Bio

            Sean Meleen is a New Orleanian and recent graduate of Loyola University New Orleans.  He is a former employee of the National Park Service and an aspiring writer of fiction, creative nonfiction, and history.  He hopes to travel cross-country and abroad to gain material for his writing.  He enjoys running, playing soccer, and bourbon. He loves conversations and experiences that expose him to new ideas.    His favorite experiences are those that are odd or unforeseen.  He enjoys the city of New Orleans for all its kooky characters, nightlife, and spontaneity. If you would like to contact Sean, e-mail him at smmeleen@yahoo.com

Adventure

I recently met a very interesting man at work one day in the French quarter.  I work at an information center.  Most people come in to ask about various attractions around the city.  This man was more interesting than most of the tourists from around the world.  His name was Adam, and he had some interesting questions. Usually, it’s just “Where’s the bathroom?”  

      “Do you know of any wooded areas around here?”  I must have shot him a look. He could sense my confusion and added, “I’m just looking for a free place to camp out for the night.” 

      “I don’t really know of any places near the city that are too rustic.  You have to get pretty far out of the quarter for anything like a campground.”

      “What about a big park?” He seemed very eager to find a place to camp for the night.

      “The biggest park around here would have to be City Park, but I don’t know if you would want to camp there.  I don’t know how safe you would be.”  Part of the job included telling tourists how to stay safe. I traced a route to the park on a city map and gave it to him. 

      He told me that he was biking cross-country.  I was really impressed by this.  He was by himself on a bike sleeping in a different town or wooded area between towns every night.  I greatly envied the adventure he was having.  It was my turn to ask him a few questions.

      “Where did you start out?”  I was amazed that someone was traveling this way. 

      “Chicago.” 

      “Damn, how many miles have you biked?” 

      “About nine hundred fifty or a thousand.”

      “Holy shit! Did you train or anything before leaving?” 

He was about five-foot-eleven and two hundred sixty pounds.  He didn’t look like lance Armstrong or anything, but he was a relatively fit man.

      “Not at all.”  He took a step back and held his hands palm up at his side. “Do I look like a world class athlete?”

      “No.”

      “I lost about twelve pounds so far,” he added voluntarily. 

      “What is the farthest you’ve gone in one day, and how long did it take you to get all the way down to New Orleans?” 

The more questions I asked the more amazed I became. Adam’s means of travel and exploration seemed like something I would enjoy.

      “It took me about four weeks to get here, but the farthest I’ve gone in a day is probably around sixty miles or so.” 

      “Have you ever biked cross-country before?”

      “Once, but I had three others with me last time.  I’ve also hitchhiked a lot.  I once hitched back to Chicago from Atlanta because I couldn’t afford a ticket.  I’ve also hitchhiked to Alaska and all around Australia.”

      I was captivated by Adam’s adventurous spirit.  “Man, you’ve done some traveling.  You’ve inspired me.  I hope I can travel like you one day.” 

      “All you have to do is be willing to sleep in a tent for a long time.  When I need money, I go back home and get a job.  I like to travel as often as I can; you just need money to do it.” 

      I couldn’t believe he approached everything so openly. “Do you ever worry about your safety?” 

      “No.  Most people who have picked me up are just driving a long way and want some company.”  He told me he never got into a car with just one person.  There were always two people traveling together. Some were just sharing a ride through Craig’s list, Rideshare, or a similar website.  Other people picked up multiple hitchhikers. 

      “What about your cross-country bike trips? Do you worry while you’re camping in a random wooded roadside?”

      “No. Would you be scared if you just went camping in the woods near your house?” 

      His question reminded me of a childhood experience. 

      When I was about twelve-years-old or so, all I did was ride my bike.  To me two wheels were the peek symbol of adolescent exploration.  I rode all around Thibodaux with the neighborhood kids.  We would bike to each end of town and back.  Some days we would cover as many as fifteen or twenty miles.  We would bike along the bayous and through the sugarcane roads improving our personal map of the town.  One day, we even biked far enough to find a swamp behind a subdivision called Twelve Cedars.  

      Once we had explored the entire town, we sought adventure beyond the city limits.  My group of friends included Will, Nick, and Anthony.  Will was two years younger than me, and Nick and Anthony were three years younger.  They were all less adventurous than me.  They preferred playing basketball or street hockey to the exploratory cross-town bike rides.  Although he was less adventurous, Will was completely on board when I pitched my new idea.  I told Will that I wanted to ride to a lake past our turnaround.  My plan was to camp next to the lake for the night and bike back the next day.  The lake was only about half a mile outside of town, and almost six miles from our houses.  It was completely feasible. All we had to do was act.

      Will and I, determined to pack some bags and head to the lake, lied to our parents to hide our plans.  We told our mothers we were sleeping at each other’s houses.  As we were leaving the neighborhood, we ran into Nick and Anthony.  Nick was as enthusiastic as we were.  Anthony mistakenly asked his mom for permission.  She told him no so he took a page from our book.  He told his mom he would be at Nick’s for the night.  Lying to our parents added to the sense of adventure.  We were rebel explorers in our own minds. 

