial marriage is one example. When I was a little kid my parents and grandparents had a heart attack when someone mentioned the idea. Today if I see an interracial couple I think of them as a couple who are choosing to have a relationship not an abomination to society."

Jonathan replied, "I like your point of view and wished more people in the Deep South shared the same sentiments. You and I will be long dead though before that ever happens."

It was easily after 2AM before the girls came back downstairs twittering.

Jackie interrupted Jonathan's and my conversation declaring, "I'm tired and ready to get back to the hostel TJ. If I don't get eight hours of sleep at night I always wake up sick the next day."

I agreed, "It's probably a good idea that we get going then. Is it OK if I used the bathroom before leaving?"

Tamika pointed to a door by the front entryway where there was a small half bathroom with just enough room for a sink and toilet. She showed me where the light switch was and I quickly used the facilities.

There was nothing special about the room. It was clean and white.

Jackie hugged the couple goodbye and I shook their hands.

While driving back to the hostel she told me a little more about herself and her past. During our exchange Jackie pulled out a partially filled tube of over the counter topical hydrocortisone cream. I assumed that Tamika gave it her.

She talked and cautiously spread the medicine on her arms and pulled her pant legs up to her knees to rub some on her shins. Jackie commented, "This stuff helps some but not that much. It's better than nothing. Tamika said I should go see a doctor to get a prescription. I don't like doctors. I don't trust them. They act like they know it all even when they don't. "

She then mumbled. "I miss my little boy. I wonder how he was doing. I think him and little Jonny would make great playmates."

I asked Jackie, "So how did you meet Jonathan and Tamika?"

Jackie said, "I actually met Tamika in Houston when she was almost sixteen. We hit it off quickly. We were both underage runaways. By necessity we became roommates. Tamika though did not intend to live on the fringes for long. She's smart and always has a plan to better herself.

After a living together for a year or so Tamika earned her GED and started applying to colleges. She was accepted by the University of New Orleans with a full scholarship that covered both tuition as well as room and board because of her economic circumstances. She moved to New Orleans at that time to pursue her dreams leaving me behind in Huston to fend for myself.

I'm actually from Sparta, Ohio but started running away from home at fourteen because I hated my mother's boyfriend. When he left or Mom kicked him out I came home for a while, but Mom soon found another jerk to help pay the bills so I left again.

A few weeks later when I went to see if things had changed, my mother was gone. I couldn't find her. The apartment was rented out to someone else. I asked around but no one knew where she was. I wasn't particularly bothered by the loss.

I think she left town on one of her drunken binges. She probably won a couple thousand dollars with a scratch off lottery ticket and thought she hit the big time.

I was alone and needed to do something. I first hitchhiked to Memphis Tennessee but after a couple of months of living in Church sponsored homeless shelters and runaway teen homes I grew tired of the religious bullshit and decided to go someplace else. I hopped onto the first empty freight train car I could find. It took me to Houston, Texas, where I started my new life.

After getting established in New Orleans Tamika eventually convinced me to move here about a year later. She then persuaded me to enroll in a program at the college that helped students get their GED and think about attending college."

When we got back to the hostel we decided to meet again in the morning at 10 AM on the porch of the place.

Jackie said, "I want to give you a tour of the City during the daylight. There are lots of other places to see besides the French Quarter."

I replied, "That sounds good to me. Goodnight. See you in the morning."

As she walked away she turned around and asked, "Is it OK if I keep your Jacket for the night?"

I knew she needed it more than I did and said, "Yes, no problem. I don't need it."

She smiled a thank you and walked away.

I then sat on the porch for a half hour with some of the other guests sitting there. I was tired but needed to wind down some for a few minutes before going to bed.

I briefly spoke again with the punker chick I met earlier and a guy just out of the Army who said he was from Tennessee. It was hard to tell how tall he was and how much he weighed because he was still wearing his camouflage fatigues and it was dark out. His head appeared freshly shaved. The dude was half drunk and claimed to have traveled all of Europe in four days.

The girl left after a few minutes. It was obvious that she thought he was flakey and full of shit.

I tried to talk to him for a few more minutes but decided sleep sounded better than prolonging a conversation that was going nowhere.

It was hard to get a word in with the person. He was only interested in bragging about the rudimentary elements of picking American girls in the train stations of Europe.

I don't think he had all of his marbles if he truly believed that he saw all of Europe in the time span he claimed. Maybe he took a hard blow to the head during basic training that distorted his perception of time. He even boasted about having time for a boat cruise between some Greek Islands.

I easily fell asleep that night. I was smart enough to bring earplugs with me on the trip. Living with lots of housemates who were active at all hours of the day made them a necessity at times.

Hostels are usually very noisy places at night. There are many snorers and drunks that stomp around loudly after partying it up in nearby bars. After inserting them I heard no noise after climbing onto the top bunk and putting them in place.

Another Day in The Big Easy

I work up the next morning around nine forty five, took a shower, then put on a clean t-shirt and underwear.

I tried not to linger long in the bathroom. No one was in there at the time. Everyone in my room appeared to be either gone for the day or still sleeping off a hangover.

Public restrooms and locker rooms are absolutely gross to me because in my opinion they are almost never cleaned properly, especially men's rooms. I worry about all the fungus, molds and goos covering the walls and floors that I might touch while trying to get clean.

After putting the dirty clothes in my car I went to the front porch of the hostel and found Jackie waiting for me smoking a cigarette. I asked, "How'd ya sleep?"

She replied, "Much better. The tube of anti-itch medicine that Tamika gave me helped a lot. What are you doing for breakfast?"

I commented, "I haven't gotten that far yet in my thought process this morning. I guess I figured I'd find something to eat at the corner deli."

Jackie then told me, "Tamika gave me a cheese sandwich and some fruit cups from their refrigerator when you were in the bathroom. I actually ate it a few hours ago and have been waiting for you to wake up since."

I pointed out, "I thought you said that you needed eight hours of rest to not feel sick in the morning."

She smirked and said, "Well, sometimes I don't need eight hours and feel OK with less. I only sleep that much if I'm tired."

Jackie and I headed for the corner store. I bought a liter sized bottle of diet coke, two bagels and a package of Slim Jims.

Jackie blurted out, "Slim Jims are gross. Maybe it's the name. I look at them and think of a guy with a slim pecker and what the taste of their cum might be like in my mouth. Yuck! Could you buy me a pack of cigarettes?"

I ignored her comment about the meat sticks and asked, "What kind of cigarettes do you want?"

I bought her a pack of Marlboro Menthols and she thanked me. Walking back to the hostel she inquired, "Can I have a few sips of your cola while you eat your food?"

I snickered and said, "I knew you'd ask me to share. That's why I bought a liter size instead of a twelve once can. She smiled.

.

Jackie smoked another cigarette and sipped Coke while I ate my makeshift meal on one of the front porch benches. As I picked at my food I inquired, "Do you have any relatives nearby or on my route back home?"

She flashed me a suspicious look and asked, "Why?"

I replied, "It's pretty obvious you have little or no money and your sleeping accommodations here are not exactly stable. I think you should consider staying with a family member somewhere else if possible. It's probably a lot safer than the streets. You might then be able to get a job and earn the money you need to eat regularly, get some better clothes and when you are back on your feet save something towards your travel plans.

Hitchhiking your way to California is dangerous. I'd feel horrible if I read in the paper that they found your abandoned dead body in a ditch along a desert highway somewhere in New Mexico."

She gave me an oblivious confused look then thought a while about what I said while I finished eating. She reluctantly said, "OK," after a few minutes contemplation.

She confessed, "My grandmother lives in Cincinnati. It's probably not a bad idea for me to stay there while I figured things out more.

I sighed and then told her, "I'm planning on heading back North tomorrow morning."

Jackie grinned then responded, "Great then that means we still have a whole day for me to show me around the City more!"

When I was finished eating Jackie noted, "We still have a several more rides left on the trolley pass. We should go to the French Market first, to look around."

I asked her, "Where's the French Market?"

She replied, "Downtown by the River and French Quarter."

I then asked, "What's the French Market?"

She answered, "A huge farmers or flea market where people can buy just about anything. I like to people watch there just as much as buying stuff."

It sounded interesting so I agreed and we walked to the trolley stop.

The French Market

We arrived at the French Market shortly after noon; there were lots of people, smells and sounds. It was bustling with lunchtime traffic from surrounding businesses along with tourists. Jackie made a beeline right to the open air flea market section. I followed and watched her from a short distance.

Most of the people tending the wares looked pretty shady to me. My gut feelings did not trust them. At that time of my life I was uncomfortable with negotiating prices at these kinds of venues. If the cost of something was not clearly marked I got suspicious. I wondered if the item was stolen or the person was trying to screw me out of my money. I was clueless and did not understand that if I was assertive enough I could actually get a good deal.

People who were missing teeth, talked with weird accents and dressed in weird outfits were supposed to be avoided not engaged in any conversation what so ever unless I wanted to risk getting robbed. To me, places like this were great for observing crowds but there was no way in Hell I'd attempt to buy anything because I was not familiar with the appropriate or associated rituals. I was fascinated though how what at first glance appeared to be two people arguing was actually a purchasing transaction in the works.

Jackie started looking at a table with cheap plastic sunglasses and leftover Marti Gras beads. From there she went to some racks of homemade tie die t-shirts. Several vendors called at her to look at their stuff but she just ignored them as if they were not there despite their aggressiveness.

I've always wondered why most women feel the need to look at and touch almost every piece of clothing in a display. It's so annoying to watch them systematically pick up, spread out, caress and admire each individual article as if they really wanted to buy it yet in the end they just put it back and move on to the next one and do the same. Jackie spent ten to fifteen minutes doing that then moved on to a vendor who was selling jewelry and used cassette tapes.

After looking at three or four silver rings and glancing over the titles Jackie asked, "Do you want to see what local people eat around here?"

I answered, "Sure."

She then led me into a nearby building.

The warehouse like structure we entered had a generic smell of fried food and pungent spices. Food dealers lined both sides of the building for a few hundred feet. Jackie took my arm and dragged me over to a booth.

She joyfully asserted, "I want to show and tell you about all the different foods being served here."

Our first stop was at a table where 'Esther's Crackling Corn Bread' was being pandered. Jackie grabbed two free samples and gave me one. I looked at the napkin and inquired, "What's so special about these Johnny Cakes?"

She pointed out, "They look and are made different. Lard and pieces of pork are put in the batter to change it up some.

Eat the piece I just gave you. You'll see what I mean."

I tried it and thought it was not bad but nothing I'd go out of my way for. It basically tasked like cornbread with bacon in it.

The next place we passed sold Turducken sandwiches with sides of collard greens and Cajun dirty rice. I asked Jackie, "What the Hell is Turducken?"

She replied, "They make it by putting strongly flavored stuffing inside a deboned chicken, which is placed inside a similarly prepared duck carcass and lastly a turkey then baked all together."

I thought about the combination a minute and said, "That actually sounds kind of good."

Jackie then warned me, "Don't try anything from that stand because they didn't do the recipe right. I think their recipe uses butter and lard. It's way too greasy and the spices aren't done right.

You'll be very disappointed and there are many other better places than that one for a first time taste.

I said, "OK."

We moved on to another spot.

Naturally Jackie found more free samples. This vendor had a menu of all the different kinds of sausages they sold such as andouille, botifarra negra and boudin balls. Jackie tried one that looked like it was made with brown rice and gave me one that looked like blood sausage.

I was not so sure about mine, smelled it then pressed my tongue on it to see how it tasted. It was actually good and more like sausage than I thought it would be. The constancy is all that seemed different because it was not as chunky feeling and did not require as much effort to chew. We quickly ate the first batch of samples. She want back for seconds.

When Jackie came back she joked, "I can't tell you how many times in the past that the samples offered here were the only food I ate during a day.

Security won't let drunks, people who look homeless or known panhandlers into the building so I had to do something to work around that obstacle. I figured out the obvious and learned to hide in plain sight.

All I had to do was make sure my clothes and I were basically clean, dress like a college student or tourist then mingle with the crowds. No one ever noticed me because I blended in.

As we passed a seafood po-boy hawker, Jackie said, "Yuck! The idea of a submarine sandwich made with fried, breaded shrimp makes me want to puke!"

Our final destination was someone selling two kinds of jambalaya (creole and red) and gumbo, all of which made me want to throw up. While she was snagging more than her fair share of Dixie cup sized samples she observed my reaction and insisted "You're crazy! Jambalaya and gumbo taste wonderful. I love it all and how all the flavors and textures dance on my tongue.

I like it so much that I could eat it for three meals a day, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year!"

I replied, "That stuff all looks like barf to me. I'd need to be real drunk to try it." (Which is exactly how I did eventually come to try and like it several years later.)

An entrance to the Farmers Market portion of the French Market was nearby.

Once Jackie was through savoring another two slurps of gumbo she told me, "I want to see if there were any free desert samples in the next area. Sometimes people put out tastes of the pies, cookies and jellies they are selling."

The smell of the Farmers Market was overwhelming. It mainly smelled like rotten fish and produce. Visually though it appeared to be a Technicolor rainbow.

The building was set up similarly to the one we just left. There were not as many people shopping here as the other two sections. I assumed that this bazaar was busiest early in the morning when the food being sold is freshest. There still appeared to be plenty of fully stocked stands and vendors though.

Jackie paused when we entered and started scanning the distance for something. I also looked around to see what was being sold.

It seemed like there was more of a variety of foods here than at the farmers markets back home. Yes, there were the standard displays of broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, beets, onions, potatoes, yams, apples, bananas, oranges, peaches, pears, several varieties of melons and some in season berries but what I saw so much more here and it was all fresh looking versus travel worn from being shipped North on a train or truck.

There were also a number of people selling greens other than spinach and lettuce such as kale, collards, dandelions mustard greens and Swiss chard. Back North it seemed like there was only a limited selection of tomato and pepper strains whereas here there were at least a dozen kinds of each.

I saw exotic fruits I'd never heard of at the time being peddled such as longan (dragon's eye), carambola (star fruit), cherimoya, ugli and passion fruit. Strange vegetables like okra, rutabaga and cassava root were also there. I thought that this place would be a haven for restaurant cooks.

The middle sections were dedicated to bulk products like coffee beans, tea leaves, herbs and spices like cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, several kinds of peppers(not black) and ginger in their kernel or unground forms.

I had no concept of what fresh herbs and spices were. I grew up thinking that salt and black pepper were main spice stables and only occasionally would dried garlic, basil, oregano and cayenne pepper to be added sparingly to dishes being prepared because that was all my mother knew. Yet, here in front of me were huge stacks of fresh basil, cilantro, thyme, parsley, curry leaves and when I walked up to the stands and sniffed the individual plant bunches it was a whole different smell. A smell that stimulated taste buds as much as the nose.

I began to understand why my girlfriend, who happened to work part time as a cook for a country club, made the comments she did about fresh herbs.

There was even an individual that sold fresh sugar cane; something I doubt was ever sold further up north because most people wouldn't know what to do with it.

I saw shelves in one area selling home canned sweet and dill pickles as well as canned beets. It made me remember my grandmother's canned beets. I missed the smell and the flavor and wondered if these tasted the same.

The shelves also had mincemeat and several kinds of jellies and the seller to the right had baked goods like loaves of rye and French bread and three kinds of pies for sale.

Jackie ultimately found want she was looking for. After she snapped out of her trance she noticed that I had walked away and went looking for me. She found me nearby gawking at produce, tapped my on the shoulder, then told me, "Hey. Follow me. You need to see this."

She brought me over to the final section of the farmers market where they sold fresh meat.

A number of signs and menus were hanging above and in front of both refrigerated and non-refrigerated display cases. Most of the vendors looked like run of the mill meat cutters and sold pieces and parts of beef, chicken and pork as well as a wide range of cold cuts, salted and preserved meats.

