Copyboy, page 6
Fifteen minutes went by before we managed to get out of the building. If the General didn’t stop to talk to someone first, likely as not that person would stop and want to joke with him. The General had something to say to everyone he passed. Charlie said the General was a good reporter and I could see why. Everybody wanted to talk and joke around.
The General walked over to the switchboard in the lobby.
“I’m gone for the day, my PBX lovelies. Take a message, as they say.” The two ladies smiled at the General as they pushed and pulled their switchboard cords.
We stepped onto the sidewalk. The tall buildings put the street in the shade this late in the day.
“First order of business is for us to go have a beer,” the General said. “You are eighteen aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “N----ot for a few months yet.”
“Okay, cancel that. The first order of business is for me to have a beer and you to watch,” the General said. “Charlie wouldn’t want me to lead you down the road to debauchery. He’ll want to be in charge of that himself.”
We came to my car parked at the sidewalk meter.
“Can’t leave this little ragtop here,” the General said. “It’ll be sliced up like a watermelon as soon as the sun sets. You can park it in the employee lot and we’ll take my truck.”
“Is there a ch----ance of me getting to the Mouth of the Mississippi River before it gets too dark?” Figuring out a way to hurry someone without being too much of a pain was another talking skill that I lacked. My question was met with silence.
The General leaned on the front fender of my car. He folded his arms, like he was telling me to slow down without having to say any words.
“A couple of things, Son Vic from Memphis.” Even though he wasn’t a real general, he talked straight at you and firm like generals did in the movies.
“First thing. Charlie told me to take good care of you while you were down here. Second, we need to take a time out to talk about this mouth-of-the-river thing you are so set on. It may be a little more complicated than what you had in mind.”
Umpires liked to call pitchers and coaches together before the start of a game to go over the ground rules. The General was doing the same thing with me. He was telling me in his own way to slow down.
“Sorry,” I said. “I know I’m b----ad about trying to go too fast. I’ve been thinking hard about the mouth of the river and getting this close to it probably makes me get in too b----ig of a hurry.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get it all worked out, but I can assure you that twilight is no time to start messing around with the mighty Mississippi.”
I liked the way the General listened to me and then explained exactly what was on his mind. I hoped we could get along and that he would like me eventually, if I could slow myself down and act like a regular person.
“M----aybe the first thing is for me to find a p----lace to stay tonight,” I offered, wanting to show the General that I could take a hint and could slow down and think like a grownup. “The only p----lace I know is called The R----oosevelt where my parents stay, and I don’t think I have enough money to spend the night there.”
“Let me guess,” the General said. “You and your family also dine at Commander’s Palace and Pascal’s Manale and have breakfast at Brennan’s.”
I nodded.
“Get in your little car, Son Vic, and follow me around to the rear of the building.” The General pointed the way. “First thing it looks like we may need to work on is getting that silver spoon dislodged from your throat.”
I nodded and got in my car. I could take a hint.
Chapter 9
The raw oyster sat on its half shell in a concoction of cocktail sauce and grated horseradish that the General had gone to a lot of pains to mix.
“Are you sure about this?” I balanced the shell to keep the oyster from sliding off. “Th----ese things don’t look like they were m----eant to be eaten.”
“You only have to get it started and the oyster will do the rest,” he said.
I closed my eyes, put the shell to my lips and tilted my head back. The oyster slid into my mouth and escaped down my throat before I could bite into it.
“I think I m----issed it.” I coughed.
“Try another one, and this time try to get in at least one good chew.”
I might have missed the oyster, but the sauce lingered and caused my nose to run and my eyes to water. I couldn’t open the little packages of two crackers fast enough. The General ate his dozen oysters and then helped me with most of mine.
Customers of all shapes and sizes packed Felix’s Oyster Bar. New Orleans was certainly in the South, but the accents here were different than in Memphis, and people acted like they were at a party even though there didn’t seem to be an official party of any kind going on. The General called the bartenders and oyster shuckers by name. Most of the talk up and down the bar had to do with the weather in the Atlantic, what kind of fish were biting, and the quality of the seafood.
A large bearded man slapped the General on the back.
“You need to remind everybody in your column that it’s the month to start eating oysters again,” he said. They shook hands.
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” the General told the man. “Probably started by one of your many old wives.”
The bearded man laughed. “You think that storm in the Atlantic might mess with us over this way?”
“Not likely, but I’d say the East Coast is puckered up real tight about now.”
The bearded man laughed again and continued talking to customers up and down the bar.
“What’s so special about September and oysters?” I asked the General. My mouth burned so much I could hardly feel it. I wondered if hot sauce might be good for my stuttering since I had lost all feeling around my tongue except for the burning sensation.
“Some say you’re not supposed to eat raw shellfish in any month that doesn’t have the letter r. I eat ’em year-round, sometimes for breakfast.”
