by Rudolph James

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New Orleans, LA, USA - Some women are like that. Every time you meet them it's the first time but just for this once. They tell you things like: "Still love everybody I ever loved." You want to show them you understand, so you say, "Yeah. I got that problem, too." They smile. So you want to take them out only it's not them anymore it's her.

You take her to an all-you-can-eat bar-b-que place and introduce her to your bartender friend. He's happy to see you and she starts telling him all about when "we" woke up and "we" were getting dressed and "we" were deciding what to eat and do for the day when "we" decided to come here. Even though you just met her she's saying "we" like you've been married for twenty years. You sort of like that. You're happy that she would rather be a "we" than an "I" so you sit there and eat yet another spare rib.

---

The Hotel Orleans was located on a strip of St. Charles Avenue inhabited by the out of work, the new in town, the just passing through, the trying to get settled, the pint of blood for a room for the night type of people who lived within eyesight and earshot of the sights and sounds of the French Quarter and either reflected on days gone by or dreamed of days to come.

I came out of that hotel one day by myself and walked a block over to Camp Street to get something to eat. I had to leave the hotel early because the people on Camp Street close the gates over there at two o'clock. I wanted to make sure I got in, otherwise I would have to wait until six o'clock for a sandwich. One slice of bologna with a load of mayonnaise on a plain bun.

So I got there early. Me and about ninety other people. Everyone was sitting or standing around reading or talking or bitching or bumming cigarettes. I didn't bum any smokes because I had some on me. I was real careful about lighting them up.

A line started to form as the volunteers were letting people into the Mission. I already had a spot close to the front door because I knew where to hang around. I spotted my current friend standing closer to the front than I was and called out to him. He made a gesture with two fingers to see if I had a cigarette. I walked up to him and we both lit one up. Some people complained that I was passing them up, cutting the line. I paid them off with cigarettes.

Today's lunch at the Mission is yesterday's leftover fish and rice, a hard doughnut, ice water and carrots in an indefinable sauce. I sat down at a long table with my current friend and a bunch of other strangers.

"So what have you been up to?" I asked my friend.

"Nothing, Jay. Just hanging around the A & P down on Royal Street with my guitar," he said.

"You make any money with that thing?" I asked him.

"Nah. You know, man, enough for a quart of beer and a package of red meat."

We kept on talking, not out of interest, but to take our minds off what we were eating. I was lucky to be sitting next to this guy I knew who was also staying at the Orleans. Otherwise, I would have to talk to a stranger.

"So how about you?" he asked me. "You doing O.K.?"

"I get by," I said. "You know." I forced down some carrots. "I've been hanging around with this girl the past few days. We seem to be having some fun."

"No shit? What she look like?"

"She's sort of slim with thick blonde hair that she keeps tied back, big blue eyes ... "

"Vickie?" He looked at me aghast with doughnut crumbs hanging all over his mouth, making his eyes look bigger.

"You know her?" I asked.

"Vickie?" he asked me again, "with the big tits and bad teeth?" He made a gesture with his hands that exaggerated the size of her breasts.

"Yeah. That's her. How do you know her?" I asked.

"Oh shit, man," he said. He stuck his tongue out trying to lick all the crumbs off his mouth. "I went out with her last week. You know, man, I had some extra cash on me so I bought us a couple of beers." He gulped down some water and went on. "We were playing pool, in the back, you know, the bar across from the hotel?"

"Yeah."

"So we were having a good time and when we finished the beers I went up and got us two more. Then I said: 'Listen, Babe, I gottah take a piss. I'll be right out.'

"She just smiles and says, 'O.K.'." He stopped to scoop up the carrot sauce with a piece of white bread that he swapped from the guy on his other side at the table for the remainder of his doughnut.

"So what happened?" I asked him after he kept chewing.

"When I came out of the pisser she was gone, man! That's what happened! She was gone, the two cans of beer were gone, the dollar and change I left on the bar was gone."

"I bet you the bartender took the change for a tip."

"I doubt that," he said.

"Well, I don't know," I said. "I let her stay with me the past few days and she never took anything from me. I mean, I loaned her a jacket to wear but I'm sure she'll return it."

He leaned over close to me and whispered, real low: "Hey, Jay, check out that guy across the table from us." He pointed to a man who was bent over his food tray wolfing down his food. The man was scooping up the fish and rice with a plastic spoon in one hand and takes a plastic fork in the other and sticks it into a doughnut and dunking that into the ice water and stuffs all of it into his mouth. He kept making these two handed stabs at his food and stuffing his mouth as quickly as he could.

"Looks like that guy hasn't eaten in four weeks," I said.

"Nah, man," my friend said. "That guy is an old pro. He knows the only way to eat shit is to eat it."

---

So you're sitting in a bar. No. THE Bar. The one across the street from the hotel where all the strangers go so they can remain strangers. You're talking about that girl. Everyone says she's all right. Don't worry.

You say, "Well, I gave her a shirt to wear, but I only let her borrow my jacket."

And the next guy says,"I used to have a jacket once."

---

Larry, the owner of the bar, has been holding court on that strip of St. Charles Avenue for over forty years. He's seen them all come and go. The strangers, the prostitutes, the tourists who stay in the rooms above his bar and come in and talk to "those" people who they would never associate with in their real lives. He likes all of them. Larry has an understanding but detached smile he gives them all along with an equal amount of service and insults.

"So, you working yet, kid?" he asked me.

"Yeah. I got some work with the labor pool this morning. It looks like it might be steady work, so I might find me an apartment down by the Quarter somewhere."

"So I guess you can pay for this beer I put in front of you," Larry deadpanned. He loved to set you up like that.

"I'm going West to Phoenix," the guy next to me said. "I got some work waiting for me there."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked him. He looked like he was about to have a breakdown of sorts.