There were also fish mongers with seafood of every type like crawfish, oysters, shrimp and crabs along with regular cuts of fish that included catfish, bass and red fish. Some even did fish fries to order for customers upon demand, where a person could buy a fresh piece of fish from stand then bring it to the fish fryer and ask to have it cooked. It looked like they would also do shrimp, clams and/or whatever type of meat you gave them to cook.

Those were not what Jackie wanted me to see.

She brought me over to another place where several of the meat vendors looked like they were dragged straight out of the bayou that morning, right after wrestling a few alligators and hunting opossums all night.

They were all shouting at each other, laughing and singing in Creole French. Their hair was long, grey and greased back. They wore un- buttoned long sleeved flannel shirts with faded jeans and large rubber boots. Two of the five men had mustaches and all of them looked like they had not shaved in a few days. I couldn't tell if all their flair was for show to sell more of their goods or if they really meant it.

Regardless, what they were selling and butchering there was what Jackie wanted me to see. She directed me, "Look at the menu above the counter. Have you ever eaten any of that stuff?"

I asked Jackie, "Are they for real or are they just acting for show?"

She said, "Nope. I'm no expert but I've known a few Cajuns and Creoles while living in this area and from what I've seen those guys are actually holding back some. They don't want to offend or freak their city folk customers out with their quirky idiosyncrasies and customary nonsense.

Cajuns are pretty weird in my opinion but you do get used to them after a while."

I looked at the daily special list on the chalkboard menu and read the list. It included alligator, snake, pigeon, opossum, frogs legs and turtle meat. I thought to myself, "Wow, people actually buy this stuff."

This was also one of the busiest stands in the area. There were lines of people waiting to place an order and the men performed to simultaneously do their work and entertain customers while they waited.

Jackie pointed out, "Grab some of those free samples. I want some meat."

I asked, "Have you tried alligator before?"

She said, "Of course, yes."

I then inquired, "What's it taste like?"

Jackie smiled laughed, "It tastes just like what everyone says it does."

I retorted, "Are you saying it all tastes like chicken?

She replied, "Yup, except for the opossum. That kind of takes on the taste of whatever it's cooked with."

I smiled and told her, "I'll take your word on that one."

We watched the men cut up an alligator and tell a story on how they caught it when I noticed some crawfish samples nearby. I went to try one but before I could get to it Jackie slapped my hand and told me, "Don't eat that crap.

If you want good crawfish I'll bring you to a place on the same side of the city as the hostel later on today. You can get a lot more. It's prepared fresher, tastes a lot better and only costs a fraction of the price they charge for it here."

I said, "Sounds good to me."

Jackie looked at a clock over one of the exits. It was around 1:30PM. She suggested, "We should take the trolley back the hostel and drive the car around to a few places I want you to see."

I agreed. By ten minutes after two we were in my car and Jackie was navigating us to our next location.

New Orleans Botanical Gardens and Lake Pontchartrain

I had no idea where Jackie wanted to go but at this point it didn't really matter to me. She knew her way around well enough and I was open to the experience.

She directed me to St. Charles from the hostel over to a thoroughfare of some sort. From there she had me driving northward and after a number of major intersections instructed me to turn. We then wove our way through another batch of side streets to what turned out to be the City Park.

Once inside the park she had me follow signs to the New Orleans Botanical Gardens.

When we were at the Garden Jackie told me, " Park the car off of Lelong Drive. It's just a little further ahead of us"

I found Lelong Drive, turned, and parked the car on the side of the road at the first open spot I found, behind a tan Plymouth Reliant station wagon. I looked at my watch after taking the keys out of the ignition. It was around two twenty in the afternoon. Jackie got out of the car and said, "I love this place. It's so peaceful and pretty. Follow me."
It turns out that Jackie was only interested in showing me a single spot where she liked to read, do homework and reflect. She noted, "I can't tell you how many books I've read or times I got stoned here just hanging with friends or by myself thinking about what to do with my life."

I grabbed my camera before exiting the car and asked her, "What kinds of books do you like to read?"

Jackie responded, "Used paperbacks because that's all I can afford."

I laughed at her answer inside me head then restated my question more clearly, "Do you like to read fiction or non-fiction? Who are your favorite authors?"

She replied, "Oh I'm not that good with remembering names and titles. They all blend together inside my head after a while. I like reading stories about people's lives and their ideas. One of my favorite books was one that wondered if thought created language or if language creates thought. A few weeks ago I finished a book about a middle age guy who left his family and job to be an artist in Tahiti."

I was not familiar at the time with the books she described so I did not respond. Years later though I realized that she was probably talking about Heidegger's "Letter on Humanism" and Somerset Maugham's The Moon and Sixpence.

We walked down a gravel path about two hundred feet from the car to a concrete stairway that lead down to a swamp disguised as a pond.

Jackie then abruptly plopped herself down on the stairs, started scratching her stomach then pulled out the tube of anti-itch cream and started liberally rubbing it on her body in places as if no one was there with her. I looked around while she did her thing.

The pond was probably one hundred and fifty feet across and three hundred feet wide. The water was greenish brown and I could not see anything but random bubbles coming up here and there from what I figured were snapping turtles or fish.

There was a small island in the middle with a large red cedar tree growing on it. The tree looked very old but well cared for and had Spanish moss drooped all over its branches. Underneath the tree were several kinds of ferns of many shapes and sizes.

There were half a dozen female and male mallard ducks paddling around the water's surface quacking and looking for something to eat. Two where lingering near Jackie and I. No doubt-ably hoping that one of us might throw something in for them to eat.

I took a few pictures of the area. The small breeze carried smells of nearby grilling food and chatting people into our general direction.

When Jackie was done applying the medicine, she let out a long sigh of relief and found a cigarette to smoke. I mentioned, "You really should see a doctor about your skin."

She ignored me and smoked quietly, staring blankly at the other side of the pool of water. I think she was looking at a hedgerow or bird, but I was not sure.

Thank God for Jackie's limited attention span. It was hot in the direct sunlight. There was nothing especially interesting to watch or look at. I was not in the mood to think about anything more esoteric than getting in my car and turning on the air conditioning. I was getting bored.

After finishing her Marabou and being there about ten to fifteen minutes Jackie snapped out of her trance and announced, "We need to go to another place that I was just reminded of."

Within a few minutes of leaving the park we were sitting on a concrete levy somewhere near Cancel Boulevard ended, on the South end of Lake Pontchartrain.

It was around three o'clock in the afternoon according to my watch. I was getting hungry.

There was a decent breeze and the lake was a little rough. It actually would have been a nice place to hang for a while if it weren't for the strong smell of dead fish and rotten seaweed. Even Jackie noticed and didn't want to stay long.

We were only there about five minutes before Jackie blurted out, "The smell here is disgusting. I want to go somewhere else now."

I said, "I need to get gas and am hungry. Do you know if there are any gas stations and fast food restaurants nearby?"

She said, "Yes," then navigated me to a busy intersection a short distance away.

Each of the four corners there had a business on it; An Exon gas station, an Arby's restaurant with a drive through, a privately run convenience store and a funeral home.

Jackie mumbled, "I've been to two services at that parlor; one for a college classmate from one of her classes who was hit by a car (which was more of a memorial because he was cremated and there was no casket) and another for a girlfriend's grandmother who died of old age."

I charged a full tank of gas and checked the time again. It was 3:17PM. I asked Jackie, "Are you hungry for lunch at Arby's? We could go across the street and use the drive through to get our food then figure out where we want to go next afterward."

Instead of answering my Jackie started digging determinedly through her purse. I asked her two more times but she seemed oblivious. After two or so minutes she stopped and pulled a ragged looking coupon out of her purse and handed it to me saying, "Yes."

The coupon was for a free large curly fry with the purchase of a regular Abby's sandwich. The voucher expired two years ago.

I told Jackie, "The coupon is expired."

She replied and insisted, "Arby's will accept expired coupons as long as you buy something."

Rather than argue I asked, "Do you want anything besides the fries?"

She said, "A root beer with no ice would be great too, thanks."

I ordered two Arby's sandwiches, just in case Jackie really wanted more but was too polite to ask, two curly fries, a medium cola and root beer. Jackie sarcastically barked over me at the order taker, "Make the root beer a large one and to please remember to put some mustard and Arby's sauce in the bag for my fries!"

I handed the cashier my credit card and the coupon. Jackie was correct. They accepted the expired coupon without saying anything (or they just didn't check the date).

After getting our food I pulled aside in the parking lot. Jackie stated, "I'm ravished," then started ruffling through the bag.

She then blurted out, "They fucking forgot the mustard!"

Jackie had a pissed off look on her face and immediately stormed out of the car into the restaurant to get her mustard. It was amusing watching her be so mad for what I thought was such a little thing. I waited for her to return before eating.

She came back with a small bag in one hand and a fist full of mustard packets in the other. She got back in the car smiling. She boasted, "They gave me a free dessert pie for the mistake and a shit load of coupons!" She moved the coupons from the bag into her purse, as well as the mustard.

Jackie then proclaimed, "Arby's curly fries taste like shit unless they are dipped in mustard or Arby's sauce." We started eating our food as we pulled out of the lot. She told me to take a right.

After inhaling her fries and pie she asked, "Are you going to eat your second sandwich? If not is it OK for me to eat it?"

I told her, "Go ahead and eat it. I figured you might want one but were afraid to ask out of politeness."

She beamed a wonderful smile in my direction, compassionately touched me on the knee and told me, "You are one of the sweetest guys I've ever met," then ate the roast beef sandwich in three of four bites.

As soon as I was done eating my plain curly fries Jackie asked me, "Are you up for a short road trip to some places just outside the City?"

The car clock said it was about twenty minutes before four. I said, "Sure, why not?"

She replied, "Great, "and guided me to a nearby highway on ramp. Within ten minutes we were driving down a stereotypical street in a residential development in some unknown suburb.

The Suburbs

The neighborhood looked a lot like the place I grew up in. Obviously middle class, well-manicured lawns, cookie cutter colonial and split ranch style houses with cream or white colored vinyl siding and black, forest green or rust colored shutters on the sides of each downstairs window. The driveways were decorated with chalk drawings, wagons, umbrella strollers, over-turned bicycles and Chrysler minivans.

Jackie told me which driveway to pull into and as soon as the car was parked she darted out of the vehicle and ran towards the front door shouting, "Lucy I'm Home!"

From inside the house I heard someone yell, "Jackie get your ass in the house and come give me a hug!"

As she walked away Jackie told me, "Get out of the car and follow me. It's cool. This is where my adopted family lives. No one will be pulling any ghetto minded bullshit on either of us here."

I locked up the car and obeyed her directions.

Inside the house we were greeted by a thickly bespectacled frumpily dressed short girl with shoulder length frazzled jet black hair. The top of her head barely came up to the bottom my chin.

She was wearing a grey t-shirt that barely covered the rolls of her midsection and a pair of sweatpants that were too small for her figure. It looked like she just rolled out of bed. I thought she was about Jackie's and my age. The two girls embraced each other.

Another woman who looked to be in her mid to late fifties was also there. She was standing watchfully in the background, nervously smoking a cigarette. With an anxious smile and authoritative voice she reminded Jackie, "What about me? Don't I a hug too sweetie?"

I assumed that the woman was probably the mother of Jackie's friend. Instead of greeting me openly I felt like she was very suspicious of me and subtly giving me the evil eye. Nothing was said but I was pretty she was assessing to herself whether she should trust me or not.

She was very skinny and nervous looking and only a little taller than her daughter. She was wearing hospital scrubs decorated with rubber duckies and her hair was grayish blond and cut into a short and practice style, common for women of her age.

I quickly surmised that some of the guys Jackie brought there in the past were probably not the most upstanding characters. I could not blame the mother for being so reserved or stand offish. She did not know me from a bag of beans and considering Jackie's past track record for men that I knew from the short time I've been around her, why would I be any different than them.

Jackie introduced the younger woman, "TJ this is Carol-Lynn and that Nervous Nelly behind her is Mom."

She then spoke to both women, "I'm only here for a quick visit and t can't stay too long. I'm going back north for a while to stay with my Grandmother. I really need get my shit together and earn some money before I can move to Hawaii."

Carol-Lynn sighed and replied to Jackie, "You ain't still chasing after that fat old pervert are you? I thought you were over him after you eloped with Perry."

Jackie frankly said, "Yes. My ex was just a distraction. Professor Idomen however is a soul mate. My connection to him has to do with Fate and unconditional love not vows or niceties. Remember I got legitimate proof between all the Ouija board sessions, tarot and horoscope readings. You ought to know too since you were there when it all happened."

Carol-Lynn retorted, "Come on Jackie. Soul mate? How many soul mates can you have in a lifetime? I say you can do much better than that. You're smart and beautiful. Why do you always ignore the decent guys and try to rescue losers like your ex-husband or Dr. I?

Jackie answered. "Why can't someone have more than one soul mate? It's about the connection two people have and them accepting that bond unconditionally. It has nothing to do with numbers or whether or not they are nice to each other. How boring!"

Carol-Lynn continued lecturing, "I honestly don't get your obsession with a man who when it comes down to it lost his son, wife and now his job because of booze and his philandering.

I think the gods cursed him. His wife left him for cheating on her and was then murdered by the dude she was sleeping with just before their divorce was finalized. The jerk let his child drown after he fell off a boat into the ocean while on a fishing trip for Christ sake because he was too freakin drunk to rescue him!

Just because he was acquitted for that on campus car accident because there was not enough evidence does mean he's still not responsible for what we all know we saw.

He only got off because we were were all too stoned and/or drunk at the time for our testimony to be trusted by a jury. Why else would the guy leave town so quick and go to the farthest possible place away from here. He's avoiding the truth and a possible civil lawsuit. "

Jackie obviously did not like what she was hearing and from the tone it sounded to me like the two have had this conversation more than once. Eyeing Mom's cigarette she changed the subject, looked at Mom and asked, "Can I have a cigarette?"

Mom matter of fact-ly replied, "No. You should know better by now than to bother asking. I'm not supporting your bad habits."

Jackie then asked Carol-Lynn, "Does Katie still live with her parents?"

Carol-Lynn said, "Yes. Mamma are You OK hanging with Jackie's guest for a little while? We want to go see if Kate's home."

Her mom reluctantly agreed. "Ya I suppose so, as long as it's only for a few minutes. He's probably better off waiting with me than going off with you two. I doubt he has idea who any of your friends are."

Jackie and Carol-Lynn then left me in the care of Mom. Mom started walking towards the back of the house and told me, "Please follow me and find a seat at the kitchen table. People who visit standing up make me nervous."

I complied.

Before getting to the kitchen she, stopped, turned around and offered, "Do you want some sweet tea to drink?"

I accepted, "Yes. Thanks you."

The kitchen was small and dated. The room smelled like dish soap. The walls, cupboards and ceiling were painted flat white. A single light fixture was located in the center of the ceiling. A single light bulb protruded from it. It looked like part of the fixture, I assume the shade or cover, was long lost or broken.

There were a couple of potholders hanging from nails on the wall above the oven. A calendar with kitten pictures hung in the center of the wall to the right of the kitchen entrance. A red Bic ball point pen was attached to a string next to it. It looked like birthdays, work schedules and appointments were handwritten on the dates. Dates were crossed off with an "X" as they passed. There was a grey litter box and green pooper scooper on the floor, by the wall to the left of the calendar. A single light switch and electrical receptacle was located on the wall to the right of the calendar.

The room did not appear to have ever been updated since the house was built in the early nineteen seventies. The countertops were made of a faded piss yellow colored Formica that was chipped in many spots along the edges. The surfaces were randomly speckled with the color spectrum of current and discontinued Kool-Aid flavors. There was also a large burn impression next to the stove where someone set a pot down directly off the burner without something underneath. An unplugged Mr. Coffee coffeemaker set next to the burn mark.

The lime colored flooring was clean looking but as equally worn as the counters. Several of the squares, especially under the table, were peeling up or missing corners.

