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Of all the tales told and retold while sitting on the stoop on St. Peter Street, between Dauphine and Burgundy, in that tiny little black neighborhood located in the middle of the French Quarter, none rivals the story of Mr. Paul Lee and his fabled broomstick.
Let me back up a bit. This was in the late 70's, before the 1984 World's Fair and legalized gambling pushed many small businesses and residents out of the Quarter. When I got to town as a teenager, this little neighborhood within a neighborhood still existed, and the hub of it was Buster Holmes' soulfood restaurant, on the corner of Orleans and Burgundy. A simple building covered with faded, peeling pink and green paint, inside you sat at big, communal tables while Muddy Waters, Leadbelly and Sonny Terry blared from the jukebox. Buster never even had a food or a liquor license. But it was the most popular place in the city. For 50 cents you got the best red beans and rice, and all the French bread and butter you could eat. For a bit more, you could chase your meal down with a cold Dixie or Barq's. Back then, I was a scrawny street kid, and quickly learned to sit at the counter and watch the big, stern ladies heap food onto plates. Ma-Mae, my favorite, thought I was too skinny. "Here, chile," she'd say, handing me a bowl, "git you some greens." I could never afford the smothered pork chops or spicy fried chicken, but they sure smelled good. Coming from the Northeast, Buster's really made me feel I was in the South. The fun part was watching tourists who thought the big, red plastic bottles on the tables were full of ketchup. They didn't realize they were dumping Louisiana Hot Sauce all over their lunches and just about gagged. Word on the street was, if you were hungry, tell Mr.Buster, and he'd fix you a plate of beans and rice. Just pay him back when you got the chance.
Two blocks away, at 701 Dauphine, was Shakey Jake's Bar and Pizza Parlor. I got the job delivering pizzas on foot in the Quarter. One time, just around the corner on St. Peter, I knocked and knocked and couldn't get an answer. I could hear sexy Barry White music in the background. "Hey Mistah, doncha want yer pizza? It's gettin cold!" I yelled. Finally, the green shutters opened, and out came a black hand with a twenty dollar bill. "Here kid, keep the change." "Thanks. But don't ya want the pizza?" He was obviously naked, and tried to turn the pizza box sideways to pull it in without opening the shutters any wider. "Baby, come on..." moaned some woman in the background. "Oh, baby, yeah, do it..." moaned Barry White. "Forget it kid, keep the fuckin pizza!" he said. Definitely my best tip.
I rented a room on St. Peter, for eight dollars a week, from a sweet old black lady who never came outside, just hung her head out the window and chatted with everyone who walked by.
Jake's had three or four pool tables, and the tables and floor were all so slanted you had to be a regular to shoot very well on them. The bar was an unlikely assortment of bikers, hippies, freaks, Vietnam vets, sidewalk commandos and a few blacks who lived on the block. While emptying the ashtrays, picking up beer bottles and scanning the floor for crumpled tens and twenties, I often got to watch some pretty slick hustlers. There was Nubby Joe, so called because he was missing all the fingers except the thumb on one hand; he was one of the top players. But the one thing that everyone agreed on was that Mr. Paul Lee was the best pool hustler around.
He was about 70, but looked 50. A quiet, polite, unassuming black man from the old school. He stood in that slightly hunched-over crouch of the former boxer. He was very good, but not the top player in the bar. Paul stayed away from the high stakes 3-ball and 9-ball games. His specialty was sucker 8-ball. Paul stalked his prey silently, carefully. The first rule of any con is pick the correct mark. He usually chose cocky young men; Yankee soldiers, college students. Paul Lee had been around long enough to spot and exploit the dangerous weakness of over-confidence. He would always appear more drunk than he really was.
They might start playing for drinks, then go to five bucks a game, then ten. Paul would play just good enough to be believable, making easy shots, purposely missing more difficult ones. The bartender would give him plain Coca-Cola in his whiskey glass. If Paul thought he had a big fish on the line, then partying would have to wait.
By the time the pigeon was strutting around, counting his winnings, Paul was ready. "Two hunnert dollas," he'd say, staggering around the room. He'd stumble over to the broom in the corner. "Two hunnert dollas, an I's gonna shoot wit da broomstick," he'd add, sweeping the floor. "You think yas can beat a ole black man widda broomstick? I was pretty good in my day, I was. Billiards, boxin, dancin..." Paul would clumsily start tap dancing. This was an act, for Paul could dance almost as well as he played pool. "He's goin for the broomstick..." the regulars would whisper. None of us wanted to miss this.
The opponent would look confused. "Two hundred dollars, uh, and you'll shoot with the broom?" He'd look at his friends. "But do I use the cue stick?"
"Of course." Paul started chalking up the end of the broomstick. "You shoots wit whatever you wants to. You on?" They were always on, and Paul Lee would proceed to run the table, playing effortlessly, smoothly, suddenly sober. I often wondered what a stranger would think, happening upon the sight of Paul shooting pool with an old broom, the bristles rustling. I remember listening to Aaron Neville sing "Tell It Like It Is" on the jukebox and feeling I was witnessing one of the finer moments in New Orleans history.
Paul would always shake the loser's hand, buy him a drink, and apologize as he took his money. "I's so sorry, sir, I don't know how dat happened, I just don't know. It's two hunnert dollas, gimme twenny more, dat's right, thank you." The loser would always walk out looking so dazed, I'm sure Paul could have taken him for twice as much money the next day.
He would buy a round, and ask me, "You doin alright, Sugar. You need anythin?" Everyone would return to their pool and pin-ball games. And I would go back to delivering pizzas, clearing the tables, cleaning up. "Remember babe," Paul would say, wiping the sweat from his face with a clean white hanky, "It ain't da stick. It ain't never da stick."
In those days, folks would sit on their stoops, on St. Peter, between Dauphine and Burgundy. They'd tell tales, and gossip, and brag. You'd hear a chorus of "Um hmmm, ain't it a shame?" from the women. The men would drink Olde English 800. "Member when dat dude stole Louis' car, an smashed it all up? Member when Hershey had so much junk piled up in his ole truck, it was fallin all over? Member when Paul Lee took dem white soldier boys fer all dat dough, shootin wit dat damn broomstick? If I'm lyin I'm dyin, he took em for two grand, he did!" The long legged, bare legged kids would play in the street, stopping to listen to a good story, sucking on cherry flavored sno-balls. Night would fall gently, and someone would bring out a blues harp. Only two blocks from the honky-tonk of Bourbon Street, but miles away.
New Orleans has changed a lot. The grand old city is being reluctantly dragged into the modern world. The French Quarter is fast becoming gentrified, those little green shuttered creole cottages are turning into condos and bed and breakfast inns. Few families sit on stoops, fewer neighbors call to passers by from wrought iron balconies. I know I'm lucky to have hitched into town when I did and caught a last glimpse of the old days. I may not have finished high school, but I learned a lot in those narrow streets. When Buster's was around.
