My Mother and I stood on Bourbon Street taking that last longing look.
Bourbon was nearly deserted-the tourists long gone.
Only we, the disparate & hungry children of this place, remained. We had either no place to go or those places were long abandoned.
It was late November, family crisis called-and like Tilden in The Buried Child-we were pulled inexorably back to the very place we had run away from, driven as it were, by haunted love, loneliness and a need for closure.
We went to a corner bar-name unimportant-to say good-bye to a friend, Bob.
He asked me why we were leaving New Orleans.I told him that I was made an offer “I could refuse” which basically came down to bellying up to the powers that be & start paying for protection.
Meaning well…offering the “girlfriend experience” for job security.
Bob dished out a couple plates of red beans & rice for us. Reaching into a loaf of white bread he asked if he could help.
He leaned over and looking into my Mother’s eyes he said he can talk to his boss and see if he could get me a job there where I’d be safe.
I looked his eyes and asked:”what do you think I should do?”
Bob peered from under his hat & looked right into my eyes and said:”Run along, little señorita, before you get hurt.”
Was he talking about the Quarter or him that I should be so warned.
He walked over to the juke box and put some money in.
He turned to me and said:”Let’s have that dance we talked about.”
I began to cry when I heard the first notes of “Teacher.”
George Michael.
I have nothing more to add right now.
And yes, this is a true story.