There was a small crank window above the sink that looked out over the back yard. I could not see the back yard from where I was sitting. The sink had two sides. One side had a drying rack full of clean dishes. The other side had two coffee cups in it and a bowl with milk and tablespoon still in it.

The stove and refrigerator looked current but basic. Both were white and didn't really fit well with the décor of the room. The stove had electric powered burners. The surface was flat with the control knobs on the right side. A Winnie the Pooh teapot was sitting on the back left burner. The stove has a digital clock. It said that it was 4:09PM.

The refrigerator had a freezer unit on top and refrigerator on the bottom part. There was a red and while soggy looking hand towel handing from the refrigerator handle. There were a few magnets on the front of the refrigerator. One was for a pizza place, another was for Artie's Car Repair Shop and the last one I noticed was for a business called Green Thumb Lawn Services.

It was a normal looking place to me. It was similar to the places I grew up around so I was comfortable with the surroundings despite me being a stranger.

I think that Mom sensed my familiarity with a middle class lifestyle. She could see I was not a junkie or conniving somebody that Jackie felt sorry for and picked up off the street. My demeanor helped put her a little bit more at ease but did not stop her from bluntly asking me, "What are your intentions in regard to Jackie and what the Hell are You doing in New Orleans in the first place?"

I seated myself at the small kitchen table. It only seated three because one of the sides was pushed against the wall. The top was covered with a light brown fabric tablecloth. There were three mismatched chairs at the kitchenette. I sat in the grey metal folding chair. In the center of the table was a square glass ashtray filled to the brim with butts, ashes and couple chunks of chewed gum. Next to the ashtray there was half a pack of filtered Camel cigarettes and a disposable lighter.

Mom served me sweet tea in a Yosemite Sam glass from the upper cupboard located on the left side of the sink. She also poured herself a glass, sat down, lit herself another cigarette and proceeded to grill me again for more details about my motives and what inspired me to drive all the way from New York to Louisiana. She stated, "You did not answer my questions. Why are you dragging some random stranger that you just met on the street willy-nilly around this part of the State? Are you stupid? Why aren't you afraid? Are you just plain crazy? Are you a criminal because if you are I'm telling you to get out of my house right now and leave Jackie be!"

I took a sip of the tea and told her how I ended up on her doorstep. The beverage was cold and not at sweet as I worried it would be. It was obviously made with real teabags versus mix. I also like my flavored teas more sour than sweet and this was prepared that way more or less.

Mom seemed content or satisfied with my response to her questions. She stopped probing and actually seemed glad that I was bringing Jackie back home up north, rather than allowing her to be impulsive, outright stupid or simply taking advantage of her. She said, "It's reassuring for me to meet someone who actually believes in being respectful and doing the right thing. You seem like a good man. I wish there were more people out there like you. I can only hope my Carol-Lynn is lucky enough to hook up with a good man. You aren't looking for a girlfriend are you?"

I smiled and said, "No. I don't need to complicate my current girlfriend situation any more than it already is."

Once she decided that I was safe Mom relaxed and told me more about her-self. She said that that she worked as a nurse supervisor in neo natal intensive care unit at a local hospital.

She then confessed, "Carol-Lynn's father disappeared over ten years ago. This was fine by me, since he was no prize in my eyes.

It's not that he was mean or abusive, just a lazy son of a bitch. It was very hard to live with him.

I was such a young fool to fall for his handsome looks and endless line of shit. Had I been a little less naive I would have not married the guy and saved myself fifteen years of frustration and followed my dreams more seriously.

The man really hated to work. He couldn't hold down a job for long or pull his weight around the house. He was always looking for a get rich quick gimmick that would pay off big instead of getting a job and digging ditches like the rest of the world.

I'll admit though it could have been a lot worse and I'm thankful for that. A lot of my girlfriends and co-workers married drunks and womanizers who messed things up real bad with their vices. My husband's issues were nothing compared to others. At least we were never in need of money since I was nearly always the main breadwinner for the household.

I suspect he left the State chasing after God knows what promise or scheme to make more money, then never came back home to save face after it all went to shit.

Regardless of what happened, I still managed to keep the house and a stable life for my babies. Thank God both of our names were on the mortgage when we bought it because his credit history was pretty much non-existent."

Mom went on to say, "Jackie's been a good friend of Carol-Lynn's since they met at college a number of years ago.

Of course, this was all before Jackie got knocked up by that jackass kid Perry from Texas that she was dating at the time. I never liked him, I could tell by the way he acted that he would never amount to any good and I ought to know considering I was married to one long enough to recognize a pain in the ass when I see one. I wish Jackie just dumped the guy and stayed with Carol-Lynn and me.

Jackie's smart and would make a great mother if she had a little support and a stable environment to live in. If she chose to stay here she could have then gotten serious about college and drastically changed her life.

Instead she fell for the man-child honestly believing that a baby and wife would inspire him to grow up then moved back to Texas.

She then added, "Which from the looks of things like does not appear to have happened."

I went on to tell her, "Yah. She married the guy, divorced him and left the baby with her former in-laws. Beyond that that though, I do not know much more in regard to details."

Mom replied, "Jackie is really good at telling you only what she wants you know and that's usually as little as possible. Sometimes you have to read between the lines with her and figure out what she isn't telling you to make sense of what's going on."

Mom then filled me on some of Jackie's history. Carol-Lynn it turns out was another friend of Jackie's that she met while auditing classes at University of New Orleans.

Mom explained, "A group naturally formed because the kids studied a lot together. Their professor at the time assigned several group projects that they all worked on. They all seemed inseparable at the time.

I think Carol-Lynn, Jackie and a guy who was killed in an on campus hit and run were the core group of partners for an introduction to psychology class. Katie, the girl down the street that they were now visiting, was also in that class and spent a lot of time with them.

Everything changed though after the boy died and was buried. Jackie stopped going to classes and began hanging out with seedier people. She then got herself kicked out of the college program she was enrolled in because she was caught smoking marijuana in someone dorm room by Campus security.

That's when she moved in with her ex-husband in that place off Carondelet in the City but didn't stay there long because neither had a stable job to pay rent.

Eventually Carol-Lynn changed majors and move on with her life. The two drifted apart but still kept in touch occasionally."

Carol-Lynn and Jackie returned just as Mom was finishing her story. They both looked like they had been crying. Mom asked, "Are you two OK? What happened?"

The girls both answered, "Yes. They just missed each other and were reminiscing about the past with Katie."

I noticed Jackie was absently scratching herself again. Carol-Lynn did too and queried Mom, "Do you have anything that could help Jackie?"

Mom told Jackie to show her the rash. Jackie immediately responded by shoving her arm in Mom's face. After quickly looking at her arm Mom asked, "I don't see anything. Is that what the rash looks like on other parts of your body?"

Jackie said, "Yes."

Mom then asked Jackie, "Are you using any anti-itch cream for it?"

Jackie replied, "Yes," then pulled the two thirds spent tube of medicine from her purse and handed it over.

Mom examined the label, gave the container to Carol-Lynn then ordered her to, "Go to the bathroom upstairs and get the unopened tube of that same medicine. We have some upstairs that's not expired. It might work better."

Carol-Lynn complied and while she went upstairs Mom told Jackie, "I think it's just an allergic reaction to something you used. Probably cheap soap or lotion. Stop using whatever's causing the reaction. Keep using the anti-itch cream for another week. If the rash does not clear up by then to go see a doctor up in Ohio."

Carol-Lynn came back with a fresh tube of medication and gave it to Jackie.

Jackie thanked Mom and Carol-Lynn with a tearful hug and said, "I really need to get going so that I can say good-bye to one more person today before calling it a day and heading back North."

I shook both their hands and when I was shaking Mom's hand she squeezed it harder and pulled me close enough whisper in my ear, "I'm counting on you to keep Jackie safe and get her to her Grandmother's house. If you don't then I'll hunt you down and make you regret not keeping your word. My maiden name ended with a vowel. I have family all over the country who will gladly help me."

Her comment made me smile and she smiled too as Jackie and I walked back to the car.

It was now about 4:35PM according to the clock in my car. Jackie asked me, "Are you up for one more, quick visit?"

I said, "Sure."

She informed me, "The place was just a little further out from the City than here and only about ten or fifteen minutes away, if we get back on the highway."

She then guided me back to the interstate and we were on our way out to another more rural location North West of the City.

The Trailer and Kirkey's Gnome Garden

We exited the highway in an area that looked like a farming community. There were fields of various crops surrounding us on all the roads Jackie had me driving on.

Eventually I was directed to a dirt road. After following it about for a mile or two we pulled into a driveway with a silver rickety looking early eighties era Ford pickup truck.

To the left of the car was a bashed up racing car frame with no tires and a makeshift pig pen with 3 or 4 medium sized pigs in it. An engine block of some sort was sitting on cinderblocks in front of the frame. Chickens were wandering all over the yard.

There was a rusted brown metal shed at the far end of the driveway and forty foot long white trailer with a set of Cuprinol green stained lumber steps leading up to a makeshift screen door.

I could hear a kid song playing really loud from a TV or stereo inside. Jackie told me, "This is my former brother in law's place. I need to speak privately with him before leaving Louisiana."

As soon as we got out of the car and started heading towards the trailer door a big Chow dog appeared out of nowhere and lunged at us. I immediately stopped in my tracks and slowly backed away a few steps then stood very still, not taking my eye off the dog, wondering if I was being attacked or if the dog was just telling me to go away.

The dog stood its ground and growled at Jackie and I. Jackie yelled, "BEAR STOP THAT! ARCHIE GET THE FUCK OUT HERE AND CALL YOUR DAMN DOG OFF!"

The dog stopped growling but remained in place and did not back down.

From behind the shed a shirtless guy with black hearing protection type ear muffs on poked his head out to see if someone was yelling for him. He probably did not hear the car or dog because of the muffs. After he sees what's going on he yells, "SITZEN HUND!!!."

The dog then ceased its stance and lay down at our feet.

I assumed that this person was Archie, the former brother in law. He recognized Jackie then looked and me and smiled, saying, "Good thing you didn't move or the dog would have gone for your balls. I trained her to do that to anyone who approaches the house that doesn't live here. I have to let her know it's OK before she will relax. She's a great guard dog."

He then held his hand out to shake and said, "Sorry for not hearin you two. I 'm tryin to fix an ole lawnmower for a neighbor in back."

I shook his hand and introduced myself.

By now a woman and a little girl were standing at the top of the stairs. Jackie introduced them, "That's Ronda, Archie's old lady and Kirkey, Archie's baby girl from a former marriage. She was named after the kind of stock car seat she was conceived on."

Archie and Ronda appeared to be about Jackie's and my age, early to mid-twenties. Kirkey looked no more than six or seven.

Archie was kind of short, standing five foot five at most and did not appear to have an ounce of fat on his body. He had brown eyes, an untrimmed mustache, short brown hair and a tattoo of a confederate flag on his left breast. His face looked like he had not shaved in over a week.

Grease and dirt were splattered randomly all over his body and jeans. He was wearing a well worn pair of leather Dickies work boots. His teeth were stained brownish. I think he had a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

Ronda looked about the same height and weight as Archie. She was wearing a pair of generic red gym shorts, and a black Rod Stewart concert t-shirt with a couple of tears around the waist. She had a full chest and did not appear to be wearing a bra underneath the t-shirt. Her hair was straight auburn colored. It was bound in a pony tail that hung just below her shoulders. Her eyes were green; the tip of her small nose was kind of pointy looking. When she smiled you could see that one of her front teeth was broken in half.

She had gold studs in her pierced ears and was wearing a gold cross with a silver chain around her neck. She had scratches all over her arms and legs, probably from playing with the dog.

Kirkey was the epitome of a little girl her age. She had a curious look in her brown eyes and was all smiles. The top of her head was level with my hip. Her hair was brown long and frizzy like it had not seen a brush or comb in a while.

She was wearing a short sleeveless yellow dress with blue flowers that went down to just below her knees. Her bare feet were dirty and grass stained from walking around outside with no shoes.

Her toes and fingernails were sloppily painted with bright red nail polish that was chipped or peeling off in spots. There was a long strand brown cheap plastic beads hanging around her neck.

Jackie told Archie, "I don't want to come across as rude but I'm actually not here for a social visit and can't stay long. I just wanted to talk to you and Ronda about a few things before leaving the area."

Archie listened and said, "I understand. Mom and Dad already called and told me about what happened a while ago. I figured you'd eventually show up and explain things more."

Jackie replied, "When I dropped my baby boy off I only told them part of the story because I didn't want to mess things up any worse than they already were.

Everyone bedsides those two think your brother is a complete ass. They just refuse to accept the fact that the sun does not rise and set on the guy. I'm done with his bullshit. He needs to be responsible for the choices he made. Others can't keep bailing him out.

I figured if I left Alex with your parent's he'd be forced by circumstances to step up to the plate and be a proper father. I don't know though if he's still in Colorado or gone back to Texas yet.

They're also big time Christians. Our divorce was one thing. We were not married in a church so they could justify that. I was hoping he wouldn't risk pissing them off by avoiding his parental obligations over drugs and pussy.

You at least know most of the truth behind Perry's games and it's easier to talk more openly with you about him than your parents. You will at least listen and won't blame me for everything bad that happened.

Archie assured her, "Yup. I get where you're comin from. We can all talk more privately inside."

We all went up the stairs and into the trailer. I was asked to sit and wait for them in the living room with Kirkey while they talked in another room.

The dog was also brought inside and it sat attentively with Kirkey and me.

After the three of them went to a room, a den I suppose, on the other end of the trailer, Kirkey, who had not yet spoken, suddenly decided it was safe to talk. She was full of questions and comments.

Kirkey first asked me in her southern innocent little girl drawl, "How do you know my Auntie Jackie?"

I told her, "I actually just met her in the City yesterday. I'm trying to help her and am planning on driving her to Cincinnati tomorrow to be with her Grandmother for a while."

She seemed satisfied with my answer then inquired, "Where's my baby cutie cousin Alex?"

I smiled at her question and told her, "I think he's somewhere in Texas with his grandparents."

The girl then blurted out, "OH, with my Nanna and Poppy!"

The living room was small. Just big enough for a tan sofa with purple pillows, a black wooden sitting chair with a handmade kitty cat face seat cushion, a scratched and dented coffee table made of pine and a particle board TV stand across from the couch.

Nothing was new or very well cared for. All of the furniture looked like it was scavenged from the side of the road.

The brown shag carpet was worn, torn, stained and covered with patches of dog hair. A white sheet with several holes was nailed over the picture window behind the television. There was an unframed paint by numbers velvet painting of young Elvis hanging above the sitting chair. The white ceiling had several tan spots where it looks like the roof leaked at one time. The room smelled like wet dog and burnt toast.

A number of dolls and toys were scattered on the floor and furniture. Some of the dolls appeared to have been given personalized haircuts and magic marker makeup jobs. Others had chew marks from the dog.

The thirteen inch color TV with rabbit ears was still turned on the local PBS station with the volume down low.

While I sat quietly and looked around the room, Kirkey got down on the floor. She started, touching the dog's ears, talking to and reassuring it, "Mr. TJ is nice Bear. Don't worry. He's going to bring Aunt Jackie back home to her Grandma's."

She then looked up at me after a few seconds and insisted, "Bear wants you to pet her. It's OK. She told me that she won't bite you. She's really a good doggie."

I reluctantly stroked the dog on the head. Kirkey was right. It did not seem as aggressive as before and more at ease with me. I felt a little less nervous but still did not trust it.

To me dogs can be used as weapons by their owners like a gun or knife when trained accordingly. I've seen dogs, like pit bulls, tear things to shreds or lock their jaws on stuff upon command. I'm very leery when people have dogs like that living with their families as pets because one never knows when or if it will snap and attack someone.

Kirkey then kissed and hugged the dog and rubbed its stomach. The dog began wagging its tail from the attention.

Kirkey then giggled and mentioned, "The fairies don't like Bear very much because she poops and pees on all their houses."

