New Orleans is
hot. A thick, wet hot. The kind of heat that follows you everywhere and clings
to your skin beneath your clothes; that enfolds itself around you like a
blanket. I don’t mind. I was sick of the cold in Chicago, sick of layering
clothes on top of each other to keep warm. I’m wearing a tank top and cut-off
shorts right now, sitting on some rocks by the Mississippi River. It’s pretty
here. There are big boats with names like
Mississippi Queen and Belle of New
Orleans sitting on the river expectantly, waiting for their turn to go
somewhere.
I’ve been all over
the country, but never anywhere like this. The houses all look European and
Gothic, with wrought iron gates and bars on the windows. People do tarot
readings in the streets. There are strip clubs, sex shows, bars, bars, and more
bars, ghost and vampire tours, aboveground cemeteries. In the Garden District
there are huge mansions painted in pastel colors and lavish with ornate
fixings. The streetcars run clanging down the street. It is a town of mystery,
of rituals and secrets, and yet people are open and friendly. It’s a phenomenon
I haven’t quite figured out yet.
We’re living with
some of Arkansas Joe’s friends, in a run-down building right outside the French
Quarter. It’s not the greatest place to live, but it’ll do for now. It was a
last-minute decision to come here. I ran into Joe right before Eric came back,
and he said he couldn’t wait any longer; he was leaving in a week. I told him I
was coming. We left two days after Eric returned. He was bewildered and quietly
angry. He kept wanting to know why I was leaving. I wished I could tell him. I
still don’t know why myself.
Arkansas Joe’s
friends have a table at the French Market, and I sell some of my jewelry there.
I also do hair wraps in Jackson Square, where the tarot and palm readers are,
and sometimes down here by the river. I don’t have a permit, but I haven’t been
caught yet. This is my favorite place to do hair wraps. I like being near the
water. There was no water in Iowa, but lately I’ve been spoiled. Joe does
cemetery tours for a living. It’s not a real job. He waits around the
cemeteries for tourists to come by, and then he offers to take them around the
cemetery and tell them about it. I guess tourists visit the cemeteries because the
aboveground burials are so unique. I’ve heard a lot of reasons why they bury
their dead above ground, but I think it’s because the land is so swampy that
bodies would wash away. He doesn’t charge a fee, just requests a donation. He
usually gets them. I asked him how he learned so much about the cemeteries. He
laughed and said he makes it up.
I think of Eric a
lot. I miss him. Maybe I’ll send him a postcard or something.
There are a lot of
homeless kids in New Orleans, which is no different than Portland, San
Francisco, or anyplace else I’ve been. Even Chicago had its street kids huddled
together down by the Alley at Belmont and Clark. The kids here sit along the
narrow, cobblestone streets of the French Quarter and ask the tourists for
money or food. Joe knows a lot of them. I’ve seen a couple that I knew from
tour, all dazed and out of it, strung out on dope. They asked me for some, and
when I told them I didn’t use, they walked away without a word.
No matter what day
of the week it is, Bourbon Street is a party at night, alit in neon and crowded
with people. People drift in and out of the bars, taking their beverages
outside with them because you can drink on the street. Music pours from every
building, and people stagger through the streets, laughing, fighting. Girls
lift their shirts and show their breasts for the ninety-nine cent beads the
guys throw off the balconies, and guys stagger in and out of the Barely Legal
or Topless/Bottomless clubs. I think Kathi would love it here. In the morning
they hose the streets down, because they smell like garbage and urine.
We live right
outside the French Quarter in a bad neighborhood. There are housing projects
across the street from our apartment. New Orleans is the murder capital of the
world, I guess. I don’t care. It adds to the mystique. So do the rats; giant
rats roaming down the cobblestone streets, as big as cats. They scare me more
than the bad neighborhoods do. A card reader once told me they were the spirits
of the dead. I don’t usually believe in that stuff, but who knows? New Orleans
is like that.
“Hi ya, Free,” a
voice calls behind me. I jump, startled. It’s Maria, one of the tarot readers
from Jackson Square. I had been thinking such creepy thoughts that she caught
me off guard. She laughs. “Did I scare you?”
“Startled me a
little,” I admit. “Are you done working?”
“Taking a break,”
she says. “Toby’s covering for me. There aren't a lot of people out today.”
Toby is an artist. He paints pictures of people for money.
“Can Toby read
cards?” I ask.