      I had my dad’s tent, a sleeping bag, and a box of graham crackers.  My friends copied my pack except William brought Pop tarts.  Nick brought a sandwich and chips.  Anthony couldn’t live without candy and brought a large bag of it with the words party mix on the side.  When we saw his rations, we all laughed.  My dull survivalist instincts made me to question Anthony’s food choice.  I had to say something.  “You’re going to get hungry.”

      “That’s why I brought the big bag.”  He held up the large bag above his head and slapped the bottom.  “Anyone got a piñata?”  We laughed some more and set out for the lake. 

      First, we took the left onto East Seventh Street, biking past the high school to the entrance of the park.  Then, we took a shortcut through a field and passed through Nicholls State University.  Once we reached the sugarcane road past campus, we took a break to chew on some of the raw cane.  The sugarcane tasted very sweet it must have been ready to harvest.  We also collected some pieces to chew on later by the lake.  Anthony had to be escorted away from the cane field, and I had to promise to carry twice as much since he didn’t bring a bag.  He had his sleeping bag on his back.  We had to listen to his giant bag of candy shaking around from inside his rolled up sleeping bag.   When we reached the end of the cane field, we saw our last signs of civilization.  A small subdivision named Acadia Woods, which was basically a large cul-de-sac.  As we reached the far end of dead end road, we biked along a whit shell road eerily named Devil’s Swamp Road.  There were woods on either side of the road, but suddenly the woods turned back to sugarcane and we knew that we were close.  We took a turn on a cane road that paralleled a canal.  About half a mile from Devil’s Swamp Road, we reached our destination.  The lake looked great with the evening sun bouncing off of it. 

      We set up the tent, which could barely fit all four of us, but we were comfortable enough.  We could escape the mosquitoes and that’s all that mattered.  We gathered wood for a fire.  Will was smart enough to bring matches, and we soon felt like genuine outdoorsmen.  We sat around the fire chewing on sugarcane until the sun went down. 

      What happened next is still fresh in my mind.  The temperature dropped and thunder clapped resoundingly.  The thunder got louder, and suddenly it began to pour.  We packed as quickly as we could.  When we were done, the rain had already drenched the fire.  We headed back to our bikes and started back down the cane road. It was pitch black out.  We had trouble keeping track of one another.  Nick led the way and ended up falling into the canal along the road.  Fortunately, there were enough plants near the channel’s edge to keep him and his bike from sinking.  Luckily it was raining so that the mud didn’t cake onto his body.

Somewhere along the way, we took a wrong turn.  We came to a point where two canals met at a ninety-degree angle.  Will spotted the white shells of Devil’s Swamp Road on the other side of the giant ditches.  We made Nick and Anthony cross first, so Will and I could toss the four bikes across.  One by one Anthony and Nick fished our bikes out of the mud.  Once we reached Devil’s Swamp Road, we knew we could be dry back at home shortly.  We got home at around nine.  It had only been dark a couple of hours.  We all saluted one another’s effort ceremoniously and returned to our houses. 

Most of us got punished for lying about where we were, but it was worth the adventure.  That was also the start of a new favorite neighborhood game, one without a name, but great appeal to the explorer in each of us. 

I told Adam the short version of my failed camping trip outside of Thibodaux.  As I explained, he became interested my hometown.

“I haven’t seen any sugarcane fields, I might have to head out that way.  I’ve been trying to take more scenic routes.  “Do you have a map, like a state map?”

“Yes.” Again I outlined a route and handed him a map. This time it was a Louisiana highway map.

      “Great. Thank you.  Do you think I could leave my bags here a while, so I don’t have to worry about them getting stolen?  I just want to check out more of the city before I leave.”

      I told him that would not be a problem as long as he was back before I closed up.  Adam proceeded to bring his bike inside the information center.  His road bike was typical, but it had a bunch of custom luggage racks.  I had never seen anything like it.  He had some specifically designed bags made to fit each of the racks.  Adam had six bags that attached to his bike plus a backpack.  I stored his seven bags in a corner in the back room.  He thanked me several times and headed out to take in some sights of downtown New Orleans. 

      Adam came back to the information center around four thirty, and I talked to him until I closed the building.  I exchanged e-mail addresses with Adam.  I asked him to let me know if he was ever passing through New Orleans again to let me know.  I told him that perhaps I’d be in a position to join him on a future cross-country tour.  I first needed to finish school and would certainly need to purchase a new bike before venturing out cross-country. 

      He was happy to hear that I was interested in traveling with him.  He told me he was always looking for new people to travel with.  He was around thirty-years-old and had several friends who were tied down with kids and other responsibilities.  He also believed in the truth of “the more the merrier.”  I asked him about his next major destination.  He told me he didn’t know. “Just west I guess.”  As I watched him bike away, I admired his audacious spirit.

      One day, I hope to bike cross-country.  Since meeting Adam, I have researched prices of tents and luggage racks for bikes.  Besides being a cheep way of traveling, I believe biking cross-country would be quite the experience, especially for an aspiring writer.  I can only imagine what it must be like to travel so unrestricted.  I have not traveled much at all school has gotten in the way my entire life.  I am determined to test my limits after graduation.  Hopefully, my tolerance of a hard rainfall has increased in the past ten years.  

Cafeteria Catholic

                 My live-in girlfriend, Whitnee, and I came home from dinner at a sushi restaurant one Friday night.  We had ordered a large sake and were pretty drunk as a result.  Whitnee went straight to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of red wine from on top the fridge.  It was already opened, so she removed the replaced cork with her teeth. 