Kirkey then got up and started looking for something in the room. She found an old handbag by the side of the sofa. She then opened it up and pulled out a thin red and white lace bracelet with a tiny Velcro clap. She walked up to and instructed me, "Hold out your right wrist."

I complied and she gently fastened the charm to me.

Kirkey went on to tell me a story about how she got the bracelet.

She smiled and a look of wonder quickly came across her face as she whispered to me, "In the field behind our trailer there's an enchantered forest. At the edge of those woods there's a teeny tiny gnome garden. That's where all the gnomes and fairies live.

Sometimes I sneak there, after lunch, when my Dad's not home and Mamma Ronda falls asleep in the recliner while I'm watching Sesame Street or Barney.

I'm supposed to be takin a nap. Naps are for babies. I'm not a baby anymore and not tired like that.

There are lot lots of pretty flowers and plants in the field. I like to pick them and catch butterflies. Sometimes I smash them all together and make potions then feed them to the pigs to see if anything happens. HeeHee. That's more fun than takin a nap.

If I get bored of collecting pedals and leaves I sometimes hide behind the rock pile near the gnome village and watch the fairies dance with each other while the gnomes make magic pixie dust.

One day when I was sneaky peekin spyin on everyone, I heard a little gnome voice cryin near me. I looked around and found him next to a rottin log. I saw that his foot was hurt because his shoe was off and he was rubbing it.

I wanted to help him so I just ran home and got some little band aids and peroxide from our bathroom then ran back to see if I could make him feel better.

He was scared of me at first but so grateful after I poured peroxide on his boo boo and wrapped it with a band aid.

The poor little guy squinted his eyes and cried outchie ooo ahh! While I cleaned the hurt up. He was so happy when I finished and put the band aid on. He could walk and jump better again.

Before turning invisible he kissed me on the check and thanked me for helping him. He told me that his name was David and that he was my friend for life.

The next time I saw David he appeared in my bedroom while I was playing with my Barbies. He said that he had a present for me because I was so nice to him.

He then disappeared and showed back up a few minutes later with a decorated sack almost as big as he was. David opened the bag. I could see all sorts of magic things in it that he made. After taking a quick peep from the outside to make sure nothing was in the way he jumped in and started looking for something I'd like. He decided to give me a beautiful bracelet to wear and put it on my wrist.

It felt warm and smelled like cotton candy.

David told me that the bracelet will bring good luck to the owner. It helps keep bad things from happening to them. He also said that if you keep it long enough the magic will be sucked up into your body and protect you for the rest of your life even when the band is gone.

David gave me lots of magic things when we played. I sometimes share them with people I like. I want to give this to you because you talk funny and sound like a comedian. Aunt Jackie also needs to go to her Grandma's house and magic will help make that happen."

I smiled and said, "Thank you Kirkey. I can't help the way I talk. My accent sounds funny to you because I'm not from around here."

She asked, "Where are you from then?"

I answered, "Rochester, New York. It's many miles north of here by Canada."

She thought a second or two then blurted out, "Oh so you're a Yankee! Hee Hee."

I kept the bracelet for over twenty years. It hung from the rearview mirrors of all my cars. I wondered at times if its magic saved me during a very bad car accident I had several years later. The car was totaled but I walked away with only a few bumps and bruises.

I lost it when I forgot to take it out of a mini-van I traded in a year ago for a newer car.

I was a little upset when I remembered that I forgot to take it out of the car. It had become very worn and faded and might have actually fallen apart if I tried to move it again to another car. I hope what Kirkey said was true and that its magic soaked into my soul years ago.

She then looked at Bear again and started acting sad. She started talking with a sad pout at him, "Bear scared them all way a little while ago. Fairies smell like peanut butter and Bear REALLY likes peanut butter.

The dog saw me sneak out one last week and I forgot to latch the door behind me. I didn't notice him follow me out of the house.

While I was watching the fairies dance Bear smelled them and came running all crazy after them. All the fairies and gnomes were scared to death and ran away or turned invisible.

All Bear wanted to do was sniff and lick them but they did not know that.

It made me cry.

Bear said she was sorry to me but I'm not sure if she really meant it but I still forgave her. I hope they will all come back soon to play and tell me some more stories but I don't know. Bear might try to catch them again. That's not good."

After listening to Kirkey for thirty five minutes or so Jackie and the two others came out of the back room. Jackie looked like she had been crying and hugged everyone goodbye. Jackie told me, "It's time for us to go. I made my peace with everyone here."

Kirkey looked confused and told Jackie, "Everything will be OK, "as she hugged her goodbye.

Kirkey also hugged me goodbye and told me, "Please make sure her Aunt Jackie gets to her Grandma's house. Take care of the bracelet. Magic is as precious as gold or love. You will need both someday."

I thought very wise words from such a little girl and wondered if she thought of them herself or was just parroting something someone else told her.

Jackie and I got into the car and started driving back towards the highway. She was unusually quiet and did not say anything for a while. I guess she was thinking about stuff or her conversation with Archie and Ronda.

Ten minutes later, when we were back within the City limits Jackie blurts out, "So do you wanna go get some good crawfish for dinner?"

I said, "Sure, I'm getting hungry."

She told me, "Turn off at the next exit ramp. We need to get moving quickly because they'll be closing shop soon."

The Right way to East Crawfish

Jackie said, "The name of the place we're going to is called Crawfish Jack's."

I replied, "OK, "then let her guide me there.

I think the establishment was located in a predominantly Black neighborhood that was somewhere west of the Garden district.

The area appeared to be well kept, the yards were not littered with garbage, mowed and had tended flowerbeds in some yards but the houses looked tired and in need of cosmetic repair like new roofs, gutters, front porches and paint jobs. Most of the cars parked in the driveways and on the sides of the streets looked like they were in better shape than the houses.

Jackie had me driving in all sorts of directions getting to the address. I was skeptical that she actually knew where we were and that we weren't lost but kept my mouth shut because I was basically expecting the place to be a restaurant located in a commercial development, not a rundown residential neighborhood.

Eventually she pointed and said, "Stop and park the car over there."

I got out of the car with Jackie and locked the doors. We were standing in front of a non-descript two-story house that had a front screen door that looked like it was being held together with grey duct tape.

A few other vehicles were parked in the road near us and in a wide gravel lot.

Beyond the large driveway, the location did not look unusually different from any other house in that area. I followed Jackie to the back of the house.

There was a relatively new looking blue Dodge RAM pickup truck with a good sized refrigerated storage container mounted on its flatbed parked on the side of the house. The words "Crawfish Jacks - Calypso Style Cuisine" above a picture of a smiling crayfish with some Chinese looking symbols underneath the crayfish were painted on the side of the cooler facing out. There was a red extension cord running from the back of cooler into a partially opened basement window that also looked like it was being held together with duct tape.

The lawn was mowed, It looked like someone planted various kinds of flowers and herbs along the perimeter of the house and around some of the large oak trees. It smelled like a campfire or cookout was going on nearby.

When we were in the backyard I saw someone tending a fire pit of some sort at the back end of the lot with a big pot of something cooking over it. There was a rusty swing set frame next to the fire with several oversized cooking utensils like a metal slotted spoon and steaming basket hanging from the hooks where the swings used to be. There was also a metal folding table and chair with a portable stereo and can of what looked like Mr. Pibb sitting on it. The radio was tuned into a local Top 40 station.

We walked towards the back porch up a worn set of crooked wooden stairs and through a flimsy screen door that slammed hard behind us . When we walked in someone happily shouted, "Welcome to Crawfish Jack's. "How can wez helps you?"

That was Jackie's cue to figure out what to get.

The room was hot and steamy. Two super-sized pots were boiling on stovetops behind the service counter. There was a large sink next to the ranges and more giant cooking utensils hanging from pegs on the wall over the sink.

The room smelled strongly of fish, garlic, onions and jalapeño peppers. I thought to myself, "Blah, I'd eventually puke if I had to smell this place all day long. I like seafood but not that much."

The walls were painted white and chipped and scratched randomly throughout the room. The floor looked like it was made from a single piece of dated tan-ish vinyl or linoleum material and was scuffed in placed with black skid marks from patron shoes.

Shelves full of canned pickles, jellies, apples, pears, peaches, syrups, soups, mincemeats, salsas and chili sauces lined all four sides of the room. Two waist high tables of artisan corn, white, wheat, whole grain breads, cakes, pies and cookies were positioned on the right and left sides of the room.

A single store clerk appeared to be manning the stoves, taking orders and overseeing a metal cashbox. There was no register. None of the merchandise had prices on it either. I guessed that the shopkeepers probably kept all that information in their head, making it even harder to distinguish if what was going on here was an actual business or just an informal family-neighborhood endeavor.

The shop was being run by a six foot three middle aged shopkeeper wearing a yellow stained white apron with the words 'Papa Jack's' embroidered in red on its front. He had thinning short cropped hair with a trimmed graying beard. He walked with a slight limp.

A much shorter woman who appeared to be Vietnamese was also working in the room cleaning, stocking and straightening up the shelves as needed. She seemed fidgety and never sat still making it difficult to get a good look at her. She had long straight jet black hair and wore an apron similar to the other clerk's and mumbled to herself a lot in a complaining tone as she performed her duties.

The teenage boy tending fire in back yard also looked Vietnamese. I only saw him from a distance so it was hard to tell what he looked like other than wearing a t-shirt and blue jeans. It seemed unusual to me that they were working in what I assumed to be an African American business and asked Jackie later on about their presence. She told me what she knew.

I assumed that Papa Jack was the person tending the counter. I was wrong. His name is Marshall and the house that the business was being run from was actually owned by his cousin Rena who inherited the home when her first husband died from a heart attack fifteen or so years ago. She's since remarried and works as a receptionist at a nearby manufacturing facility.

Papa Jack it turns out is a local Vietnamese fisherman with a name no one around here can pronounce proper. He was a war refuge who immigrated to New Orleans in the early 1970's with his sister and several of his friends after the Viet Kong destroyed their home village.

Jack is married to Marshall's sister Ester. Papa Jack is a nickname he acquired over time because everyone just called him Jack initially rather than butcher his real name.

Over the years Jack has fathered lots of children with Ester. When the kids become old enough, Jack has them help with his fishing business rather than pay for unreliable help. The two Vietnamese people I saw were Jack's sister Tess and her son Ronnie.

Jack helps support members of his wife's family like Marshall by giving them a portion of his daily catches to eat for meals or sell. The crawfish selling venture took off after Marshall prepared a large batch of seasoned crawfish for a neighborhood boil. Everyone loved the results and word spread fast. Papa Jack was quick to notice a lucrative under the table opportunity to sell his catches and Marshall was recently laid off from a construction job so he needed the work.

Ten years later the idea is still going strong and the customers keep lining up daily. Over time they expanded items being peddled in the makeshift shop floor to include backed and canned goods made by people in the surrounding neighborhood as a means to help support the community.

Marshall also allows people to meet on the property to sell their services and skills (stuff that can't be displayed on shelves) such as carpentry, plumbing or landscaping, but nothing illegal. If he catches anyone on the property selling drugs or setting up to hurt someone, including prostitution or gambling, he will shoot first and ask questions later.

So far the rules have always been respected. Papa Jack's Crawfish is so popular that no one wants risk losing the endeavor. The offender would no doubt-ably face unpleasant repercussions from both the neighbors and regular clients.

Also lots of rumors have been passed around over the years about Papa Jack, no one has ever actually seen him on site because he's too busy with his other business work. He usually has his kids, nieces or nephews make deliveries.

It's been said that living through the war made him real mean and tough, not a person to fuck with. He knows how to make a body quickly disappear. One tale stated that for punishment he gradually cut a person's body parts off while they were alive and made them watch him use the pieces as bait for a special catch of the day. I remember Jackie smiling and commented after she recited that story, "I think neighborhood kids with big imaginations made that one up."

The storefront was literally built in a neighborhood home's back porch. I wouldn't even consider the business a true store.

The simple business model it used was more traditional in nature and less formal. I had a feeling that despite the place's well received reputation, it didn't exist anywhere on paper therefore allowing the owners to operate more efficiently because they don't have to deal with the costs of keeping accurate records, paying taxes and complying with government regulations. Allowing them to pass the savings onto its customers.

From what I witnessed overhead costs were also pretty minimal. The most expensive item they needed to run the joint were probably the large stovetops used to hold the huge pots of water and spices used to boil crawfish in.

Regardless of that I also saw the fire pit in the backyard of the house with a pot being tended so the appliance may be more of a nicety than a necessity in the end.

Watching the business work was interesting too. While Jackie talked to Marshall and placed our order for food I looked around the room and out the screen windows into the back yard. I honestly could not tell if this was a family cookout or a thriving business. People wandered in and out to buy food, drop stuff off and/or just hang out and chat in the few minutes we were there. Tess seemed to be coordinating a lot of those details along with taking care of the shelves.

On top of selling craw fish it looked like people from the surrounding neighborhood or members of the owners family also sold canned and baked goods they made, some looked like they were selling their services too. Through the screen window I overheard a couple men who looked like they were in their forties discuss a deal with an elderly man about fixing his furnace and shook hands on it in exchange for ten of the rabbits he raised.

Jackie ordered a large bag of crawfish for our dinner. It only took a few minutes for our order to be ready and when she had to pay asked me for seven dollars to cover the cost.

I gave her the money and she paid for the food. Marshall thanked us and said good bye. Jackie said, "My mouth is salivating from the smell. I can't wait to eat."

On the way to the car Jackie bummed a cigarette off someone hanging out in the backyard. She then lit and smoked it as we drove back to the Hostel. While she smoked she told me again, "God I love boiled crawfish that's simply spiced with the Holy Trinity basics like peppers, onion and garlic!"

We were back at the Hostel in a few minutes. It was around 6:30PM. Both of us were hungry and wanted to eat. Jackie carried the bag over to an empty picnic table in the backyard area of one of the nearby hostel buildings.

Since we didn't have paper towels Jackie said that we needed to eat them someplace where we could make a mess. She found a section of the Times-Picayune underneath the bench we were sitting on that someone left there from earlier in the day, spread it out on the table top then dumped the entire bag's contents onto it.

The crawfish were brightly colored reddish orange with black splotches and looked like baby lobster to me. They were still warm but not so hot they could not be handled with bare hands.

Jackie examined the pile carefully for a few seconds then said "Good. There are none with straight tails."

I asked, "What's the difference? They were all prepared together. "

She shook her head and informed, "No, no. Being cooked is not enough. Boiled crawfish with straight tails died before being put in the water and shouldn't be eaten. They can make you sick."

I replied, "Oh. I did not know that."

Jackie added, "Of course not. You've never had crawfish before."

Jackie dug right in after making her comment.

It took me a while to wrap my mind around the concept of eating a crawfish.

Being from New York State I grew up calling them crayfish. They lived in the polluted brown waters of the Barge Canal which ran through the village I grew up in.

As kids we'd poke at them with sticks walking around the rocky exposed banks of the waterway during the months it was drained low. Other times my brother and I would freak our younger siblings out when swimming in ponds by screaming randomly, "Ow! A crayfish just bit my toe!"

Scaring and instigating them to prematurely exit the ponds or creeks we were all swimming in.

A few friends also kept uniquely colored ones as pets in their freshwater aquariums.

Jackie picked one up. Held the body over the lawn, away from her-self, and grabbed each side of the critter. She then twisted the body in a manner that separated the tail from its head.

Juices squirted out all over the grass but missed Jackie and the table. She then slurped the backend of the head portion over the paper and licked her lips afterward commenting, "The juice and guts are the best part. They have lots of flavor. The only sad thing now is that we forgot to get beer to drink with our meal. A good beer compliments all the tastes. Oh well."

While making her remark Jackie put the drained head portion down and picked up the tail. After peeling a few segments of shell off the backend Jackie then grabbed the meat with two fingers, pinched the fan like part with her other set of fingers and gently pulled all the meat out and popped it into her mouth to eat. She sucked her fingers clean afterward and put both emptied shell pieces into the paper bag before grabbing another crawfish.

