I must admit, as I look on the things I have seen and done this weekend, that I must be an abnormal person.
Surely
a normal person would get upset at being charged twelve dollars for two
thin hot dogs and then watching as the Canal Street vendor tried to
shortchange me, “just another tourist,” but I can’t. I can’t be mad that
I got to participate in such a swindle as even that interaction feels
so beautiful, felt so beautiful as the parade floats rounding the corner
turned the street into a chaos of color and sound, casting glows onto
the dark weathered face of my hot dog vendor.
Perhaps I was just
intoxicated on revelry and merriment but I stared him in the eye,
waiting for him to divvy up the rest of my change, watching this
schooled hustler’s face for any sign of disappointment, watching how
quickly he recovered saying “oh you handed me a 20, that’s right that’s
right.” How could I be mad at such a skillful artist?
I stood there with
a grin on my face, imagining all of the stumbling-slurring fools that
ended up paying 15-20 dollars for a hot dog that was already marked up
to a ridiculous margin...
2-8
We pulled into the slowed-down city
at 4 in the morning but we -
eyes wide with weariness and wanderer’s blood lust -
stayed up a little longer
lingering through half deserted streets
until the shining branches dripping down
with disco balls sent us the call
to find our set of sheets.
2-10I have to try to do this justice.
I
don’t know for certain how long this house has been here, this
renovated New Orleans farmhouse, but the thin long lines of wood
flooring on this porch look as if they have been here before brick
buildings and planned city grid lines though I know they are incapable
of having such an age. I feel as if they have watched as the creatures
of the swamp pooled together and rose, forming such a city as this -
watched as the neon-colored bulbs of smoky jazz clubs gave way to the
hollow glow of so many LED lights, as the alligators slunk back into the
mist and the sorority girls claimed the streets to roam at night.
I
feel just as old as this house, awake unreasonably early and settled
into a porch swing, listening to music and setting myself adrift.
Everyone else is sleeping, cloistered off in solitary pockets of
unconsciousness, and I am here staring at the way these roses wrap
through the old wood balustrades painted white with a hint of
seemingly-intentional dirt and grunge.