                “You are in a mood to drink tonight, I see.”  I went to the cabinet for two glasses, but she was already sipping from the bottle.

                “Forget the glasses.  I’m not going to wash them and you’re leaving tomorrow.”

“I don’t know why you can’t come for a few days, drinking out of the bottle, you’ll fit right in with my family.” 

                “What are you doing? Come to the bedroom.” I heard her say in her best seductive voice. 

“Ok, just let me pick up these leftovers.”  I must have lingered in the kitchen for a moment or two.

The wine bottle was sitting by the side of the mattress.  Whitnee was pulling her shirt over her head.  I sat up in bed over her as she took my shirt off.  When she got it all the way off, she tossed it carelessly to the side knocking over the bottle of wine. 

                “Let me clean that up,” I said, quickly standing the bottle back upright.

                “Leave it. Who cares?”  Whitnee grabbed the bottle out of my hand and took another sip.  She then laid down pulling me on top of her. 

                We carried on a conversation between cute little kisses.  “I can’t believe you are going to the beach for a whole week. I’m going to miss you.” She held my face.

                “I’m going to miss you more.” I always tried to turn our love into a competition.  “I told you. You could come for the weekend and I will bring you back early.”

                “You know I have to work, and besides . . . you wouldn’t go back to Pensacola once you were back here.”  Now the kisses were much more arousing. 

                “You’re right,” I said entranced by her bare breast. 

                “Shut up.”  I think that was the phrase I heard most from her, but all I did was comply and enjoy the intimacies involved in having a live-in girlfriend.  After having sex, we held each other until we fell asleep. 

                The next morning I could not depart without a final sex session.  We awoke naked and avoided the unwrapping process.  The rubbing of naked flesh was all I needed to really wake up.  When it was over, I finally looked down at the clock.  I realized I was late to meeting my sister who was going to drive to Pensacola.  I threw on some clothes and grabbed the bag I had already packed.  Whitnee walked me to the door with a sheet wrapped around her.  I reached inside the sheet for one last parting touch and kissed her on the lips.  “I’ll miss you.”

                “I’ll miss you more,” she responded.

                “Can you greet me in a week the way you’re sending me off.”  I meant naked.

                “We’ll see.” She knew what I meant. 

This was the first family vacation I could recall where I wasn’t completely excited about going.  My sister was mad at me for being so late to meet up with her.  Kate hardly spoke to me before we stopped at a Waffle House halfway between New Orleans and Pensacola.  After we ate, she was much more talkative and prying.  Kate wanted to know as much as she could about Whitnee and I.  I kept to the subject of our jobs and school. Meanwhile, all I could think about was the acts of the morning and the night before. 

“So things are good” Kate finished

“Things are great.”  I assured her.

                The conversation transitioned to the rest of the extended family who were going to meet us in Pensacola.  Kate was always aware of the latest family gossip, and shared without prompting. 

                When we arrived at our family’s condo, I made the rounds hugging and saying my hellos to everyone.  My mom and grandma stole kisses as well, and my dad’s hug lifted me off the ground cracking my back. 

                Once I had finished greeting everyone, I headed straight for the water.  I walked down the stairs of the boardwalk until my feet hit the sand.  I ran until I tripped awkwardly face-first into the two-foot surf.  I swam deeper and deeper and floated belly up where the waves wouldn’t choke off my air.  As I swam and floated and floated and swam, I thought about how my grandma had taught me how to do both.  The family matriarch was always hands-on with each of her grandchildren.  I think she taught all sixteen of us how to swim, now that I think about it.  I swam for about an hour giving the rest of the family time to load their ice chest or make cocktails, grab their chairs, and head to the beach.  When I was tired of swimming, I headed to the beach for a beer and a seat. 

                I sat in the sand because I wasn’t sure where the beach equipment was stored in this condo complex.  We seemed to change places year to year.  I grabbed a Busch beer.  My dad and grandpa had bought several cases.  I thought it was nothing special, but the way they shared a case made me think it was the only bond the two shared.  I imagined my dad paying a dowry of Busch to marry my mother.  Then I pictured my grandpa saying, “Don’t bring her back because you won’t get any beer back.”  I didn’t understand their love of Busch.  I much preferred a Corona or a Sol, something meant for the beach.  Busch tasted too much like suds, like you were punishing yourself for saying vulgarities.  My mother sat under her watermelon umbrella with her usual glass of red wine, although the beach had replaced the glass with a Mardi gras cup.  She cast a look at my dad and grandpa over her sunglasses.  I imagine she didn’t understand why they loved Busch either, or perhaps it was because my liberal mother hated the name.  My aunt and uncles were sitting around drinking various liquors with their under twenty-one children.  Even my grandma sat with her usual Tom Collins resting on her knee. 

                Years ago, the family used to raise hell about underage drinking.  I had just turned twenty-one and was glad I could no longer catch flak for drinking.  I was the third youngest, but the babies of the family were just a few years behind.  They were not kept from drinking.  It annoyed me a little that they were not held to the same standards, but I was glad they could partake in the first day’s happy hour with the rest of the family. 