Jackie briefly scanned the pile of food and noted, "These are small ones. If they were bigger I'd show you how to get at the claw meat too.

So when are you going to try one?"

I was nowhere near as agile as Jackie when eating. I got a lot more of the juices on my hands and face. I had to peel more of the shell to get at all the meat.

She smirked at my novice crawfish eating skills.

The crustacean smelled and tasted very spicy to me. I liked it. It was simply pleasant and not overpowering just like Jackie assured me earlier.

The flavors complimented each other and no one spice overpowered the other, especially the hot pepper. The whitish tail meat had a consistency on my tongue as I chewed it that seemed like a cross between shrimp and lobster.

The gross looking green goo I sucked from the head was a combination of oily and watery substances. When it was mixed together in my mouth though it took on an interestingly seasoned buttery like flavor from all the spices it was cooked in.

Within a half an hour we were full and finished.

The pile of shell fish on the newspaper was gone and the paper bag was filled with the peeled carcasses.

When we were finished Jackie said, "I have a few more things I need to get done before leaving in the morning. I need to figure out how to make a few phone calls and I forgot to do something downtown last night. I'm OK to do it alone. I still have two or three Trolley rides left on the pass."

After we agreed to meet on the front porch of the hostel at 8 in the morning she went off to do her own thing leaving me behind to do as I please.

Last Evening in New Orleans

My last evening in the City was significantly less eventful than the previous one but nonetheless still interesting. I wanted to hang out around people and it was too early to go to bed.

I walked to the nearby corner store and bought a six pack of Molson Golden and started drinking it on the front porch of the hostel. It was cold and tasted good on a hot and humid night.

It felt good to relax after a long day of running around town. I sat down in a faded aqua blue green plastic folding chair with a small crack in the left armrest and listened to a group of nearby guests talk while smoking cigarettes and passing around a liter of Smirnoff vodka.

They appeared to be a few years older than me and based on their accents were obviously not Americans.

I felt right at home sitting on the porch surrounded by all the immediate sights, sounds and smells. Back home, my housemates and friends frequently spent Summer nights on our front porch lounging on a beat up sofa and overstuffed chair someone rescued from a nearby curb. We'd pass many hours getting half drunk, talking about whatever crossed our minds at the moment.

A good natured heated discussion was going on amongst three individuals who turned out to be Romanian, Australian and Ugandan.

The topic of dictatorships was winding down. Despite not wanting to ever live under the rule of one all three agreed that dictatorships were a necessary evil in certain parts of world. They felt that they were needed because those are the only kind of government system that works for people in those regions.

Repression, brute force and fear are the only methods those citizens will respect and submit to when attempting to administer social order. Otherwise chaos will reign because of ancient pissing matches between tribes, families and religious sects that their collective memories refuse to forget. Iraq and the Yugoslavia were two current examples they used to support their stance.

The three men continued justifying their belief by pointing out that most of the world is made up of subsidence farmers and goat herders who can't read, have limited access to modern technology and to survive must devote most of their waking hours towards taking care of their immediate responsibilities.

These people have never traveled more than a few miles from their birthplace and could care less what kind of government is running their country for the most part because it has little or no effect on their day to day lives. They don't have time or energy to think too much about ideology and politics when their attention needs to be focused on more important tasks such as feeding, clothing and housing their families.

Also, in then end, their government won't be there to care for them in old age but their families will. It's common sense and those kinds of government take advantage of that perpetuated indifference.

At some point, the topic began to move in a different direction.

The concept of poverty was brought up. Each person had a unique view of the subject based on their childhoods and countries of origin.

They also drew me into the conversation by asking me for my opinion.

A scruffy faced person who smelled like spilled bong water and beer anf spoke with an Australian English accent stated, "I believe that poverty in my country is basically reflective of what I've seen in most Westernized places like the United States and England."

The guy looked to be in his late twenties-early thirties, had short brown hair, leather hiking shoes, grey socks that barely covered his ankles, camouflage shorts and a red t-shirt specked with what looked like white paint spots.

He went on to say, "I think that the Australian government does a decent job supporting programs intended for needy people who live in urban areas. However it doesn't do shit for indigenous peoples who live in rural communities. Their social structures are not the same as city dwellers and most politicians and bureaucrats who manage that system are fucking clueless."

The Australian justified his sentiments, "I essentially grew up in a middle class suburb of Melbourne but spent a lot of time as a kid on my grandparent's sheep ranch in the State of South Australia working side by side with my older brothers, uncles, cousins and local Aborigine farmhands. Those people became some of my best friends at the time and taught me a lot about the native ways of living.

Aborigines who live in the bush don't necessarily believe in the same things or practice the same behaviors as the Anglo Whites. Their cultures and practices are very different.

It's very difficult to find common ground where the two sides can actually agree or at least understand each other's frame of mind because what's valued by one group is not always embraced by the other. Native homes often don't have things people who live in more populated areas take for granted like indoor plumbing for toilets and access to fresh water in their homes. Public education and regular employment are two more examples where Whites and the Indigenous peoples don't see eye to eye on.

Substance abuse is also a problem. It's no big deal for a man (or woman) to be employed at a stable full time job.

Entire weeks wages (for those who do work) and welfare checks, that White's assume will be used to pay for housing, food and clothing, are instead pissed away on alcohol, gambling debts and useless luxury items in one afternoon because there are no social repercussions within those communities for those kinds of choices.

Native villages, tribes and their associated ways of life existed thousands of years before the Europeans came to Australia. Aborigines were systematically treated like slaves and over time and the Whites fucked things up so bad over time that many natives forgot their traditional way of life and were forced to become dependent on the government for survival."

He paused a second to take a swig from the bottle of vodka, swallowed, smiled then continued, "Like Blacks in America, Aborigines are a minority yet they comprise of over twenty percent of Australia's prison population.

Though I think it has more to do with culture clash today than outright discrimination which was definitely the case in the past. Some of the guys I knew even had a dark sense of humor about their periods of incarceration likening it to a vacation or temporary escape from their community responsibilities calling it something in their native language that translates into a White man world walk about versus the traditional practice they do in the bush. Instead of having to hunt for their food, water and shelter the prison system provides it for them.

To a traditionally minded Aborigine the land, family and community are supposed provided necessities. Not the government. Within their traditions the exchange of gifts was a way to promote goodwill and kinship. Resources like food are supposed to be shared equally with their entire family and community.

Financial literacy is almost nonexistent in remote areas of Australia because people have limited or no access to banks and stores where money can be saved invested or spent. Money is also not necessarily thought of as a resource but is expected to be lent out as needed when someone has a surplus so to avoid that expectation most money received by individuals such as a paycheck or welfare benefit is quickly spent.

Sacred and/or handcrafted items are not the same as money. School is not a building with four walls and books, it's a camping trip in the bush with family elders who teach you different skills for survival and stories about the history of the area and/or family."

The man I presumed to be Romanian interrupted the Australian proclaiming in a heavily accented British English, " My country seemet much better off economically unter te former communist regime but I also suspect tat te same problems were tair beforehant ant were simply swept or hitten 'unter te carpet' by the government to height te trut from te masses.

My family ant I always hat teecent clotes, a roof over our het, foot to eat ant access to basic metical care when it was neetet. Yes, our choices were limitet but in my opinion when it comes to physical neets someting is always better tan noting.

I am also appreciative of my government sponsoret formal etucation, tespite all te Marxist iteology tat came along wit it.

My biggest grievance was tat I coult not go anywhere wit my etucation ant life after completing my secontarty etucation. my choices were limitet at te time to two routes; cuts my losses early and stops going to school altogether, accepting a government assignet menial or manual labor job tat tulls a person's intellect after a few years or to take a risk by attenting university and hopes to impress someone with enough influence along te way tat could recomment me for an appointment at the college or a government agency where toes leanet knowletge and skills coult be properly appliet. If not, ten all attenting more school tuz is telay te inevitatle and make you more aware of the significant loss or waste of time in the ent."

He went on to describe that in the years following Nicolae Ceausescu ousting, things actually got worse for the majority of his family. They were mostly unskilled workers with large families and little or no talents beyond farming who moved to growing cities like Arad or Sibiu hoping to find work to feed themselves and their families. Unfortunately their luck was no better in the cities and many, according to some of the letters he's received recently from his mother, are considering moving back to their home villages and starting over.

To avoid a life of rural poverty, his parents proactively joined the Communist Party in the mid to late nineteen fifties then moved to Bucharest just before they got married. They fit the quintessential profile of perfect recruits for the expanding cause. Both were young, impressionable and marginally educated peasants.

It was an unconventional thing to do and their families were essentially dumbfounded. The Romanian though seemed to understand and referred to his father as 'a savvy opportunist.' In the end both parents just wanted to create a better life, for themselves and their future children and if it meant abandoning the countryside for a factory job and two bedroom flat in a distant city or signing a piece of paper that supported a cause you were indifferent about, so be it.

Afterward his parents for remained politically silent and managed to effectively stay 'under The Communist Party's radar.' On the surface they looked like loyal Party members but within the privacy of their home never indicated what they really believed one way or the other.

Regardless of appearances, their choices allowed the Romanian and his sister the opportunity to attend good schools and a university.

His sibling eventually became a general practitioner, is unmarried and still lives with their parents in Bucharest. He on the other hand had different plans and like his father wanted to do better and knew that remaining in Romania was not an option for him if he wanted a better life.

After receiving a degree in Greek Literature he applied to St Charles University in Prague to study the subject even more in dept. He was granted permission to attend the college, packed his few belongings and moved there with no intention of ever returning to his home country.

He did all this knowing that after he completed his studies in Czechoslovakia that he was going to find a way to get over to West Germany and his eventual freedom. During the mid-eighties he did just that and from Munich found himself a teaching job at a private British boarding school in Hong Kong for two years.

He told us, "I have been wantering from teaching job to teaching job in America and Europe since leaving my homelant and I have serious toubts tat I wills ever go back any time soon. Even after te fall of the communist government because I am still concernt. It is still unstable and tair is little opportunity.

I have no triving tesire to return to Romania to just mingle wit unemployet empty mintet illiterate peasants, miners or assembly line workers who live rural shacks and marginal slums and whose only interests outsite complaining about how bad life is and gossiping amongst themselves are to gets trunk and/or fuck.

I triet many times to talk my elterly parents into leaving Romania and coming to America for a better life but tay are content and have no tesire to leave tair home."

The Romanian eventually returned to the subject of poverty. Upon commenting about his parents he stated, "Which brings me back to my itea of poverty. I do nots tefine it just as a lack of money but also as ignorance and a lack of access to opportunity.

When peoples to not unterstant tat tay are in control of tair immetiate lives and can make choices to better temselves but to not and remain content with just staying put I tinks tat is a Fate almost worse tan starvation because tat mentality prevents people from blossoming and becoming te most tay are capable of or being the best people tay can be."

The darker skinned man smiled and laughed deeply at the Romanian's remarks, and then in a proper sounding yet subtly Africanized dialect of British English introduced himself to me as Pierre and stated that, "We are all talking nonsense. All four of us are all rich in the eyes of my people."

He then repeated a lyrical sounding adage in another language to the group of us and translated it saying, "Those words roughly mean, 'You can't talk to a starving man about philosophy.' I believe that most people who grow up and live in the Western World, including myself and the Romanian, are clueless when it comes to knowing true poverty and do not fully appreciate what they have.

I consider myself a blessed man. I am treated differently than most people in my country because I'm ethically a Ganda, which is an elite Ugandan tribe.

My father was educated in America and now designs bridges and dams for large public works projects throughout Africa and Canada. My mother also attended a university in France but stays home with my widowed grandmother, her mother, takes care of family babies and helps manage household responsibilities in my father's absence.

Poverty to me means owning only a loin cloth, having no reliable roof to sleep under and not knowing when you will eat your next meal. Even people on the government dole in places like America, Australia and Romania have reliable access to those basic necessities during troubling times. Like I just said, we will never truly understand the concept because we never experienced it as a regular way of life.

If my two grandfathers were not a successful French Expatriate Businessman and a British Officer in the Colonial Army stationed in the Protectorate I suspect that even with my privileged ancestry poverty would have still been my Fate. Instead I was very lucky and allowed access to opportunities most Ugandan's only dream of.

I am also lighter skinned than most of my countrymen because of my white grandfathers. I easily pass for an Arab or someone from the Mediterranean Sea Region which puts also put me at an advantage socially both inside and outside his homeland."

Pierre explained, "Because of my parents' social class, widespread poverty and the violence associated with it, I grew up within white walled heavily protected compounds. I was shielded by my family's status from the outside world and to humble myself I would sometimes climb an unattended ladder and peer through the barbed wire at an alien world.

When above the barriers I could smell the stench of rotting raw sewage, hear the foreign sounds of life in another reality. I witnessed emaciated beggars; dying, deprived and desperate people who existed on the other side of the three foot thick, spray painted, bullet pocked, and concrete block walls. I saw lepers, elderly women missing limbs and crippled children defecating in the streets. I watched parched men with infected scars on their backs crouch down and drink from green mud puddles, eat garbage then puke afterward.

I had to be extra cautious and not be seen by anyone because if caught, I usually got a good whipping from the head of compound security, who also happened to be my uncle. My parents were deathly afraid that I would make an easy target for a rebel sniper or neighborhood thug.

Regardless of the truth my uncle told me the beating was given because it was rude to stare.

For safety reasons, as a child, I was transported between compounds for school, to visit family and friends in bullet proof cars by armed personnel who worked for my uncle.

I also had regular access to luxuries like electricity, indoor plumbing, air conditioning and television. I was initially sent to good private schools in Uganda and when old enough enrolled in a French Boarding School near Marseilles and then to a university in England where I studied computer programming and engineering."

He went on to reinforce that he was spared the agony of depravity and hunger associated with much of Uganda and has no desire to ever go back. He believes that his life is now in America now and he is very appreciative.

When it came to my time to speak I remembered the book called The Other America by Michael Herrington and a PBS TV Series called Free to Choose narrated by Milton Friedman. I said, "I sometimes wonder if the roots of poverty in America and Western Europe are actually founded on individual choice. There are lots of programs and opportunities available for poor people to improve their lot at any given time. Unfortunately, after multiple generations of families living within its parameters, affected individuals tend forget how to be self-sufficient and in turn become depend on the institutionalized safety net system(s) supported by both society and government. I think those systems by nature recreate the cycle of poverty making it all the more difficult for members of the lower classes to climb the social class ladder."

I have a feeling that my comments might have surprised them a little coming from someone as young as I was. All three were smiling but there was a long pause after I spoke and they all appeared to be assessing what I just said.

What none of them realized was that my older co-worker conditioned me for these kinds of conversations. Joe was old enough to be my father and he made it a point to play the role of teacher for me, especially on topics related social policy, politics and government.

I don't know if he did it because he was trying to persuade me into believing his moderately conservative philosophies or that he did or to give us more substantial things to talk about than work gossip or newspaper headlines. I turned out in the end to be more of a libertarian than a Republican which simultaneously annoyed and pleased him, depending on the circumstances we discussed.

Joe helped hone my views by recommending books and TV shows. He'd nag me to watch or read the material then grill me afterward. The hours passed talking with him while working production shift alone in the computer room were then applied later on with my roommates, friends and college professors.

Their silence inspired me to continue and justify my sentiments, "Milton Freidman questioned the need for government to indefinitely take care of people who not have the skills and financial resources to take care of themselves. He thought that the government should instead empower them more aggressively with the training and education required for them to find/acquire good paying jobs that will allow them to take care of themselves and their families without the assistance of government."

As they continued to listen I added, "Michael Harrington though that there was a culture associated with living in those conditions for long periods of time. Those circumstances cause people to become depressed and unmotivated to better themselves. He also believes that their inability to improve their lot was more of a social or societal problem than an individual issue because the conditions or culture of poverty is not created by just single instances but clusters or groups of those individuals living together and interacting with each other."