The General ran his hand through his thick head of hair. “See this lush pasture up here? That’s what you get from eating raw oysters all twelve months of the year.”
When I had just met somebody it was hard for me to decide if what was said was meant to be a joke. I was getting the hang of it already with the General.
“I think I’m sufficiently sophonsified,” the General said. I had never heard that word, even from Mr. Spiro or the copydesk chief. “Let’s head on back. I think the best thing is for you to spend the night at my place. It’s not the Roosevelt by any stretch, but the price is right.”
The General said his goodbyes and put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter.
“It’s quiet at my place so we can talk. I know you’re anxious to start learning more about where your quest seems to be leading you.”
Mr. Spiro was always good at knowing what was going on inside my head. So was the General, and I had just met him. I also liked the word “quest.” It was a Mr. Spiro kind of word.
* * *
The General had parked at a service station where he had given one of the attendants a dollar to watch his truck, but when we started walking back a different way, I had an idea the General had something else in mind. The sidewalks became more crowded the longer we walked. People strolled in the middle of the street with drinks and bottles in their hands and dared cars to hit them.
“Have you ever been to the French Quarter?” the General asked.
“Only driving through in the day.” I had the feeling I was going to get a good look at the French Quarter by night.
We turned onto Bourbon Street, the busiest and loudest street yet. I couldn’t remember any place like this in Memphis, except for the time six years ago when Mam and I found ourselves on Beale Street at night in downtown Memphis.
Men at the doors on Bourbon Street wore shiny suits and smoked thin cigarettes. They opened and closed the doors, inviting passersby in to get a peak of the show and enjoy the air conditioning that spilled out like when you opened a refrigerator door. I looked in a few of the doors and saw twirling colored lights and ladies dancing on stages in front of walls made of mirrors. Their dancing costumes were mostly sequins and feathers that didn’t cover up much. Small bands with loud horns played on the stages. As we walked past the opening and closing doors, the sounds grew confusing, like spinning the tuner knob on a loud radio.
The hawkers and their swinging doors went on as far as I could see down crowded Bourbon Street.
“So, tell me what you think about the French Quarter at night.”
“It’s lively.”
“That’s one way to put it.” The General walked with his hands in his pocket. “A little of it goes a long way, if you ask me, but I know that people enjoy a peek into a fantasy world. And remember that’s what it is, Son Vic. Pure fantasy.”
The General never looked in the open doors or made eye contact with the men in suits, who seemed to know there was no need for them to say anything to him. The walk down Bourbon Street appeared to be for my benefit.
“You’ve been up a while,” the General said. “We probably should get you to your berth.” The General used nautical terms like Mr. Spiro, one of the many things I liked about my New Orleans guide and new friend.
We weaved through the crowds on the sidewalks and streets. The noise of the French Quarter followed us all the way to the truck. I remembered the General backing out of the service station, but not much after that.
* * *
Horn blasts rattled through my head. Towboat horns, I decided. Not the jazz horns of the French Quarter. My gym bag had been my pillow in the truck and had given me a bad crick in my neck.
“How long have we been stopped here?” I massaged my neck with both hands.
“About an hour. You went straight off to la-la land,” said the General, his eyes closed but not asleep. “Let’s go down and get us some bona fide shut-eye.”
“Where are we?”
“At the river. Where I live.”
The Mississippi River was wider here than it was at Memphis and the boats larger. Ocean-going freighters were docked on both sides of the river. The cranes that loaded the massive ships resembled a forest of skinny trees made out of metal. There was no nighttime on this part of the river. The effect of the huge floodlights on the docks was doubled by their reflection in the water. Much like the French Quarter, this part of the river didn’t seem to sleep.
The General led me across cobblestones onto a wooden boardwalk to an old barge tied to pilings sticking up out of the river. A narrow gangplank made of a heavy metal mesh led onto the barge.
“Watch your step,” the General said. “This can be a little hard to navigate if you’re asleep or otherwise encumbered.”
The dull-red barge with its sliding metal roof looked like any of the barges up and down the Mississippi River that I liked to watch from my father’s airplane. Part of the metal roof had been replaced by the kind of glass panels used in greenhouses. Plants and flowers growing in cans and buckets dotted the top of the barge.
“You really live here?”
“I really do,” he said. “This barge has been a residence for more than thirty years, when the river wasn’t so crowded. I moved aboard it six years ago. You can’t dock barges anymore and live on them, but this one was grandfathered in.”
The General opened a hatch in the metal deck.
“You’ve never been rocked to sleep like the river can rock you,” he said. “Let me have your bag.”
He backed down through the hatch. Lights came on, shining up through the skylights.
“You have permission to come aboard,” he yelled from below.
When my father flew over the river, I made a game of counting the number of barges that made up a tow. The record was 22. If you look at something from high above, you can’t tell the size. The General’s barge was huge.