                Catholics and alcohol always make an interesting combination.  I don’t know when the conversation turned to relationships.  Everyone was enjoying the sun, sand, and spirits, and the next thing I knew I was being called out for living with my girlfriend.  I sat next to my grandma who spearheaded the examination of my conscience.  Most of the family sat around listening intently to my grandma and I, but others engaged in their own topics of conversation. 

Catholicism and alcohol slammed together like atoms in a nuclear reactor creating a force known as gradma.  It created in her a force much stronger than any preconceived notions of Catholic morality.  She stared me right in the face.  “Pre-marital sex is a sin, Sean.”  She emphasized my name as if it was the sin itself.  Sean verb: sex without vows, noun: dirty, dirty grandson. 

“What are you talking about,” my instinct was to deny.

                “Your mother told me you were living with your girlfriend. I know you’re having sex.  Shame on you.”

                I didn’t notice it happening, but the entire family had put their chairs in a circle around us.  I felt like prey being circled by sharks in the open water.  I looked at my mom with distress, but found no reprieve.  “You told grandma I’ve been having sex.”

                “No, she isn’t dumb Sean.  She just put two and two together.” It was a weak defense for someone so amused by the situation.  My mother listened to the conversation with more interest than the rest.

                “That’s right, I’m no dummy.  And when am I going to meet this girl?”

                “She had to work, I—“

                “You are supposed to get married, then have sex.  I even had sex in my grandmother’s house, but I was married first.” 

                Everyone under the umbrellas laughed at that one, and most of the men threw looks in my grandpa’s direction that said, “You crazy old man.” 

                I quickly made a defensive joke.  “Grandma, I would never have sex in your house.”  That got some laughs from the family. My mother choked on a sip of wine, but my grandma was not amused and shot me a look of disgusts. 

                My sister and aunt tried to come to my defense, but my grandma cut them off.  “Don’t get me started on you two.”  They were forced to retreat or suffer a public examination of conscience themselves.  My grandma finished her Tom Collins, stood up, and announced, “I’m going to make dinner for all my little sinners.”

                I felt pretty low.  I always looked to my grandma for advice, especially the moral kind.  Having her call me out on my largest offense against the church, in front of the entire family, was a shock.  Suddenly, I could really feel the sand in my swimsuit rubbing me in all the wrong places.  I ran back to the water for another swim.  I had to wash off the sand.  The swim was beyond refreshing.  It was just the right amount of cool.  It was like running a race through the desert where the finish line is made of freezing snow.  It was like a cleansing or a baptism perhaps.  I had escaped the hell on the beach that was the conversation.  As I swam, I thought about how my grandma was still trying to teach me how to swim.  Only in her mind, I was barely treading water.

                When I took a shower that night, I noticed a small red rash in my places of sin.  I was convinced my grandma prayed for it to happen, but her dinner was so amazing it seemed like a greater sin than sex.  My grandma didn’t treat me like a grandchild again until the next day.  At the dinner table, I was still her little sinner.  She left a few pieces of French bread unbuttered.  She pointed her butter knife right at me and announced to everyone, “Those are for Sean; he can butter his own damn bread.”  Everyone laughed at that point, my grandma and I included. 

                When I got home from Pensacola, I told Whitnee the story.  I did not move out or stop having sex with her, even though I was pretty upset she didn’t greet me naked at the door.  The first few times Whitnee and I did have sex after the beach trip, my grandma popped into my head.  I think this was her actual goal that day on the beach.  “If he thinks of me every time, he will never have sex again.”  I imagine her thoughts, but my girlfriend’s bare shoulders peaking from under the blanket are enough to pull me back to my reality, my beautiful sinful reality. 

            I love my grandma, but I will continue to be one of her little sinners.  I no longer call myself a Catholic but a cafeteria Catholic.  I pick and choose what I like about my faith and leave the rest at the church.  Not that I have been to church anytime recently.  It is a good thing no one pointed that out on the beach.  Just as my family does not exercise much restraint when it comes to alcohol, I plan to ignore restraint when it comes to sex.  In the end, we will always be a family through thick and sin. 

Talking to Self

‘           I noticed something interesting about myself over the past few weeks.  I have been talking more and more when there is no one around to listen.  I would say I’m talking to myself, but I’m not.  In these moments of audible dialogue my speech is directed at objects: words on a page, pictures on a screen, or a slow driver in front of me.  I think I speak out loud in these instances to simply let it out.  I think this practice has a calming affect.  It is a preventative measure thought not in all cases.  In the past week or so I have broken my own phone, bike, book bag.  Of course these destructions came at the end of a long denunciation of my wireless provider, Chinese ingenuity, or zippers that were engineered in China.  The final cracks or rips of these objects are the only response I hear in reply to my tirades.  I wish in these times that they had said something sooner.

            I don’t usually have a problem with breaking things, just frustration.  It may serve in my defense to explain my current situation.  I will hopefully be graduating later in December, and my job has told me that there is no job for me when that happens.  Each day I get closer to my last.  It takes a lot for me to not say anything to my supervisors before the end of each day.  The only motive I have to hold my tongue is to insure a favorable reference from these ungrateful bitches.  This is the source of my frustration.

            I am usually nice to people, at least while they’re in front of me.  But I will rant to myself if need be, as soon as they leave the room.  I need to learn to spare myself the inconveniences of my own frustration.  Breaking personal items serves only to reinforce my hatred for when things go against my plans. 