I then recalled, "Edward Banfield believed that throwing all the resources in the world at the problem of poverty (social services, law enforcement, and education) would not make a difference as long as there was a significant amount of poor people living in close proximity of each other because of the culture or way of life associated with those kinds of living conditions.

In one of his books I read he noted that during one of his studies that poor people, even when given the opportunity to better their lives (jobs, better homes, money) still often chose to return to what they know and the associated behaviors.

He also noted that the lower class could be split into two categories. One form are the younger people who are in the beginning stages of their adult lives and learning though trial and error how to acquire a good job and properly manage their personal lives. With time though they will usually rise up the social class ladder and better themselves leaving that lifestyle behind. Handicapped and elderly could also be included in this type of class because their lack of financial resources (fixed income or inability to work a good job) is all that impedes them not negative behaviors.

The other group however remains a permanent fixture and has no intention of bettering themselves or their families. For whatever reasons they chose to not work, live in slums, commit crimes, are sexually promiscuous and don't value a formal education."

I concluded with, "The more I read and learn about poverty in America the more I begin to believe that the only cure for poverty is to separate poor people/families from each other and force them to live amongst a majority of people who do not promote the culture of poverty caused by lots of poor people living together in close quarters. I also noted that I'm torn by that idea too because it's not a very ethical method and essentially a form of discrimination."

The three men seemed pretty impressed when I finished supporting my stance.

The Romanian asked, "You actually know who Miltons Freetman is and reat his writtings?"

The Australian inquired, Are you attending university and if so what subject?"

I answered, "I'm just finishing up a BA in writing. I've been attending college part time and working full time for six or seven years now. I have a hard time staying focused and like to learn about lots of subjects so it took me a while to choose a major."

The Romanian laughed and said, "Tat explains tings. You also work and to not just go to school full time. You have some practice experience beyont your het shovet up your ass and fillet with big taughts"

The Ugandan questioned, "What is your job title?

I told him, "I'm a computer technician for local schools."

He smiled and replied, "I understand that kind of work."

The Romanian them bellowed and started, "He's a fletgling technocrat! Even better than a worker who writes!. You'll make a great censor after you gratuate!"

The Australian interrupted and told me, "Ignore the Romanian. He's had a lot to drink and refuses to believe that the American government does not employ official censors except maybe during times of war."

His slightly slurred speech gave me the impression that he too was half in the sack.

The Romanian then retorted, "What better place to prepare a future government official but in a school where first impressions are made and young minds are moldet!"

It was obvious to me at that point the Romanian was pretty drunk and now looking to argue rather than pleasantly debate. The Ugandan and I changed the subject to computers. The other two men quickly lost interest and said that they were going for a walk to the corner store to get cigarettes.

Before the two men left I asked to take a few pictures of the group so I had something to remember them by and this part of my trip to New Orleans. I snapped at least five pictures of everyone but because of the lighting they did not really turn out very well which I would not know until weeks later when I returned home and had them developed.

I talked with the Ugandan until about 11:00PM. It turns out he knew someone who was also attending the college I was studying at. The person was a second or third cousin of his and thinking of becoming a Roman Catholic priest. I did not know that and thought he was just another foreign student taking one of the religious studies classes required by the college for graduation. I ended our conversation at that point noting that I needed to be up early in the morning to head back home. Within minutes I was in bed and sound asleep.

Homeward Bound

I woke up the next morning around quarter to six and lay on my bunk dozing in and out of sleep for an hour or so before dragging my ass out of bed to shower and pack my stuff up. By 7AM I was checked out and waiting on the front porch for Jackie, wondering if she was actually going to take me up on my offer to drive her to her Grandmother's in Ohio.

After waiting fifteen minutes I started walking towards my car to leave. I figured Jackie changed her mind and didn't want to go now. As I walked down the stairs I heard, "Good Morning TJ. Sorry I'm late. There was a line in the girl's dorm for the shower and my watch was off a few minutes. I hope you weren't planning on leaving without me."

When we got into the car I asked, "Do you want to go get breakfast before leaving the City?"

She said, "Yes, Definitely. I'm hungry. There's a Burger King nearby and I have a coupon for free French toast sticks with the purchase of a coffee."

Jackie directed me me to the restaurant. Based on yesterday's fiasco at a fast food restaurant I asked, "Do you want to go through the drive throw or order inside?

She replied, "Either way is fine but I would rather go inside so I can go to the bathroom."

I parked the car and went inside. She pulled the coupon from her purse and handed it to me. I examined it. It was not expired. We went inside and I walked up to the counter to order, while she made a beeline for the ladies room.

The building was located on an intersection near what looked like several houses converted to office buildings. It was first thing in the morning so the inside was clean and Jackie and I were the only customers inside. There were several cars lined up at the drive through window. It smelled like coffee and fried food.

I ordered two breakfast sandwiches, an order of hash browns and a large Coke for myself and a large coffee and French toast sticks for Jackie, all to go. While the clerks were preparing our order Jackie appeared and shouted, "Please remember honey NOT syrup to dip my sticks in! The syrup here gives me bad gas!"

I asked for honey and the server made a weird face after hearing Jackie then gave me three small containers of it.

I then turned around to ask Jackie what she wanted in her coffee, I noticed she was randomly grabbing item off the condiments counter and putting them in her handbag. The employees did not seem to care. She turned around and told me, "Three creams and one sugar please."

I repeated her request to the cashier as he was getting the drinks ready.

After paying for the meal we got back into the car and started driving again. A freeway exist was just several blocks to the East of us. Once on the highway I inquired "Just how much crap from the restaurant did you actually put in your purse?"

As we ate and drove on the interstate leading out of New Orleans Jackie answered my question and showed me the spoils of her efforts. Three rolls of toilet paper, a huge wad of Kleenex, a dozen or more tampons and pads(she has a special key to unlock dispensers), 3 small (former ) shampoo samplers filled with pink hand soap from a sink dispenser, napkins, straws, a few plastic forks, spoons and knives and handfuls of salt, pepper, relish, mustard and ketchup packets. I now knew why she liked the unusually shaped purse and wondered if it was magic because it seemed to have no limits as to what could be stored inside.

She commented, "I love this shoulder bag. The small white flower patterns printed on the cloth are so pretty. I think it's homemade because it looks like it was cut and hand stitched by someone who's just learning to sew. Kirkey gave it me a couple years ago for a birthday present. I like that it holds so much but does not feel bulky or heavy. You never know when you or someone else might need something. I stock up on little stuff that's free when I can. Burger King certainly won't miss it."

Jackie turned on the radio after she finished eating and just listened quietly to the music for a while. She also rubbed some of the medicated cream she was given yesterday for her itching on her arms, legs and belly. She had used up half the tube already.

My plan was to basically go back the way I came. As I got closer to Ohio though I would then follow the signs directing drivers to Cincinnati and let Jackie take over from there.

Just as we were getting ready to cross over from Louisiana into Mississippi the clouds in the sky quickly thickened and turned dark green. I observed, "It looks like we are driving towards a bad thunderstorm."

Jackie nodded her head in agreement and said, "You may need to pull over in a few minutes while it passes over us if the rain comes down too hard to see through."

It started raining harder and harder as we got closer to the storm. What Jackie said was correct. Diving became hazardous. We and several other cars had to pull over while the sudden torrential downpour passed over. It also hailed for a minute but the ice pellets were not that big. Jackie then pointed to the west and told me "It's worse looking over there. I wonder if there's a tornado?".

Within seven or eight minutes the storm has passed, we had left Louisiana and the sun was shining brightly again.

Radio stations became difficult to tune into after a while so Jackie stopped trying to change channels and took a cassette tape from her purse and put it in the car player. She proclaimed, "I made this tape myself. It holds a lot of meaning for me."

I thought it would be a mixed tape of lots of different tracks. It turned out that there was only one tune on the entire cassette that she recorded over and over again from the radio. The song was "Run Away Train" by Soul Asylum.

As the music played in the background she ruffled through her bag looking for a cigarette and lighter. A piece of scrap paper with handwriting and scribbles fell out on the floor. She asked, "Do you mind if I smoke in your car?"

I said, "No, as long as you open the window and flick your ashes out it"

I then pointed out the paper on the floor and inquired, "What's that?"

Jackie picked it up and told me, "It's a poem I've been working on for a few months now."

I smiled and asked her, "Tell me more. Can you recite it to me and explain it? I've been taking a lot of English classes at college lately. I enjoy literature and writing. "

She hesitated a moment, considered the request then proceeded to unfold the paper and read her poem;

I am bound by a curse

That controls my reality

Victimized by Fate

Making life a series of misunderstandings

Based on what outsiders say and want to believe

I wish those people would just stop launching their warships

And search for the truth

Instead of trying to rescuing me

I know it's not pretty

Though their lies are no better

They cut even deeper wounds than my inner pain

Regretfully

I have no choice but to fulfill my Destiny

While others keep walking in their never-ending circles

The infighting continues

Ignoring my feelings

Accepting fiction as fact

Calling my tears sadness

Instead of frustration

Mislabeling my unconditional love as infatuation

Jackie was crying a little when she finished. I was surprised and impressed that she wrote what she did. I said, "Wow that was good. I can see that you've put a lot of time and thought into it. Can you tell me what inspired you to write it?"

She smiled and seemed appreciative that I actually wanted to know more and just listen to her. Considering we had lots of time to kill I was all ears thinking her explanation would be a lot more interesting than listening to the song in the cassette player for the one hundredth time, silence or radio static.

Her story began soon after a college class she had been auditing ended for the week. It was midafternoon. She, her study group and the class professor were hungry and decided to go have a picnic at the Botanical Gardens.

The group drove their cars to a nearby convenience store, bought subs, chips and a case of beer to drink then met back at the park, to eat and talk. After the beer was gone one of the boys grabbed a full liter of Jack Daniels from his car and the professor started rolling joints for everyone. They had nowhere to go and it was a Friday night. Everyone got hammered.

Eventually things started getting out of hand or weird. Jackie started making out with the professor and her future (ex) husband Perry at the same time. When no one was paying attention she and the instructor snuck off into some nearby bushes and had sex. It was a mind blowing experience for her and the best sex she ever had. She felt in her heart that the teacher was a soul mate and that she needed to talk to him about her revelation later on, when they were sober.

She, and her friends, eventually passed out from all the booze and pot. The professor though, left.

When they all woke from their stupor they were still pretty drunk and decided to keep drinking. Someone suggested walking back to the University campus to find their teacher. On the way there more beer and a bottle of vodka were purchased to drink.

Once back on campus they began walking towards the Psychology Department Faculty offices were. From a distance they saw their teacher get into his car, pull out of the parking lot and drive down the road towards them. Because they were all VERY drunk, a couple of the boys absentmindedly jumped into the road to waive down the professor. .

It was dark and she thinks that their instructor was still pretty wasted from a few hours earlier. He only saw one of the young men staggering and waving at him in the road. He hit the other kid hard. His body flew into the nearby bushes.

The remainder of the group was so impaired that they did not realize what happened and just kept walking towards the professor's office then passed out again on some courtyard benches until they sobered up enough to walk back to their cars in the park and go home.

The professor went home as if nothing happened.

It took several days for the body to be found. It was in pretty bad shape. Jackie said, "The whole night was like a dream and I'm still not sure what the truth was and what was a hallucination. My friends blame the professor. I don't want to believe them because I think it's a lot more complicated than blaming someone. I just need a few minutes alone with him to convince him that its safe and it's OK to trust me."

When questioned, 'Dr. I' apparently told everyone that he went home after eating sandwiches in the park with his students, not his office and that campus security reports were mistaken (this was before sophisticated surveillance camera and building access systems existed so it was an instance of his word against theirs). Police records note that he reported his car stolen the next day.

It could not be proven that the professor was drinking with the kids or driving drunk. No breathalyzer or blood test was administrated because several days had passed before any allegations were made.

The group of students was all drunk and stoned. Their judgment and memories were considerably impaired at the time of the accident. Any testimony they offered would not be credible.

'Dr. I's' lawyer consistently asserts that his client did not drink or smoke marijuana with the students and knows nothing about the incident later that evening because he was at home and his car was stolen.

Jackie loved and trusted her friends but the professor was whom her heart told her she needed to side with in the end. Her feelings and the associated confusion have been plaguing her for too long.

With tears in her eyes she asked me, "So who do you believe?"

I told her, "I honestly don't know because I was not there and am unfamiliar with all the circumstances behind the incident. What I do know though is that you will probably be better off spending time with you Grandmother and thinking things out more before running off to Hawaii."

She smiled and agreed, "Thanks for not judging or trying to lecture me."

We were quiet for an hour or so before she tried the radio again and got a station with music she liked to listen to.

Motel Room in Kentucky

After about nine or ten hours of driving, several gas, bathroom and meal stops we eventually made it to the Kentucky border. The sun was setting and I decided it was best to find a room to crash in for the evening and get some sleep. We still had a long drive ahead.

I exited the highway at the next off ramp with hotels or motels. There was a Motel 6 on one side of the road and a Best Western on the other. I parked at the Best Western because the building did not appear as run down and the sign by the road said there was a free continental breakfast included in the room price. Both places advertised the same price so I figured a free breakfast for two was one less thing I had to pay for.

Before checking in and paying for the room at the front desk Jackie poked through her purse some and pulled out a card of some sort and gave it to me. It was a AAA membership card with her name on it of all things, it was long expired but she suggested, "Let see if they actually notice if it's expired. If they don't we may get the room at a discounted rate."

I figured we had nothing to lose and presented the card when asking for a room.

The hotel office was just a converted room. A cheap aluminum screen door covered the entrance and the main door was open so that customers could come in. There was no carpet on the floor; it was covered with cream colored linoleum tile with pink and mint green speckles. The room smelled like floor cleaner. Instead of a double bed, nightstand and dresser the room had a counter with a computer terminal and printer in the center. A medium sized, grey shop fan was hanging from the ceiling in the far back left corner next to the bathroom entrance. It was set on high and making a lot of noise.

A faded tan couch was placed to the left of the office entrance under a picture window whose matching tan curtains were pulled closed. A very fat black and while cat was sleeping on the right side, I was not sure if it was just overweight or pregnant.

Next to the sofa there was a wooden, standard looking, circular hotel room table covered with pamphlets and maps of nearby or local tourist attractions, one being Mammoth Caves which I remembered seeing signs for on the way down to New Orleans. I took one of those to look at later.

Behind the check in counter was a young woman who looked around Jackie's and my age, maybe a little younger. She was kind of short, probably about five foot three or four and pretty chunky, I suppose easily over one hundred pounds. She had straight greasy brown hair that hung just past her shoulders and looked like she trimmed it herself because it was uneven.

She was wearing a tight white blouse with short sleeves that looked as if the buttons on the chest would pop off at any second and an equally bad fitting blue skirt that held her oversized middle region in place, revealing way too much cellulous above the knee.

She had brown eyes and bushy almost manlike mono-brow that was in dire need of trimming. The hair on her arms that was thicker than mine. She had a five o'clock shadow on her chin. Her nametag said that her name was Betty-Sue. She had a look of boredom or disinterest on her face that made me think she would rather be anywhere else but here and could care less if we wanted to rob the place or get a room.

Her greeting confirmed by suspicions; She sighed then moaned, "I supposed you want a room," in a drawn out whiny kind of way, as if it was a bother for her to say anything at all.

She then told me, "Its thirty dollars a night."

I asked, "Do you give Triple A discounts on rooms?"

She answered, "Yes. Can I see your card?"

I showed her the card, she took it and she proceeded to check us in.

It was obvious that she did not read the information on it and just continued to enter data into the system. She then inquired, "Are you paying by charge card or with cash?"

I replied, "I'll charge it."

She asked, "Can I see your charge card please?"

I gave her that card and she proceeded to type that information into the credit card transaction system. We all waited a minute or so for the computer systems to process the data before she responded, "With your Triple A discount the room will be twenty three dollars a night. How many nights do you two plan on staying?"

I told her, "Just one, thanks."