“He’s getting
there,” Maria says. Maria has dark, thick hair; dark, thick skin; and black
eyes set deep under dark, thick eyebrows. She looks like a fortune-teller, so a
lot of people pick her to read their cards. She doesn’t wear drape-y capes or
flowing skirts like some of the psychic readers. She’s wearing shorts and a
T-shirt. She says she makes more money than anyone else there, and that most of
her customers come back. She says it’s because she’s really psychic. “I’ve been
teaching him. You should learn, Free. It’s a good way to make extra money.”
I shrug. “I don’t
think I’d be good at it. I’m not psychic at all.”
“You never know,”
Maria says, smiling. “You want a reading?”
“I can’t pay for
it,” I protest.
“I know,” Maria
says, “but it’s good for business when people see me reading instead of just
sitting there. I’m sick to death of reading for Toby and Jeannette all the
time.” Jeannette is a palm reader who works next to Maria. “Come on back with
me. It might be good for you.”
“Okay,” I say,
getting to my feet. We walk over the train tracks and across the street. There
are usually a lot of people in this part of the Quarter, but today is kind of
quiet. Toby is sitting at Maria’s table, studying the cards. He looks like he’s
really concentrating. Toby always seems to be in his own little world. He’s the
skinniest person I’ve ever met, and his face is full of acne. He has pretty
eyes, but they’re hard to notice through all of his pimples. He looks up as we
approach. “Hey, Free, hey Maria,” he says slowly. Toby always talks slowly.
“I’m going to give
Free a reading,” Maria tells him. He nods but doesn’t move, so Maria says, “Can
I sit, Tobe?”
“Oh,” he says,
getting out of the seat, “Sorry.” He ambles back to his chair and drawing pad.
He’s really spaced out, but he’s the best artist I know. His drawings look like
photographs.
Maria sits down
and motions for me to sit. She hands me the cards. “Shuffle them, and focus on
your energy as it diffuses through the cards.” I have no idea what she is
talking about, so I just nod and shuffle. Maria closes her eyes and breathes
deeply, and it is suddenly silent except for the ripping sound of the cards as
I shuffle. Just as I’m starting to feel a little nervous she says, “When you
feel complete, cut the cards with your left hand, twice to the left.” She makes
a quick gesture with her hand. Her eyes are still closed, and she still
breathes deeply. I shuffle one more time and then cut the deck like she showed
me. Maria opens her eyes and smiles, and I feel a little better. She picks up
the piles and puts them back on top of each other. Then she lays down three
cards in a row. The backs are blue and there are some symbols or something on
them—cups and swords and things.
“This is a simple
reading,” she says. “Past, present, future.” She flips over the first card,
which shows a figure on a horse. “The Knight of Swords.” Her brow furrows as
she studies the card, and then she looks directly at me. “This represents a man
in your past. Maybe more than one man.
He’s intellectual and logical. Sometimes he’s detached and emotionless,
sometimes he’s angry. It could just be energy from your past that you need to
let go of. Maybe you need more emotion in your life. Maybe it’s you.” She looks
at me expectantly. I don’t know what to say, so I just nod. She flips the next
card. “Present.” A man is in a boat on the water. His back is to us. “Six of
Swords,” she says. “You’re presently leaving something behind or giving
something up. Maybe him.” She points to the Knight of Swords, and I think of Eric.
Did I tell Maria about him? I can’t remember.
Maria is staring
at me again, so I say, “That makes sense,” even though I’m not sure that it
does. She seems encouraged. She flips the last card over. It shows people
falling from a building that was struck by lightning. Maria frowns. “Hmmm…” she
says slowly. She seems to be considering.
“What is it?” I
ask nervously.
Toby peers over.
“The Tower!” he says. He somehow sounds excited even though he is still
speaking slowly. “That’s the worst card in the deck. Something bad is gonna
happen to you, Free.”
“Toby!” Maria
turns to him. “That’s no way to read cards! You have to remain positive.” She
looks back at me. “The Tower is never welcome, but it still can be positive and
necessary. This means that your life is going to change drastically, but what
grows from the ruins can be even better.”
I nod nervously.
Drastic? Ruins? I don’t like this. I wish I’d never let Maria do this for me.
It didn’t even drum up any business; there’s still no one around. Maria can
tell I’m upset. “Don’t worry, Free. Your life probably needs a change, don’t
you think? And really, what do you have to lose?”
It’s true. I have
nobody and nothing. What could happen that’s so terrible? I decide to stop
worrying about it, although Toby’s reaction keeps playing in my mind.
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