The Cerebral Catalyst

Davis remembered Canal Street all lit up around midnight, after he'd come the few blocks from the restaurant. He'd stop at the first corner market he came to for a cold beer, right out of the ice cooler. And there were usually people standing outside the store, doing what he was doing, or buying something else. The stores around here all did good business, even at this time of night.

Sometimes Steve was with him, after they'd worked together. The boss didn't want them hanging around at the bar after their shift; he was too cheap to give them one on the house. The boss liked hanging around with his friends in suits.

"Fuck him," Steve had said. "I don't want to hang around in his bar anyway. I spend enough time in that place."

"Damn right. And then have that bitch of a wife stare at you like you're nothing to them. As if we didn't just sweat our balls off doing their dishes all night." Davis shook his head.

"Like I said," Steve said, raising his cold can and grinning. "Fuck 'em."

They would hang around on the corner for that first drink, watching the people and the traffic going by, appreciating the coolness of the night. It would get quite cool before morning, for it was March, and Davis slept down by the river. He didn't know where Steve stayed at night. They hadn't gotten that friendly yet.

If Davis was alone, he would have to decide whether to take a stroll through the French Quarter, or go right down to the river where he could drink in the shadows. The novelty of walking down Bourbon Street was gone now, though he didn't mind walking in other parts of the Quarter, drinking a few beers to unwind. No matter what night it was, there were always revelers in this part of the city; intoxicated out-of-towners going from bar to bar, lured by the music through the open doorways and windows. There were also quite a few street people around, panhandlers, hustlers, standing outside the markets with half-pints of cheap wine. And, of course, the street corner musicians with their instrument cases open.

Some nights, if he hadn't decided by the time he finished the first beer, Davis would buy another and go sit on a nearby bench. After a busy shift at the restaurant, a seat and a beer was sometimes all he wanted.

He could see Sax Fifth Avenue from here, one of the bigger buildings around, where the boss's wife did plenty of shopping. She was a real clotheshorse. And heavy on the make-up too, which, apparently, her husband liked. Still, she must have been a real looker at one time before those middle-age lines crept in and the ass broadened. Before the long face with the prominent cheekbones had hardened and the mouth turned sour. When she didn't need four or five cocktails to put the sparkle in those blue eyes.

Davis wondered what had turned the woman bitchy and sour. Had it been the restaurant business, or difficult family matters? Or maybe she had had health problems, or problems with their daughter. Whatever it was, she had an unfulfilled look about her, in the way she looked gloomily out the bar windows, with her ever-present cocktail and cigarette, staring into space, quiet. Often Davis had performed cleaning jobs in the bar, working around her table, without a word out of her.

Well, that was her life; she had chosen it. Davis knew he wouldn't be working too long for her and her husband anyway. This job was just to hold him over until the weather got warmer. He had seen Mardi Gras, spent all his money, and then was glad to get this dishwashing job, as business had slowed in the Quarter. Or rather, it was back to normal, and most places weren't hiring.

He had heard about the Jazz Fest coming up in a month or two, and that, along with a couple of conventions, would keep him in work hours until the summer. In the summer it was bad for work, he'd been told. He might be laid off by then, or his hours definitely cut.

Davis had heard that the murder rate doubled in the summer months here in the Big Easy. Plenty of people out of work, desperate for money and in ugly moods because of the stifling heat. He could picture it, and was glad it was a few months off.

Now, he was concerned with staying warm at night, wrapped in his army blanket under the bushes. He didn't even have a blanket until one of the waiters at the restaurant gave him that. The waiter, Ronald, was a fag and open about it; and if Davis had played up to him that way, he was sure he could have had a roof over his head now. Ronald had gone as far as to invite Davis for drinks at one of his favorite bars in the Quarter — a gay bar, he admitted, but no one would bother him in there. Davis had the idea that Ronald wanted to show him off as his new young Yankee boyfriend just into town — and just the way we like them, boys, broke and desperate for a place to stay. Davis had turned that offer down. He may have been new in this town, but offers from fags weren't something new to him.

Davis had been told several times that there was a large gay population in the Quarter, with some people telling him that they owned half of the Quarter. Davis figured that was probably an exaggeration, but then again maybe it was like a little Key West here. Davis smiled at the memory of one chef at a restaurant he applied at, a pudgy little white flamer in a kitchen full of big black men. Not only did the man have a hard time keeping his eyes off Davis's legs, but, taking him aside, the man had quietly said that he wouldn't mind having a little more white on the staff. Davis hadn't gone back to the place, though he knew he'd probably get hired.

No, he had found the right place for him, outside the Quarter. The boss was as cheap as they came, and had Davis doing janitorial work as well as the dishes, but Davis had a few hours off every afternoon between shifts, when he could walk down by the river with a couple cold beers and listen to the many musicians. He'd sit in the grass in the park, or on one of the benches along the walkway, watching the crowds of people strolling by, or the groups sitting in the grass. He'd have his beer in a large plastic soda cup that he kept for just that purpose. On the sunny days it wouldn't take long for his wet clothes to dry. After about an hour or so, he might stretch out in the grass for a nap, or read from the paperback he usually carried with him. If he felt energetic, Davis would stroll into the Quarter, to Jackson Square, or to one of the bars on Decatur. He also knew where the nearest liquor store was, in case he wanted a half pint of the hard stuff to nip on during his second shift. The second shift chef didn't seem to care how much he drank as long as the dishes got done. He liked the way Davis hustled around the kitchen, smiling most of the time, without complaining. Not like some of the young guys who had just quit after the Mardi Gras, always bitching about this and that, slacking off whenever they got the chance.

Plus, the second shift chef fed Davis good every night, which Davis appreciated. Saving a few bucks every night on his meals meant that Davis would have some cash in his pocket on his one day off — Monday — when the restaurant was closed.

Altogether, it wasn't an unpleasant time for him, except for the cold nights and the lack of good camping places near the water. There were plenty of street people around this part of town, searching out all of the dark, hidden spots; and doing this with good reason, for the law was out in force in this tourist area in and around the Quarter. Some nights, when Davis couldn't find a spot near the river, he'd go back to the restaurant and sleep in the back doorway. The morning chef had even found him there a couple of times, and it remained a private joke between the two of them.

There was a men's shelter downtown, only a few blocks from the restaurant, but a man only got three free nights a month, and after that it was five bucks for a bed. Davis only spent the five bucks when the weather was wet and cold, or if he badly needed a shower. Usually, he washed at the restaurant.

On most nights, Davis put off going down to the river until after midnight, when things got quiet. He had his blanket stashed under some bushes in a plastic bag, but the place wasn't big enough to sleep in. Once he got his bag, he'd go in search of a spot to lie down in.

Yet, as long as there were people out and about on Canal, and he could hear the music from The Quarter, and the drunken laughter and shouting from guys drinking the cheap wine and beer in front of the markets, then Davis didn't feel so alone at this time of night. It didn't seem like those long hours in the kitchen were for nothing. After all, he was here living in the Big Easy now, a famous place with a colorful history that many people heard about but never got to see. Even living on the streets, the nights seemed to hold a promise of excitement, and the weather was only going to get warmer. Bring on the music and festivals, he thought. Another beer in him and he'd be ready to dance.

______________________________________
posted 10.31.05.

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