She then looked up and eyed both Jackie and I, smiled to herself, then looked back down at her work. I got the impression she thought that we were just there to bang each other's brains out or some other form of sexual debauchery.

I thought to myself, "Whatever. She can believe all she wants but that does not mean it's the truth."

After she finished processing all our information she instructed me, "Please sign these forms."

I signed. She then gave me a copy of the paperwork, reached underneath the counter and handed me a key then told us, "Your room number is one forty seven. Check out time is 10AM. There's a continental breakfast for customers set out in this office starting about 6AM every morning, if you're interested."

I thanked her and we left the office. The cat on the couch also left with us.

When out of earshot and heading for the room Jackie snickered then commented "What a Debbie Downer."

I agreed and added, "If she were more focused on her job she might have noticed that your Triple A card was very much expired and that I was not the cardholder. I think she was more interested in what we might be doing in the bedroom tonight than filling out the forms properly."

Jackie laughed again and said, "I thought that too but bit my tongue when she gave us that look. It made me want to smack her but it was not worth the trouble it would cause in the end. She's a freekin Sasquatch and probably never been kissed by a guy let alone laid before, so what does she know. Why do people's minds always head for the gutter when they see a guy and girl together?"

Immediately I countered, "Because most of the time that's what's going on. I just happen to have platonic housemates and a number of friends that are women that I spend a lot of time with so I know that looks can be deceiving.

The idea of having sex with one of my female housemates or friends, even when drunk, is just plain wrong because they are like family and that's not what those relationships are about. I respect and value those friendships more than my fleeting lust."

Jackie replied, "I appreciate being around men that are not just looking for sex, especially after my divorce. Being listened to and accepted without strings means a lot to me now and feels more intimate than sex."

We arrived at the room and I unlocked the door. Once inside, Jackie immediately turned around, pushed me aside and locked the door before even looking at the room.

She apologized, "Sorry about acting so weird TJ. I don't trust these kinds of places. I was jumped once by a biker chick in Texas who was looking for drugs, money or something because I forgot to lock the door behind me when entering the motel room. I was alone and really had to take a piss so I just shut the door and ran to the bathroom. When I was finished I saw the bitch going through my shit on the bed and yelled at her. The women lunged at me and knocked me to the ground. I hit my head hard and passed out. When I woke up all my money and the baggie of pot in my purse was gone. She also took some of my clothes from my duffle bag."

The next thing Jackie did was pull off the bed spread and throw it in a corner. Jackie then informed me, "I worked as a maid for a few weeks in a motel once. I was disgusted with what I learned about how hotel rooms are cleaned. The sheets and blankets are almost always washed daily but not the comforters. Yuck! "

The bathroom was her next stop. She assured me, "Don't worry I'm not crazy and know what I'm doing. I just want to make sure the room is properly cleaned for us to use before settling down for the night."

She then proceeded to take her shirt off, found a clean towel on the dresser and took a small bottle of what looked like Mr. Clean from her purse. The water in the tub and sink were turned on and steam started coming out of the bathroom. Jackie bitched, "I can't believe what a crappy job they did cleaning this room! We are not leaving a tip for the maid!"

Rather than instigate her on more I just agreed and looked around. The faded tan curtains were closed. The room looked like a normal hotel or motel room to me.

The brown Berber carpet was pretty worn out and stained in a number of places but looked like it was vacuumed recently to me (meaning I didn't see any crumbs or small pieces of paper scattered around). The bed was queen size and was neatly made with white sheets, two pillows and a pink thermal blanket all tucked snug under the mattress. There were nightstands and lamps on both sides of the bed. A digital alarm clock was on the left night stand and a push button telephone was on the right one.

There was a dresser with clean towels, some small soap, a disposable razor, shaving cream and several tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner. A large twenty one inch TV set with a remote control and cable TV box also set on top of the dresser.

Under the window was heating/air-conditioning unit. The room was hot, stuffy and getting humid from the hot water being run in the other room. I went over and turned it on high to cool things down some.

To the right of the window was a round table like the one in the front office that had a pad of paper and few pens with the Best Western emblems printed on them. There was also a dark blue stuffed reading chair next to the table and a metal folding chain pushed under the table.

The walls were covered with a tan-ish textured vinyl wall paper, like the stuff my parents papered their kitchen and living room with. A few corners were frayed and peeling away from the wall in three or four spots. There were also two wood framed cheesy prints of a log cabin and a barn hanging on the wall, one on each side of the TV, above the dresser.

I then grabbed the remote control, kicked off my sneakers, sat down on the edge of the bed and turned the TV on. I started flipping through stations to see if anything interesting was on. I watched a show on The Comedy Network.

About ten minutes later, the water in the bathroom stopped running and I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I figured Jackie was done with the bathroom and moved on to something else. She was cleaning a mirror on the wall with the towel and was completely naked. She then started working her way around the room wiping all the surfaces down with the towel.

She had a lit cigarette in her mouth and was still grumbling to herself again on what a bad job the cleaning people did. She turned around, looked at me and smiled and said, "It's cool. I trust you."

She explained, "I'm soaking my underwear and bra in the sink. It's been a while since I could give them a good cleaning."

She then continued cleaning the room for a few more minutes.

She looked pretty good to me, despite having major stubble on her legs, armpits and a lot of thick, dark pubic hair that went down her inner thighs and up to her belly button. Her frumpy baggy clothes covered an alluring body.

Looking at her you'd never know that she was ever pregnant and/or gave birth. I could not see any stretch marks. She had just the right amount if curve around her hips and ass and firm looking thirty four or six C cup breasts with small pink nipples. I could also smell her pussy. The situation had me wondering and lusting for a few moments but thankfully my conscience kicked in and I quickly realized just how much she depended on me to feel safe and how wrong it would be for me to take advantage of her.

As soon as Jackie was done wiping everything down she put out her cigarette in an ashtray on the dresser, grabbed the shaving cream and razor then headed back to the bathroom. I could hear the water in the bathtub running again. I started watching the news on CNN.

Five or so minutes later, the water was turned off again and Jackie called out, "TJ can you come here for a little while? I'm lonely and want you to come talk to me while I shave and clean myself up some."

I got up from the bed, went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Jackie's underwear was now drip-drying on a towel rack above the toilet, behind me. Her handbag was sitting on the toilet top. Makeup and feminine products where spread out around the sink.

The tub was half filled with water. Jackie's legs and pubic area were covered with shaving cream. She kept repeating to her-self and me, "It's so nice to have a private bathroom. I really appreciate being able to take a proper bath. This is so much better for cleaning yourself up versus the shared facilities at hostels or women's shelters."

During her bath she asked me, "Can you tell me what's going on in the news? What were you watching on TV?"

I focused very hard at looking at her face and in the eyes instead of her naked body. It was not easy initially but after a while the novelty of talking to nude women does wear off especially when the option of sex is removed from the tangent. She lifted her arms and legs in various positions, scraping at them with the razor while I talked.

I told her about what was going on in Washington and what the weather was supposed to be like tomorrow. I also told her about a funny Kids in the Hall skit I saw on The Comedy Network where these two men are trapping businesspeople in a city to sell their suits to a clothier. I don't think she understood the warped humor and gave me a look like I was weird to think that was actually funny.

I then remembered the Mammoth Cave pamphlet I took from the front desk. I retrieved it and read through it as she finished trimming herself. We decided it would be fun to take a short side trip tomorrow on the way back before dropping her off at her Grandmother's.

Upon making the decision, I got up and went back into the bedroom. Jackie got out of the tub and announced, "I still need to shower before calling it a night. I'm going to look like a prune by the time I'm done."

I think it was around 9:30 or 10 PM.

Just as I started getting comfortable Jackie called me again, "TJ can you please come back to the bathroom?"

I answered, "Sure, " got up and went over to the door.

She was sitting on the toilet taking a dump. She complained to herself, "I think I'm still constipated," looked up at me, smiled and told me, "Thank you. It feels wonderful to be able to relax, trust, be treated nice and helped by someone I hardly know. It's good to know there are people like you in the world."

It was strange to hear those words from a naked woman taking a crap but said, "Thanks," anyways and let her finish her business without an audience.

While Jackie was in the shower, before taking my pants off and getting into bed, I slipped my credit card, remaining money and car key into my right sock just in case she was setting me up. I was really talking a risk bringing a stranger home and would feel pretty dumb if I awoke stranded in Kentucky with no way to get back.

She came out of the bathroom and asked, "Have you seen a hair dryer anywhere in the room?"

I answered without looking away from the TV, "There might be one in one of the dresser drawers."

She checked and found one. She noted, "I need it for my hair and to finish drying my underwear."

She ran the dryer about seven or eight minutes then I her suddenly yell, "Shit!"

She was just wearing her panties and had a look of concern on her face.

I asked her, "What's wrong? Is everything OK?"

She told me, "I just ran out of that itch cream."

I replied, "It will be OK. Tomorrow you'll be in Cincinnati and can go see a doctor like your friends suggested."

Jackie snapped back, "But in the meantime I'll drive myself and everyone around me silly scratching myself all over."

I lied and assured her, "I won't mind," knowing that her scratching would probably keep me awake most of the night.

She was obviously too tired and in no mood to discuss the issue anymore. She sighed and said, "OK. Can we leave the TV on all night just in case I have trouble sleeping?"

I told her, "No problem. I won't mind."

We both went to bed. Jackie commented, "You wear your socks to bed? That's funny. Don't your feet get too hot?"

I told her, "My feet are sensitive and I'd rather them feel hot than tickled from a breeze or a loose sheet. I relax and sleep better that way"

After we finished talking I rolled over and closed my eyes. She flipped through channels for a while. I eventually fell into an uneasy sleep for an hour or so then woke up to Jackie scratching herself, as expected.

I spent the rest of the night falling asleep for a few minutes then being stirred awake again and again by Jackie scratching some part of her. We lay in bed for seven or eight hours before getting up the next morning.

I got out of bed before she did. She appeared to still be asleep. I went into the bathroom and showered. I removed everything from my sock and put it all back into my pants pockets.

When I was done cleaning myself up I went back into the bedroom. Jackie was fully dressed and sitting up in the bed smoking a cigarette. She had turned the TV off and let me know, "I'll be ready to go as soon as soon as I go to the bathroom."

I asked her, "How did you sleep?"

She replied, "OK I guess. The last bit of medicine must have helped some. The rash did not bother me as much as I thought it would."

Before leaving the room Jackie filled her bag with all the unused personal hygiene paraphilia from the dresser and bathroom as well as helping herself to a couple clean washcloths. We dropped the room key off in the front office in a lock box.

It did not appear that anyone was manning the desk but drinks, donuts, bagels muffins and condiments were all left out on a table for people to help themselves too. I grabbed a raisin bagel, two fry cakes and a coke for the road. Jackie got herself a coffee and bran muffin to eat in the car and napkins, packets of jelly, coffee creamers and a Diet Coke for later.

I filled the car's gas tank up at a nearby self-service station. It was a little after 8AM when we were back on the highway driving North. Mammoth Caves National Park was still an hour or two away. Jackie turned on the radio and we both ate our food.

Mammoth Caves

Eventually it became difficult to tune into the types of radio stations we wanted to listen to so rather than listen to static or Country Music Jackie pushed her "Run Away Train" tape back into the cassette player. After the eighth or ninth time hearing the song I suggested listening to one of my tapes. She quickly glanced at my selections and said, "No thank you."

The song continued repeating.

I focused on driving and attempted to ignore the music, which was beginning to annoy me. I hate listening to the same songs over and over again. Jackie just had a blank look on her face like she was thinking while she randomly scratched her arms and legs. I did not feel like talking much either until I needed help following the directions on the pamphlet to get to the park. Once we were off the interstate again at the stated exit Jackie told me where to turn. After a half hour to forty five minutes we were at the park entrance.

We arrived at the park around the time I thought we would. There was plenty of time to take the tour detailed in the handout and be back on the road by lunch time.

The park's main visitor center was located in the middle of a forest. I followed the signs along the road to the designated lot and parked the car. I looked at Jackie and she seemed reluctant.

I asked her, "What's wrong?"

She answered, "I've never been in a cave before. I'm worried about feeling too boxed in. I have issues with small spaces sometimes."

I reassured her by saying, "I've never been in a cave before either. I sometimes get claustrophobic and panic. I'm pretty sure though we'll be fine and you can hold my hand if you get too nervous."

She smiled. It looked like she felt a little better. I commented, "I want to try this experience at least once in my life and since I have no immediate plans to return here any time soon now is probably the best time to do it."

We got out of the car and she lit up a cigarette. She asked me, "Can you wait a minute while I smoke?"

I nodded and looked around.

We were definitely in the middle of the woods. The air smelled moist and leafy. It was still pretty early so the morning fog was still burning off and there was a slight chill in the air. I saw several deer walking nonchalantly along the perimeter fence to my distant left.

There were several school buses parked in the lot and a couple cars with out of state plates that appeared to be other drive-by tourists like Jackie and I. The voices of chattering High Schoolers made the moment seem less peaceful.

There was a line of students waiting for the visitor center to open and two large groups of kids walking towards some trail signs. I informed Jackie, "We probably need to get in line soon to pay for the cave tour that we read about last night."

She finished her cigarette as we walked up to the building and waited with the rest of the crowd for the building to open.

Within a few minutes the rangers opened the door and everyone started walking into the building. As we walked up though one of the teenage girls bumped into Jackie and gave her a dirty look. The girl looked about seventeen or eighteen and was a hot looking blond from my standpoint, despite her bitchy attitude.

I didn't get that good of a look at her because she was moving so fast to keep up with her friends but I could see that she was wearing a pair of red jeans that covered her tight little ass just right, black flip flops and a yellow long sleeve top that accentuated her breasts and had a low cut back that showed off a lot of her skin as well as a white bra strap. Jackie scowled back and shouted at her, "What the fuck is your problem? Do you have any manners?"

The girl just ignored Jackie and continued to walk away talking to her friends eventually blending into the crowd.

The visitor center was basically one big room. It was pure chaos at the time because of the all the students. Being in our early twenties Jackie and I probably did not look much older or different than the majority of the young people wandering around the building to the middle aged park employee taking headcounts for the excursion.

While Jackie was stewing in a corner over the dumb blond that stepped on her foot I made it look like I was just one of the students and got two free tour passes instead of paying for them. The cashier handing out the tickets was oblivious and I figured I could use the money I saved to buy lunch after we were done with our side trip.

Once the vouchers were distributed the wardens began breaking the group up into smaller more manageable groups. I quickly walked over to Jackie and instructed her in a lowered voice, "We need to find a group to stand with, " then flashed her the passes I got.

She smiled, knowing exactly what I did and what we needed to do to get a free tour. She grabbed my hand, moved a few steps forward behind the closest cluster of teens and listened to the park ranger go over safety issues and the park's story.

The tour guide reminded everyone, "Please be very careful when walking on or around things. Things can get pretty slippery because of all the dampness inside the caves.

Don't touch or remove anything from the caverns we will be walking though. It's a federal offence and all violators will be prosecuted.

Kids, it all comes down to not wreaking Mother Nature so that others can't enjoy her stuff in the future. If everyone that walked through these tunnels took a little piece of rock there would be no more caves after a few years. Also something as basic as the oils on our skin will can destroy the stalactites, stalagmites and pillars when touched needlessly."

The guy snickered after saying the word pillar and stated, "In the part of Kentucky I'm from the word 'pillars' means something you sleep on at night, not a pretty rock formation."

The crowd all laughed at his comment.

When the clamor settled down the leader began sharing details about the Cave and Park history. He told us about how Native Americans have been living around the caves for thousands of years, that people mined saltpeter for gunpowder there starting around the War of 1812 and how individuals with the lung disease Tuberculosis used to come to the caves thinking the cool damp environment might cure them of their disease. I also learned that it was the longest cave system in the world and that there's a section of the caves called Hades where the river Styx runs through.

