Melanoma & Cigarette Machines
Melanoma?
This has been a very different trip than the last time I was in New Orleans. The first time around, it was full of exploration and self-indulgence. So far, and I guess I’ll be approaching two weeks soon, I’ve been continuously stood-up/ignored by the only friend I have in town, possibly found melanoma on my thumb, and pulled a man from a wrecked vehicle. I didn’t expect or want any of these things but here they are. If I’m dead in a couple of weeks then I’ll blame this city. The “Big Easy” is becoming the Big Depression.
I should have known in that first Airbnb. Something was afoot. The building had a keypad which seemed to work half the time. I took a walk for my morning coffee and when I returned, there was a short, scrubby dude standing outside of the door who was trying to get in and could not. If situations were reversed, I would ask for some type of assistance the moment a building resident was approaching. I would feel awkward sliding in the door after they punched in their code. No?
As someone who grew up in New Jersey for part of his life, it’s easy to spot another fellow from the Jerz: the gold chain, the slicked back hair, cheap cologne, ratty little mustache, baggy black jeans. All of it stunk of New Jersey and I didn’t want to let him in. But I’m a nice, polite boy so in he came.
He did thank me in the elevator. I believe he said, “Bro, I can never get in the fucking door.” Well, not exactly ‘thank you’ but a recognition of sorts. After a few floors (we were both going all the way up to the fifteenth floor) he made a call. On speaker phone. Another Jersey move. No one picked up. We arrived at our floor and a sleepy girl in pajamas, possibly a girlfriend, was waiting. “I’ve been calling you.” He said before stepping out of the elevator. “I know.” That’s all. And off they went.
An hour or so later, I was going to the gym and I ran into them by the elevator again. “Bro, you know where the pool is?” I pointed them in the direction of the stairs which led up to the roof where presumably the pool would have been. I warned them though that it was most likely closed and therefore locked because of COVID. “We’re in phase 3 bro.” I rattled off something about how, yes, we’re in phase 3 but the roof still seems to be closed off. He wasn’t satisfied with all I had done and walked off without further conversation. His girlfriend thanked me for the both of them and that was the last I saw of them. Since then, I’ve been realizing that I’m entirely too nice to people and receive nothing in return. A real shit feeling.
The one consolation…still those old school cigarette machines at Friendly Bar.
And then at 8am yesterday, I pulled a man out of a wrecked pickup truck. I had been on my morning walk with coffee in hand (maybe I need a new routine). An ancient Border Terrier with a defunct, floppy ear was on the loose and barking his small bark at me. Its owner, a large woman in flip-flops, pajama shorts and top, smoked a thin cigar from the front steps and looked on. The terrier followed me for a block until a loud crack scared him off.
I rounded the corner, now half a block from the building I’m staying in above a modern New Orleans restaurant where “dope vibes collide.” A gold sedan with a busted rear bumper rolled onto the sidewalk between a telephone pole and Subway at the end of the block. Wrapped around a gallery support pole in front of the restaurant was a pickup truck with a smashed fender and a crooked tire. The driver, still moving, struggled to push the air bag out of his face.
A middle-aged man, who looked a little like a chunky Ken Watanabe, stopped his car in the middle of the road to help whoever might need help. I’ve never been in a situation where someone needs to be pulled from a vehicle that sort of looks like it might explode (slight exaggeration).
I imagined his legs were smashed to pieces while Watanabe was failing to open the driver’s side door. I rested my coffee on the street, ran over, reached in through the broken window, opened the door from the inside and yanked the man out. On the passenger seat was a half drunk bottle of vodka. He stumbled across the sidewalk while hanging onto my forearm and yelled that he had to take a piss.
Had we been anywhere else in America, I suspect the ambulance or cops would have been on the scene in minutes. However, in New Orleans, it took nearly thirty minutes. When they arrived, a paramedic casually walked over, fixed his belt and sunglasses, and asked the driver if he wanted to go the hospital. Yes he did. I watched for a few moments before returning upstairs, enough time to see them put the driver in the ambulance.
I returned an hour later to find the driver back in the truck. No ambulance in site. He refused to go as the likely consequences would be jail time. They let him go and eventually, he took off somewhere in the neighborhood on foot. The truck remained for the rest of the afternoon, parked in the planter box in front of the restaurant as brunch-goers began arriving to sip on cognac cocktails and snack on fried green tomatoes. If I die of melanoma, the world won’t know the difference.