"I'm a lobster man," he said into his imaginary drink.

"I don't think you'll catch too many lobsters there," I told him.

"No?" He seemed surprised. He looked down at the drink he wished he had. Then he looked up at me and said, "I could cook, too, you know. I'll go to Phoenix and be a cook." He thought about it for a second, then said, "Yeah. That's what I'll do."

"Hey!" Larry slammed his hand on the bar in front of the lobsterman. "You gonnah bullshit all day or buy a drink?"

Larry turned to me and laughed. "I don't take no shit from these guys," he said. Larry took one side-step over in my direction to see if I needed another drink. He picked up my beer bottle, held it at an angle and looked at it.

"So how's that girlfriend of yours," he went on to me. "What's her name?" He thought for a moment. "Vickie?"

"You know her?" I asked.

"Yeah. She comes around every once in a while."

"Well, I don't know," I told him. "I haven't seen her in a couple of days."

Larry laughed.

"If you see her, let me know," I said.

Larry laughed again.

"Because she has my jacket." I took a sip of beer I wasn't ready for and it shot back out of my mouth. "I mean, I gave her the shirt, but I only let her borrow the jacket."

"I loaned her twenty bucks two months ago," Larry said. He was wiping my backwash off the bar. "She never paid me back." He was laughing it off. "But she's a good kid." He continued his wiping.

You think to yourself: We're all good kids. Aren't we? The tourists, the prostitutes, the strangers and the old men who sit at the bar and silently smile as they listen to you talk about labor pools and re-locating to look for work so you can get settled and live a normal life. These old men who sit at the bar and will do absolutely nothing more than they have to, if anything at all. Just enough for a mat in a bunk, a shower and enough coins for the day's booze.

You wonder if nothing's happened to them that hasn't happened to anybody and they just gave up, or if life has truly defeated them inspite of their brave efforts.

These are not sad people.

These old men are proud people who come out of the bunk houses showered, hair combed, clean-shaven, if they want. Ready to live another day. They refuse to fight anymore. Even the bravest of generals know when they have lost the war.

Most of the "normal" people will accept these men with some similar understanding, but they shun the women who have found themselves in the same situation.

These women, who at one time had men waiting in line for a dance, now have to sit next to anyone who will buy them a drink. They are hoping maybe this gentleman caller will be the one. The one who is strong-minded enough to make that effort. The effort it takes to look past those beautiful life-saddened eyes and see the inner beauty that's still there and always will be.

"Buy me a drink?" they ask you.

"Sure," you say. "No problem."

So you buy them a drink. You watch them watching your every move. If they think you're getting ready to leave the bar, they'll down that drink and ask for another one. You'll buy it for them. They're talking to you still, their eyes starting to tear.

Their eyes are screaming at you: Look at me! I'm still a beautiful woman.

Yes, you are. I can see that. I'll buy you another drink, but I have to go. I'm sorry. I'm not brave enough to surrender.

---

So you're walking along Esplanade Avenue down by the Quarter. You're far away from all the strangers. The majestic greenery of the ancient oaks blocks your mind's eye from recalling images of broken street lamps and potholes and the cracked sidewalks and the spirits of the people who live on them. The pleasant jasmine scent in the air temporarily cleanses your memory of the foul odors of unwashed clothing and vomit and the stale beer-breath of the strangers. There are real people living in real houses with their cars parked out front or in driveways where little children are playing , unaware of their futures. You run into your friend from the all-you-can-eat place and he asks what you're doing. You don't really know, so you tell him you're looking for an apartment.

---

"I saw a couple of 'For Rent' signs and was thinking about living around here," I said.

"Man, the Quarter is great!" my bartender friend tells me. "You got all the food markets, antique shops, cafes, cool people ... "

"Yeah, I know." I said. "I really gottah get out of where I'm at now."

He started telling me about several places he knew might be for rent. I listened just to be polite.

"By the way, who was that girl you came into my bar with the other night?" he asked.

"Oh. You mean Vickie." I said, as if she was just called to mind.

"Yeah. That's the one."

"I don't really know," I told him. "We only met about a week ago. Why do ask?"

"Because she came back to my bar the next night."

"Did she have a drink?" I asked him.

"Yeah. I was off that day, sitting at the bar, and she walks right up to me and says, 'Hi! Remember me with the spare rib?' So I bought her a drink."

"Well, that was nice of you," I said. I wanted to ask him what kind of jacket she was wearing, but I didn't want to seem too concerned.

"So we sat there and had a couple of drinks," he continued. "Then she got up behind me and gave me this back massage that turned me into rubber."

"Yeah. She has good hands, that one," I agreed. "By the way ---" I wanted to change the subject now. "If you hear of any apartments for rent around here, let me know. I'll check with you in a couple of days."

Then we both turned and walked our separate ways. He walked deeper into the Quarter along Esplanade Avenue, cast in shadow by the trees, while I walked, with no jacket, in the other direction. I was headed where the trees eventually run out and the broken street lamps make you feel at home. Before we were twenty feet apart, he turned and yelled back to me: "Hey, Jay! Where're you living now?"

---

The small room with the broken windows and no curtains at the Hotel Orleans is your home still. The strangers are still your friends and the girl with the bad teeth and nice jacket is massaging your daydreams as you turn around and yell back: "I'm living on Skid Row."

---

RUDOLPH JAMES is a bartender and fiction writer who lives in New Orleans, Louisiana. He is currently working on a collection of short stories, Skid Row and Other Stories. He will be reading from "Skid Row" on WWOZ radio, 90.7 FM, New Orleans, on Barbara Hoover 's "Planet Waves" show, Thursday 25 July at 2:15 p.m. This is his second story for The World's Magazine.

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