I could barely see the speaker because we were so far back and most of the kids were not really sitting still or paying much attention. When the ranger was done speaking he happily told everyone, "Please follow me now to the cave entrance."

Jackie and I worked our way to the middle of the group as it moved. Doing so was a good idea. They were collecting the passes as we exited the building to count how many people were in each group.

The distance from the visitor center to the cave entrance was not very far. I was sort of surprised how well it blended in with the forest. If I was walking around I would have never noticed it until I was right there. The fog had cleared but it looked like it might rain soon. The temperature had not changed much either.

A maintenance person was waiting for us at the entrance. They unlocked the grate covering the cave. We were all told to walk in.

I don't remember a whole lot about the tour. I remember thinking it was cool but not as extraordinary as I initially imagined it would be.

The formations were interesting and in one of the caves where there were a lot of stalactites and stalagmites, the guide asked us if we knew the difference. I took some pictures as we moved along.

Close to the midway point the pathway through the caves got a lot thinner and I started to worry about Jackie. I think the area was called Fat Man's Misery. I looked for her. She was a few people ahead of me. She did not seem bothered and more focused on looking around or scratching herself until I saw who was standing in front of her. It was the girl that knocked into her out in the parking lot. Jackie noticed her too. I thought, "Oh shit," and hoped nothing would happen.

The trail eventually got wide again, leading everyone into a large cavern. The tour guide told us how many feet underground we were and that they were going to turn the lights out to show us just how dark it gets down there.

The kids all obviously thought it would be cool and started mumbling amongst them-selves.

A few seconds after the lights went out a large "SNAP" and "OW THAT'S MY FUCKING BRAWSTRAP YOU ASSHOLE JEFF!!!" echoed through the grotto.

The crowd laughed. A teacher immediately shushed the group. Someone then from the other side of the group shouted "IT WASN'T ME. I'M OVER HERE!"

The retort made the class laugh even more. The teachers quieted the crowd again.

Just as the lights went on Jackie grabbed my hand and was standing next to me. The girl that bumped into her was looking around wildly at who was close enough to her to do what they did. She started to cry from the embarrassment because there were no obvious culprits. As we began to move again Jackie waited a while then pulled me close to her confessing in my ear, "It was me"

I whispered back, "I kind of figured that considering you weren't standing next to me when we entered the room."

The tour ended with a tall metal stairwell that went up several stories. It was a slow paced walk for me.

I'm a natural klutz and because the stars were pretty wet I did not want to slip and fall. I really took my time compared to the kids behind us who were bitching and complaining how slow I was.

Jackie turned around and gave them a glair because she did not want to slip either.

I heard Jackie's teenage nemesis on the platform below. I noticed a torquise ring on her left ring finger that was not there earlier. She was whining to her girlfriends, "Errrg. I have this annoying itchy feeling on both my hands and feet. I think I stepped in or touched something gross and need to go to the bathroom as soon as I'm out of here. I have to wipe them off before I like get that tiberosos disease they told us about in the beginning."

When we got to the top of the stairwell and exited the caves, all the kids all went back to the visitor center while Jackie and I headed for the car. It had started to drizzle and neither of us wanted to get any wetter than we already were from the tour.

Cincinnati

There was still a lot of drive time ahead of us. We needed to get back to Interstate 65 and find someplace to get lunch.

I stopped at the first McDonalds we came upon. I parked and asked Jackie, "Do you need to go to the bathroom? After I take a piss I'm going to order lunch. Do you want me to get you anything?"

She handed me a coupon for a buy one get one free cheeseburgers deal and told me, "Don't order me a drink. I still have an unopened soda in my bag from earlier."

We both used the facilities. I ordered three cheeseburgers and two small fries for us to eat in the car.

The drive became gloomy. I topped the gas tank off right after buying lunch so I would not have to stop again for gas until after I dropped Jackie off.

The sky was cloudy. It was raining out and the temperature got colder as we drove northward. Radio stations were easier to tune into though so I didn't have to listen to Jackie's tape anymore.

Jackie started talking about how weird it will be to see her grandmother. She has not talked to her in almost ten years and hopes she's still living in the brick row house they (her maternal grandparents) bought during the late nineteen fifties in the Mount Auburn neighborhood. The last time Jackie talked to one of her cousins a year or so ago they said the she was still there but circumstances might have changed.

She went on to tell me that both her grandparents' families were Greek and immigrated to America from Eastern Thrace during World War I.

Her grandmother's maiden name was Laophonte and her grandfather's last name was Thestius. The families were from the same village but came over at different times.

Circumstances however landed both clans in Cincinnati after leaving Ellis Island. Upon reconnecting they arranged the marriage of their children to reinforce their cultural bonds.

Jackie thought it was interesting listening to her Grandparents argue with each other in Greek at home but in Turkish when in public. She lived with them for months at a time when she was little.

Jackie also noted, "Looking back. I don't think that they really liked each other but they did treat their kids and grandkids like saints.

Grandma seemed a lot happier after my grandfather died. He was hit by a delivery truck when coming home one morning after working a night shift. Grandpa was a manager at a soap factory."

Jackie added, "My mother told me that he had lots of younger girlfriends on the side because Grandma thought sex was disgusting.

Mom said that even in his fifties he looked young and handsome, while Grandma looked twenty years older.

Women liked spending time with him. He was polite, listened to them and liked to talk about all sorts of things like books and politics."

Her grandfather apparently read a lot while on his breaks at work or at home. Her grandparents' house had a whole room dedicated to the books he read over the years. The books were in English, Greek and Turkish.

The grandmother was always suspicious of him being unfaithful when working double and night shifts. When he was killed she considered it a form of celestial punishment for his philandering.

I guess her grandmother read a lot too but mainly light stuff like the newspaper, detective novels and Readers Digest magazines. Jackie said, "Grandma also knitted a lot and grew a vegetable garden in their backyard. I loved eating the black raspberries and helping her make jam every summer.

I remember Grandma dutifully having breakfast ready for Grandpa when he came home in the morning from work. It was usually sausage eggs and toast.

When I stayed with them Grandma usually made a light lunch for us of tuna salad, cheese or jam on bread because Grandpa usually was asleep and did not eat lunch.

Dinner was also always ready by five in the afternoon on the dot. It always consisted of meat, potatoes or rice, never pasta though, a salad and homemade dessert. Grandma made the best Greek and Turkish pastries.

Grandpa used to say that pasta was for the fucking Italians. He hated Italians and proclaimed that they were all stupid rag pickers who drank wine made from dog shit and slept with their cousins."

Jackie recalled there being two twin beds in their upstairs bedroom. The guest bedroom was used to store canned good and showcase the few family heirlooms or photos that survived the trip over from the Old Country.

She usually slept on the couch when she stayed with them or her grandfather's bed if she was sick. Her grandparents would quietly read at night until she fell asleep which was when her grandfather would usually leave for work (or a corner bar to talk with his friends on his days off) and Grandma would go upstairs to read more or go to bed.

Jackie continued narrating her story, telling me, "My mother, Leda, had major rebellion, drug and anger issues. She frequently took advantage of my grandparents, asking them for money or to take care of me while she ran off with some guy she just met for months at a time.

One time, when I was six or seven, a mentally disturbed acquaintance of one of my mother's many boyfriends picked me up at my Mom's place and told me he was bringing me to a Munchkin farm to live with the Lollypop Kids, then left me for several weeks with a boy about my age named Ted and his mother in Athens, Ohio. I was totally oblivious.

Police and child protective services eventually found out what happened, located me, stormed the place and brought me back to my mother. I'm not totally convinced that my mother was completely innocent either or if the incident was another one of her attempts to be kid free for a while and play victim. Something she liked to do often."

Tears started coming from Jackie's eyes. She, pulled a cigarette out of her purse, pressed the in car lighter in, rolled down the window, lit the cigarette with the lighter after it popped out and started smoking it.

She told me, "I wish I knew my grandparents better and remembered more but I was always at the mercy of my mother's crazy making.

I think that my grandfather was tall and skinny based on my memory and pictures. He had black hair, a mustache and smelled like peppermint.

Grandma always looked old to me. She had long salt and pepper hair rolled into a bun that was combed every morning, before being neatly pinned to the back of her head. Grandma wore long wool black dresses, even before grandpa died, that covered up nearly all of her body so one could not really tell how much she weighed.

Grandma was slightly shorter than Grandpa. She liked to where a plain white apron over her dress that had 2 pockets on its front. That was where she stored nail clippers, a small pair of sewing scissors and a pencil stub.

Grandma's eyes were brown and sad looking. Her nose was pointy and crooked.

She visited the beauty shop once a week to get her hair washed and tend to any facial hair issues with her chin or eyebrows that needed taking care of.

Grandma smelled like dish soap or coffee because she drank a lot of coffee and hated dirty dishes in the sink. She used to say that's what Italians did and she that never wanted to be accused of keeping house like a filthy Italian woman."

Apparently their mutual hate for Italians was one thing Jackie's grandparents did share and agree on. One would think it was the Turks but no, they were indifferent to them because the Ottoman Empire was more than just the Turks.

The Turks were just one of many groups, including the Greeks that were ruled over by the Ottomans. It was the Italians they hated because they lost several family members who were conscripted by the Ottomans into a war between Turkey and Italy over Libya and some islands in the Aegean Sea.

Jackie went on to say, "My mother never told me much about my biological father's family. She always assumed he was no better off than she was.

Over time though I put two and two together and figured out that my father was probably the reason my mom initially moved away from Cincinnati. Whenever I asked her about him or his origins, Mom would just say that he sold Schwan products from a freezer truck."

To change the subject I pointed out, "Hey. I notice that you don't seem to be itching yourself much anymore if at all. Are you feeling better?"

Jackie paused a minute and thought about my comment then started to smile. She said, "I guess that Amber was right about that ring."

I asked, "So what happened to the ring that you guys were talking about?"

Jackie giggled and bragged, "I ditched it on the little cunt in the cave. I slipped it into her purse while exchanging it for a pack of cigarettes I found inside.

I snapped her bra strap to both teach the rude bitch a lesson and distract her some. She's way too young to smoke anyways. It's a dirty habit and I'm pretty sure her parents don't approve."

I laughed in response to her comments and stated, "I'm glad that you're at least feeling physically better. It's also good that you get all these thoughts out before seeing your grandmother. You two will have a lot to talk about and figure out."

Jackie said, "I believe that Grandma will probably act oblivious or absent minded at this point. She will proclaim that the past was so long ago, and claim she's forgotten a lot since the last time she saw me.

I'm pretty sure that Grandma will probably be happy just knowing that I'm there for the moment and be content with small talk versus unpleasant details of what's happened in the last decade between me and my mom.

Grandma though probably knows a lot more than she will reveal but won't want rock the boat, staying away from touchy subjects to keep the peace and not push me away at this stage of her life.

Or at least this is the conclusion my cousin and I came to the last time we talked."

It sounded to me like her grandmother was lonely and misses her family so any contact would be greatly appreciated.

I then inquired, "Have you thought much about your decision to go to Hawaii?"

She answered, "Not much really. I've been thinking it might not be a bad idea to get a job for a while so that I can save up enough money to buy a one way plane ticket there. As irrational as it seems my heart keeps telling me that he will stay put and be there for me to talk to when I get there, be it a few days, months or years.

That's how soul mates are. Time does not change the connection."

I asked her, " So what kind of work or job are you considering?"

Jackie told me, "I might apply to a temp agency and try lots of different receptionist jobs or maybe try working at hospital.

There is a hospital within walking distance from my Grandma's that's always looking for help in the cafeteria or in maintenance."

I replied, "It's good that you are laying out a plan. So many people in your position feel powerless. They never accomplish their goals or anything in those lines because they don't make a plan and take the first steps.

You don't seem to be that way. You are flexible enough to change if you need to and not afraid to admit that you were wrong or made a mistake."

She gave me a look of gratitude and said, "Thanks. I like getting compliments with details. I'm not used to getting them."

For five or six more hours we drove and talked about the stories she remembered regarding her family history before arriving in Cincinnati.

Once inside the City limits Jackie basically remembered how to get to her Grandparents' home. After a few wrong turns and some backtracking we arrived in Mount Auburn. The area seemed pretty hilly to me.

Jackie directed me to park in the street in front a several groupings of red brick row houses. The neighborhood looked like it was well tended. There was no garbage in the postage stamp front lawns, just winterized flowerbeds and rock gardens.

The three story narrow houses all basically looked the same other than their owner's decorations and personalized touches. They all had brick stairs with six steps and rod iron railings that lead to black front doors. Three or four of the residences had American Flags. All had big picture windows on the ground floors, two regular windows on the second floors and one on the third floor. Some had pruned rose bushes under the picture window and others had what looked like trimmed raspberry plants.

It was around 6PM. I had no idea where in the City we were or what street we were on but Jackie did. She took a deep breath then got out of the car and walked quickly to a stairway with a plastic statue of a cat sitting on the stair. I followed to make sure she was going to be OK. She bent over and patted its head and said, "Hello Kitty. It's good to see you're still guarding the entrance to Grandma's house. I missed you too."

Jackie then pressed a doorbell on the right side of the door. The Mason jar porch light on the left side of the doorway turned on and the door opened. A lady who matched the description Jackie gave me of her grandmother came out with wide eyes and a big open mouth smile yelling, "HELEN!"

Jackie modestly said, "Hi Grandma."

They both gave each other big teary happy hugs and kisses for about five minutes.

I wondered why her grandmother just called her Helen. I was confused and I think Jackie noticed. Her Grandmother asked us both to come in. I replied, "Thanks but I need to get back on the highway. I'm hoping to get home sometime tonight still. I want to make the best of the remaining daylight and least get out of the City back onto the highway northward."

Jackie told her grandmother, "I want to say goodbye to TJ before coming in."

She came down to me, took the jacket I leant her off and offered it back to me saying with wet appreciative eyes, "Thank you for everything."

I pointed out, "You will need that jacket more than I do. You have almost no clothes and it's a lot colder up here than in New Orleans. You should keep it."

She started to cry and gave me a big hug and kiss on the cheek saying ,"I will remember your kindness for the rest of my life."

I replied, "I'll remember you too. I'm curious though why your grandmother just called you Helen."

Jackie smiled and let me know, "That's my middle name. Both me and my mother have the same first name, 'Jacquelyn, '

To not confuse our names family members call or know me by Helen and my mom as Leda, her middle name.

Jackie is the name I use around friends and non-family."

Her response made sense to me because my step father did the same thing.

I didn't linger around much longer, gave her a final hug goodbye, got into my car and drove away. I saw her go into the house in my rearview mirror as I turned around and drove back the way I came.

My conscience was glad I did what I did. Jackie was crazy to think she could get to Hawaii on an impulse with no money. Maybe her grandmother would talk her out of chasing the guy down and help fix Jackie's life. I just knew that if I left her in New Orleans she would have surely ended up in trouble.

I simultaneously felt both a relief and loss the rest of the way home.

It would take several weeks before I stopped annualizing the events, wondering why things happened the way they did.

I got home early the next morning and passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow. It had been a long week.

Conclusion

I waffle a lot between the concepts of Synchronicity and Fate.

Was I guided to New Orleans by a higher power to remove Jackie from a volatile situation or was it dumb luck that I happened to be in the right place at the right time?

I've wondered many times over the years about what happened to Jackie after I dropped her off.

The realist side of me assumes she still ended up dead in an abandoned well or shallow grave somewhere despite my efforts to help. However, the optimist part hopes that she came to her senses.

Maybe reconnecting with her Grandmother helped Jackie to remember stability.

Rather than allowing her obsession with the college professor to control her Destiny she decided to take control of her choices focusing instead on rebuilding her life, eventually letting go of the past and moving on.

I envisioned her getting a decent job and after a few months retrieving her son, then starting over in Cincinnati.

It's taken me nearly twenty years to remember everything and get it all down on paper. All the words I needed to complete this piece were hard to come by until now.

I am also confident that there are additional chapters to this story; they're just not mine to tell.