            One thought brings it back to perspective.  Since I have been talking to myself and slamming objects to the concrete, I imagine what it would be like to stand before my own line of sight.  “This shit ain’t funny.”  “Fuck you,” to an absent you. “Go fuck yourself,” which I have essentially explained how to do through frustration.” Or “fuck, this shit ain’t funny, fuck yourself and die,” are some of the phrases I have caught myself uttering and subsequently pictured myself following with a destructive act.  I would think I was fucking crazy seeing myself in this state. This makes me laugh, and suddenly I understand my frustration. 

            It is destruction waiting to strike.  My rants have since turned to a means similar to a negotiation, the mode being my own inaction.  I’ll talk myself down from breaking something or telling off a supervisor who has angered me.  I talk myself down from the ledge just before I jump.  I used to wonder what would happen if I set this bitch on fire or how would this driver change their shitty habits if I slammed into the back of them.  Now, I wonder what I would say if I did these things and saw them from an outside perspective. 

            “Angry young man” I would probably say.  “He should relax.” 

            Now all I hear from people is “Who are you talking to?’ 

            “No One at all”

            Frustration isn’t worth the future frustration, so fuck it. Lets get high.  

Mrs. Caruth

            I once worked at a tourist information center.  The job was easy; I was basically a bathroom attendant.  The job did consist of other things; however, I must have pointed about 200 people a day to the nearest bathroom.  In my downtime at work I would read books or serf the internet.  During my time at the information center I was fortunate enough to meet one of the kindest souls I have yet to encounter.  Her name was Mrs. Caruth she was a sweet seventy-two year old black woman who had grown up in the French Quarter of New Orleans.  She was short and stocky a tight packaging for someone so sweet.  She would come into the information center daily.  We called her a volunteer but she wasn’t really.  Largely she was just looking for somewhere and someone to share her day with.  I came to learn that she was estranged from her family.  What little family she did have left including sons and daughters were always after what little money she possessed.  She would often rant about the nature of people and turn deep in voice and solemn in demeanor.  These rants would always end positive.  She seemed to always end with a mention of how God’s will was unexplainable and just. 

            “He’s gonna take care of me”, or “He gonna take care of dem” would usually be the wrapping phrase.  My co-workers and I grew to love these moments, not only were they theatrical like a mini monologue, but they always told us a little bit more about our friend Mrs. Caruth.  I can’t remember the last time I witnessed a priest awaken a group spiritually like she could.  She could do it every God damn day.  Some co-workers couldn’t tolerate the spirituality of these monologues, but I relished in it.  I don’t hear many people talk with such fervor as Mrs. Caruth did. 

            She was not a lady of means, yet she would always bring me snacks, sandwiches, beignets from Café du Monde, or a treat of her own making.  She made really good peanut butter cookie bars.  I also began to bring her treats or buying her lunch from time to time.  Usually I had to trick her into eating with me if I purchased the food by saying I’m full you want some of this.  She was a proud woman, but not a wasteful one.  I sometimes brought in leftovers from home.  She didn’t have any problem with these since it was usually red beans and rice or jambalaya.  These were certainly two meals she enjoyed the most and never went too long without eating.  She would say, “You cook good red beans.”

            “My mama cooks good red beans.” I’d tell her.

            “Oh, your mama made dat.  I wanna meet ya mama.  When you bringing her by.”  She would say this in her animated way changing her voice to falsetto or doing her best imitation of a man, which sounded like Louis Armstrong with emphysema.

            “I’m telling you boy I betta meet yo mama soon.”

            “I’ll ask her to stop by the next time she’s in town.” I’d tell her laughing at her animated speech.

            “Till den, I’m ya mama suga” now back in falsetto. 

            “Yes, mam.” I’d say still trying not to laugh, only more successful this time. 

            Mrs. Caruth was also an amazing dancer.  She would come in and dance to the jazz playing through the CD player.  I loved to watch her dance not only because it was amusing to myself but also because she would start up ever time someone new walked into the information center.  I watch their reaction.  Sometimes people would laugh other times people would join her asking what do you call that dance.  She would never dance to any set structure just free step all day long.  She was not a picture of grace , but her steps were always spontaneous and tenacious.

            “I was dancing before I could crawl boy,” was something she would say often.

            “Is that the truth Caruth,” I would say back.

            “You know I don’t tell no lies,” she would affirm.

One day, word came down from the administration that I was no longer allowed to bring food or share lunch with Mrs. Caruth.  They acted like that was the only reason she came around.  I was angry at this because all of a sudden it became a problem after six months of forming a daily report with my friend Mrs. Caruth.  She didn’t come for handouts, which was the reason that the administrators gave me for stopping the exchange of food and treats.  She came past every day because she loved talking to people like I did.  She was just better at it.  When there was no one else around we would talk to each other to help pass the day.  I had never had a friend that was so many generations ahead of me. 

            Mrs. Caruth was a smart lady she knew there was something up with the bosses.  She still came in from time to time, but only for a few hours and there was no more treats or candy.  It eventually got to a point where she no longer came at all.  She told me once that she wanted to go to California to see her daddy’s grave.  When she didn’t return for such a long time I hoped that she was making her trip out west.  She had also mentioned how sweet her daughter who lived in Texas was.  She told me she was the only one of her six children that didn’t try to take her money.  I hoped that perhaps she had come to live with her daughter in Texas visiting her grandbabies she always mentioned with a smile. 