Down inside the floating box of metal, the furniture and the rugs looked as nice as the ones my mother had bought for our new house. The light fixtures on the walls and ceiling all matched like they do on submarines in the movies. A large kitchen stove sat in one corner next to a metal sink with a porthole above it. In the rear of the room was a wooden wall with bookshelves and racks of fishing rods.
“You really live here.” It wasn’t a question this time. I turned in circles in one spot to try to take in the home floating on the Mississippi River.
“Since you didn’t eat many oysters, I’ll be happy to fix you a sandwich before you turn in.”
“I’m fine. Those oy----sters don’t n----eed any company right now.” I wasn’t sure if the General would get my joke, but he laughed.
“The head is through there.” The General pointed to a door in the wooden wall. “You can shower now or wait until the morning.”
He opened a chest of drawers, pulled out two sheets and a pillow and began to make up the couch.
“Slept here many a night,” he said. “You’ll find it plenty comfortable.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“I’m behind that long curtain over there.” He fluffed a pillow for the couch. “I’m about ready to turn in myself after I take a whiz. I kept us out a little late, but we can get up early in the morning and get our river business done.”
I had forgotten to put pajamas on my manifest since I never wore them at home. My white briefs would have to do. I folded my pants and shirt and placed them on the arm of the couch.
A towboat on the river let out a series of short blasts. The General stepped back through the door from the head.
“You might hear the first couple of those, but they won’t bother you after that. Sleep well, Son Vic.”
With the lights off in the barge, the stars in the Louisiana night sparkled through the windows above. The sheets had a fresh smell that always made me sleep better. New Orleans was humid like Memphis, but the floor of the barge felt cool. The river flowing around the vessel seemed to be a kind of a natural air conditioning.
The General was right about the towboat horns and about being rocked to sleep by the river. I may have heard a few more horn blasts, but that was it. At one point during the night, I thought I heard the General talking to somebody, but then decided it was only the oysters and the hot sauce in my stomach talking back to me.
Chapter 10
Bacon sizzled in a frying pan, reminding me of Mam in our old kitchen in Memphis. When she fried bacon or chicken, the hot grease in the big iron skillet would pop and jump, but it never seemed to bother her. The early morning towboat traffic on the river had increased the gentle rocking of the barge. Sun filtered in at a low angle through the skylights.
I traced in my half-asleep brain the last 24 hours that had taken me from my quiet house in Memphis to a loud New Orleans French Quarter and now to a comfortable home floating on the Mississippi River. Four hundred miles could just as well have been four thousand.
I wondered if my mother had called my father after she read my note. I could imagine her having a hissy fit and then my father telling her to calm down while he looked into it. If there was ever a problem, he always would say he would “look into it.” Things didn’t upset him much on the outside, but I had a hunch that wasn’t true for his inside.
A woman’s voice.
“Shhhhh,” the General whispered. “Vic’s still sleeping.”
I snapped my eyes tight. Light footsteps padded across the barge floor. My shirt and pants were on the far end of the couch. I didn’t know how I was going to get dressed with a woman in the room.
More whispers and new smells came from the kitchen. The only thing to do was try to scoot down under the sheet and see if I could pull my clothes over to me with my foot. The cushions soon bunched up, leaving me stuck under the sheet in the middle of the couch in my undershorts.
“That’s a strange morning exercise,” the General said. “You ever seen an exercise like that, Adrienne?”
“Can’t say I have. Looks like fun, sure.”
I peeked over the back of the couch to see the General and a woman standing next to him smiling at me. She wore a loose-fitting piece of clothing that could have been either a robe or a dress. Her hair was dark with plenty of curls in it and then I saw that her eyes were just as dark as her hair. The woman was younger than the General, but maybe not by many years. The General turned the bacon in the frying pan with a long fork.
“Say good morning to Adrienne,” the General said.
I smiled, nodded, and pulled the sheet up around me.
“Bonjour, Vic. Hope I didn’t wake you. Welcome to New Orleans.”
She pronounced my name “Veek” and New Orleans somehow turned into “Gnaw-leans.” I liked the way the words came out of her mouth, like they had a bright coat of paint on them.
“Breakfast’ll be ready soon,” the General said. “Get your shower, Son Vic, and we’ll be waiting with your favorite dish… a dozen oysters on the half shell with my special hot sauce.” He laughed out loud. “Just kidding.”
With the sheet covering me, I gathered up my clothes and gym bag. Through the door on the wooden wall was an oversized bathroom with a claw-foot tub like the one in our old house in Memphis, except this tub had a curtain around it with a big shower head directly above. The ceiling had more skylights in this part of the barge. I took my shower with the morning Louisiana sun shining in on me.
Who was Adrienne? Where did she come from in the middle of the night? And why did the General keep calling me “Son Vic?” Good questions for the shower, where the warm water quickly washed off four hundred miles of Highway 51 South and a night in the French Quarter.