            I learned recently of Mrs. Caruth’s passing.  I felt really sad at first then relieved.  I head that she did in a hospice in the city.  I felt sad again knowing that she died alone.  With six kids and nieces and nephews all over the city I felt horrible that no one could take her in or visit her before she passed.   I wish I had known she was doing badly.  I would have liked very much to see her one last time.  If not for anything else to let her know that someone was thinking of her. 

            I said prayers for my old friend.  I prayed that no woman as nice as her ever dies alone as she did.  I prayed that God send the world another soul as sweet as hers.  I also made my mothers red beans and some rice crispy treats to have a memorial meal for my gentle companion.  Her life was hard and difficult.  A story that perhaps only Tony Morrison could tell in all its highs and lows, if written it might be called the sweetest soul.  I’ll never forget Mrs. Caruth and all she did to make my day just a little bit better.  I will always picture her dancing and smiling or joking with someone, a sight I once found great amusement in.  Now it is nothing but a bittersweet memory, one, which I hope to tell my children about in all its simple details.  

Dome Lights

           

 “The Superdome got lights ya’ll.”  This was what I overheard from a conversation between some fellow New Orleanians. 

            When I saw the dome for the first time I nearly crashed my car.  It was hard to drive eastbound on interstate ten on the Slidell ramp that approaches the Superdome. The lights were flashing and circling the mighty iron saucer.  It was like a scene from a movie with an alien apocalypse.  I nearly crashed for two reasons.  The lights were such a spectacle that I could not focus my attention on the constant gradual right of the elevated road. But, for a split second, I wanted to crash. Better to die than to subject myself to the slavery or extermination that would surly follow a sighting like that. 

            Once I got over this initial awe and fear I was suddenly enlivened.  It felt like a Saints Super bowl victory in an instant.  I only wish it was possible to pull over on the interstate.  I would have pulled over and danced.  The feeling has returned each time I have driven past the newly lit New Orleans icon.

            More recently, I was on my computer reading news sites.  I saw that the Superdome’s new 26,000 LED lights and corporate sponsor were the subjects of the main headline on NPR’s homepage.  Although the lights make me happy temporarily while I drive past them, I didn’t understand how the dome had made the main headline.  The surrounding headlines were about the debt crises and wars of the world.  Meanwhile people are supposed to give a shit about the tackiness of the Mercedes logo that’s projected onto the dome.  I knew the massive structure’s new luminance was special for a passionate local, but I couldn’t take it for news on the worldwide scale.  It was two forty-eight in the morning, the hour where news is most scarce, when this story reached the main headline.   When I checked back on the NPR home page, about fifteen minutes later, the dome headline was replaced with a headline about European debt debates.  I felt relieved that the Superdome LED’s had faded out just like hoe the actual light and elation fades as I drive past the illuminated giant.   For a brief moment the dome reached national headlines, but every time I drive past it now I question the logo of Mercedes-Benz and wonder about how it all fits into a world perspective. 

            In a way the dome’s luminous shell exposed for me the world and its own shell.  Headlines often distract us from the monumental by using the trivial.  This makes it harder for people to realize the core issues of the day.  Perhaps those unsatisfied with the new face of the dome should occupy it.  That seems the popular solution to all current affairs.  I look past the shell and see the old exterior or the less illuminated realities.

            I was fortunate enough to receive a free ticket to the Saints, Colts game.  It was a butt whooping.  But, I couldn’t help but notice that the domes interior renovations were incomplete.  The majority of the rainbow seats had been changed to black ones with added cushioning, my seat included.  The money for the dome renovations seemed to go to appearance rather than modifications to improve the typical fan’s experience.  The dome is like its headline, a distraction from the grit, a welcome reprieve by the world’s big-spending renovators.  I will always remember the dome as it was.  The 26,000 lights have come to represent something more.  American surplus, of what I don’t know, is now what I think they represent, but headlines just enforce the naivety.  Is it tacky? Or should the stories content ask is this necessary or is this news? 

NPR article

Family Portrait

           Unpictured is my father.  I asked my mom why they couldn’t find a nurse to take the picture.  She said “you know our family, I’m glad we even have that picture.”  Our family was never one of those quick we entered Mississippi stand in front of the sign and take a picture to prove it kind of families. My mother was the type of driver that would ask you if you could hold it until Alabama.  My family didn’t enter Mississippi that day, but we did improve the guy to girl ratio to two to three.  That’s why there is a photo from that moment. 

            I’m still a little pissed that my dad isn’t in the photo.  I assume it is my first, and it bugs me that I can’t say that it was our first. 

I asked my mom about our first family portrait, one with everyone in it, its one of those mall photos where everyone stands in front of some darker and lighter shades of blue. But everyone in my family loves this photo more.  My dad doesn’t ever look at it without saying how he remembers that very moment.  He always makes sure we know how proud he is to be a father.  He says, “Best thing I’ve ever done by far.” I agree, to not would be a wish to never be born.  Never wished that.

My dad says he’s not in the picture because he would have made it ugly.  That reason makes me smile, though I still don’t think that excuses him from not being in the photo.  I asked him one day why they took that picture.  “It was your first fart I had to document it.”  I laughed pretty hard at his response.  I guess I’ve been full of shit since day one, and I definitely get my bullshit skills from my dad. 

My mother and sisters have always done what their pictured doing holding me up and standing behind me.  I’ve followed in their footsteps in many ways.  I’ll probably be a teacher like my mom, and I came to Loyola, played French horn, and became a park ranger just like my big sisters.  It’s amazing how a picture explains an entire family.  While my sisters and mom have always been hands on guiding forces, my dad has always been the jokester in the background making everyone smile.

Every time I look at this picture I see my dad doing his best to make us all smile.

Full of Smoke

            My friends are idiots, but so am I.  They presented their genius plan to me one day.  They told me that they were all going to start carrying cigarettes.  Not to smoke but, to be ready if a girl walked up to them in a bar asking for one.  Four of my oldest friends formed the coalition.  I suppose they had been unprepared in this situation before and reasoned that if they were prepared they would be more appealing.  Whatever the reason that was the plan presented to me.  They were proud of the plan too.  As if it would change those disappointing social moments when a girl turns her back.  I know they were out to get laid, but how would cigarettes help?

            All four of them smoke now, and so do I.  I did not start for the same reason as them.  I still make fun of them for the plan that led them to begin ritually filling their longs with smoke.  I laugh even harder listening to them fight over who owes who cigarettes.

            I have seen the logic in the plan since first hearing it.  Smoking certainly promotes social interaction.  Usually when I run out of cigarettes, I try to avoid buying a pack by bumming from strangers.  I can always get one from someone outside of work.  All of the quarter rats smoke, though I think twice before bumming from them.  One day I shared a joint with a dishwasher from Montrel’s.  I still see him regularly, and we always take the time to say hello and exchange a few questions.  How’s your baby?  I might ask him. How’s college, college boy?  He might jest.  I don’t think he holds any true resentment against me.  After all I have given him enough cigarettes to make up about three packs since we met, though I’ve never minded sharing.

            My favorite part of bumming cigarettes is interacting with total strangers.  Some people will tell you no or hand you one and turn away, but most stay and converse at least as long as their cigarette last.  One day I asked a nice lady in scrubs for one.  She said I don’t know if you want one of these.  She then handed me one of those long bastards.  It must have been a Virginia Slim.  I found out that she was an in home nurse with a couple of patients in the quarter, or maybe she took care of an old couple.  I can’t remember now, but she was beyond friendly.  We talked for a while, as the cigarette determined the added length to the usual smokers’ interaction.  I still laugh every time I have an interaction with a fellow smoker.  I think about my four friends and their half-baked plan for interacting with the opposite sex.  It still makes me laugh.  I have basically adapted the plan myself though mine is not gender or age specific, and the aim is not sex but conversation.  I simply enjoy the short interactions; smokers are truly a friendly bunch for the most part.  Sometimes I get the since that someone is lying to me about just smoking their last one, but that is their right.  The next person will have one, and from my experience share a few kind words.

I only heard his story

“Did you know the boy?” 

            I had to admit I had no Idea what she was talking about.  A woman around fifty or sixty stood in front off me with a look of discussed.  I didn’t even know what had triggered her words.

            “You said you were from Thibodaux didn’t you?”

            “Yes.” I was still waiting for her to get to the point of it.

            “Awful what happened, you didn’t hear.”

            “No, what?” I stood, waiting.

            “A boy was killed by his father.”  At that a gentlemen who appeared to be a few years older than his wife stepped to her shoulder to add,  “Cut him all up.” Then he just shook his head.

            I still had no Idea what they were talking about, but I still told them how awful I thought their information was.  Then I proceeded to tell them what my job commanded me to tell them.  “Thibodaux is one of the six sites of Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve.  The location focuses on interpreting the culture of the wetland Acadians.  They have Cajun music concerts every Monday evening and conduct canoe trips in the surrounding bayous.”  I just read the list as I pictured it in my head. 

            “I don’t think we will stray from the city, but thanks for the information.”  The old couple turned away and was out of site around the corner headed to Café du Monde probably.  I pictured them drinking their coffee and chicory with a touch of white powder on both their noses still shaking their heads.  “Awful” or “This country’s gone crazy.” But in the next breath they would comment on how delicious their pastries were. 

            I started to hear more and more from other visitors, as they came through the park.

            “He was only seven.” One visitor said.

            “He had cerebral palsy “ others confirmed.

            I finally took a break from working the front desk and looked at the Times Picayune.  The times article was written with the same tact the visitors exuded.  One gruesome detail after the next made it clear that a horrific murder had taken place in my hometown which commanded national attention.

            When I returned to the desk, I was resolved to avoid talking about Thibodaux including its National Park attractions.  I succeeded in my goal, for the most part.  I stopped claiming I was from the damn place, but a co-worker and fellow ranger mentioned in to one couple.  Of course they had seen the headline and read the article.  The question came at me again.  “Did you know the boy? This time the couple waiting for a response was much younger.  I think they were from jersey. 

            I snapped back.  “Do you know Snookie.”

            “No,” the woman said.

            “Well there’s your answer.” 

            They were not very appreciative.  I could tell by their look. It was a look that said, the nerve.  The look also said, we get it.  The man actually apologized.  I apologized right back.  I new I had made an overstep in tone.  My retraction was insincere. 

            What if I did know the boy?  Would a couple continue to talk to me after hearing that he was my first or second cousin?  Where would the conversation go?  What is the next brilliant question to follow a positive response?

            I didn’t know the boy only his story.  The day took its toll.  I knew that most visitors simply couldn’t be helped from the beginning, mainly because they came in looking for the wrong thing.  Most don’t even realize they are in a national park, but the off topic questions of the day were too much. 

I thought about how uninterested people are until tragedy strikes.  What if the park service felt that way? The 9/11 ground zero and Virginia Tech national memorials would be the biggest attendance grabbers in the nation.

I was wondering why others were so fascinated with tragedy, but I learned that I am no better than them.  All I could do was say, “that’s awful” and shake my head, just like the rest of them.  Personally I rather forget this process of insincere concern for my fellow humans. Perhaps the insincerity memorial would make a big splash, but I guess there would have to be a marker or plaque on every corner and one on my front door.  

Wal-mart

Fuck.  I’m doing it again.  Headed to Wal-Mart to get a new tire on my car.  I would have gone elsewhere, but eighty-five dollars.  You can’t beat that.  I’m talking to you Pep boys.  Oh, wait. It was Tire Kingdom that charged me one hundred forty-five dollars for my last tire.  That was an emergency though.  I had lent my spare to a friend and was without it, so I had to get the jeep towed to the nearest tire place.  I still had a since that the Kingdom new I had no choice.  Tire Kingdom that’s how they ran it.  I guess I was lucky to walk out of their with my head on my shoulders.  After all, I didn’t kneel and kiss a crest with three grease heads on it.  Oh, nope that’s Pep boys again.  I’ve certainly had my share of car troubles.  

The initial reaction of deciding to go to Wal-mart is “No, not there, anywhere else.”  However, it’s hard not to want to save the extra cash.  Plus, they have everything.  After all, I was headed there for a tire.  They have a full auto garage at each location.  I wonder if their will be any mechanics in the future or just Wal-mart employees in blue vest that bid you to have a nice day even as they turn their backs on you. 

When I got to Wal-mart I pulled around to the side where they auto bays were.  The attendant was helpful, but after getting into my car he told be they would not be able to work with my car.  It had been stolen several moths back.  All that was missing was the CD player and the ignition key.  I had been starting it with a screwdriver; the reason Wal-mart could only help me so far.  They agreed to put the new skin on the tire, but I would have to put the tire onto my jeep myself. I rolled the tire to the attendant in the pissiest fashion to demonstrate my feelings. 

I knew it would be a while so I decided to see what I could get at Wal-mart to add to my eighty-five dollar tab.  My hair was getting pretty shaggy, so I decided to get a haircut, another American industry to come under the umbrella of the blue and gray.  If I had bad eyes, I could have corrected that as well.

After my haircut walked around a bit.  I noticed that this Wal-mart though familiar was still different.  I began to think about Wal-mart architecture, if you can call it that.  What is it with the design of these stores?  Why not make them all the same.  Instead some are mirror images of one another.  Some switch the frozen foods with hardware.  Some switch the jewelry section with boys clothing.  However, other sections are always located in the same place: customer service, electronics, gardening.  There are probably entire teams of physiologist who sit there and figure out where to place a rack of socks to sell a few extra pairs.  In my situation all, they had to do was make me wait to get more of my money. 

After walking around a while, I had picked up a four-way tire iron and filet knife.  I knew I had to get the tire iron, but I was just flat out tired of not being able to properly clean the occasional fish.  Plus it came with a sharpener.  Every knife in my kitchen was near worthless, so I convinced myself that the twelve ninety-five I was spending was really saving me money in the end. 

The total came to one hundred and thirty-six dollars and fifty-two cents.  Maybe it was the extra money I spent or the fact that I still had to change my tire, but I left Wal-mart uttering the same word of curse only my hair was shorter.  

I'm a Frankenstein

I can’t remember ever putting pen to paper as a child, and I could barely use a computer until high school.  I’d say that’s where I felt a connection to writing first.  I wrote a paper on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.  I had a great teacher who taught me the value of writing and how useful it could be. 

The paper focused on a theme in the novel. The monster was not necessarily a monster.  People just made him that way by rejecting him for his sewn-together, gruesome appearance.  In other words, the monster became so in character after learning violence from humans.  The rest of the paper discussed a question about the monster.  Who was the monster, really?  The monster was only cruel after he received cruelty.  Frankenstein created the monster and let it loose without knowledge of the world.  I posed that the true monsters were the people in the novel.  I don’t recall much else, but I remember being proud of the work.  I remember how writing was what allowed me to reach a higher level of thought and reasoning. 

I have written many papers that helped me learn about the world, but I have just recently discovered how creative writing allows me to learn about myself.  Creative writing has become a means to understand my own existence in the larger world.  It also gives me the power to create anything I want including a new world or new creatures.

I can’t help but continue to think back to the question of the monster in my first memorable piece of writing.  It seems writing itself, the act, turns one into a Frankenstein. I am a creator of beings rejected by society.  It’s not their fault.  They lack sufficient skills to survive in the outside world.  It’s not their fault if they get put down and never picked back up.