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Decatur
Street
by Sara
Jacobellii
This work remains property of Spanish Dagger Publications.
It may be redistributed so long as it remains in its entirety. Any
other use without permission is strictly prohibited.
 They
met for the first time in Jackson Square, summer of 76, on one of
those Louisiana days that are so hot you'd swear your insides would
melt. He just walked up to her and started talking non-stop, a skinny
boy about sixteen.
"Everyone thinks these stone slabs are ancient. These cobblestones
here. They're new-isn't that a kick? The Cabildo's old though. And
the Pontalba Building-the oldest apartments in the United States.
Oh, sorry, my name's Jimmy, Jimmy Paradise. Lemme guess, you're Cassandra."
He smiled into her eyes. He was somewhat effeminate, affected, well-mannered;
but not gay.
"Cassandra, that sounds like a cheap romance novel broad. Fuck no!"
She had a tough Brooklyn Italian accent.
They crossed Decatur Street and stood on the bank of the Mississippi.
They both knew they were already friends, sometimes it happens that
way. A grungy hippie sat on his back-pack and strummed Take it Easy
on a battered guitar.
"Alright, Penelope. Or how about Leah? I see you as the Eternal Woman
somehow, when you grow up, of course. No offense. How old are you
anyway? Twelve?"
She ran her fingers through her long black hair. Her hair and hands
were greasy, her clothes looked slept in. It was obvious she had no
place to stay.
"Seventeen. As of Ju-ly the 4th. Same birthday as Louie Armstrong.
That's why I thumbed to New Orleans inna first place. He was born
here. In an alley. An a dude was murdered in that same alley on the
same day. An fer yer info, I grew up a long time ago."
"Hmmm, you look more like twelve. Maybe thirteen. Hungry? Cafe du
Monde has great chicory coffee an beignets."
They sat by the fountain watching tourists at the outdoor tables slurp
strong, hot coffee and crunch on the powdered, sugary fried donuts.
"I don't got any money. . . " she said softly.
"Who does? We just hang around til someone leaves and grab their leftovers.
Make sure the waiters don't catch us though, they get pissed."
A fat couple wearing souvenir New Orleans T-shirts got up, their bratty
kids didn't like the beignets and left two each on their plates.
"Now!" They grabbed the food and ran across the street, the noisy
calliope music in the background added a state-fair kind of feel to
the day.
"Lookit you, your face is covered with sugar. What's your name anyway?
You still haven't told me."
They walked down Decatur Street, moving swiftly through the crowds.
"Tory. Short fer Victoria. But Victoria's too, I dunno, too girly
sounding fer me."
"Well, you ARE a girl, you know. Check this place out."
They stood in front of the old Greek club, filled with men. They watched
as the guys danced and tossed glasses against the wall. A tattered
sign behind the bar stated NO BREAKING GLASSES. Some of the men leered
at Tory.
"Wow. This place smells an looks like another country about a hundred
years ago." She looked around wide-eyed like a kid at the zoo.
They passed Central Grocery. "This is where they make these giant
Italian sandwiches-called muffalletas-maybe someday we can panhandle
enough to get one an split it! And Sidney's Newsstand is cool-he let's
us hang out an look at the magazines!"
"Yeah, sure." Tory shrugged. "I wisht I had a cigarette."
"No problem-let's go! Let's race!" Jimmy ran across the square.
"Where we goin?" Tory yelled.
He leaped onto the back of a horse and carriage. "Come on. We're hitchin
a ride to the gay bars!"
They jumped off at Bourbon and St. Anne. The buggy driver threw a
Pepsi can at them.
"Why the gay bars?" Tory asked as they strolled into the Bourbon Pub.
"It's ten A.M. Any fruit still out since last night hasn't scored
and knows he won't. They buy us drinks and give us smokes. Poor, cute,
raggedy street urchins."
One pale wispy fag with red hair sat at the bar, crying into his Margarita.
"Oh mercy me, give those two yungins a drink, you're not turnin tricks
are ya dearies?"
"Waddya brats want?" the bartender sneered.
"Two Bloody Mary's," Jimmy ordered. He whispered in Tory's ear with
the exaggerated manner of a foreign spy. "Always order the Bloody
Mary, cause they serve it here with a stalk of celery an a cucumber."
They could here the thump-thump of the drunken dancers from the Parade
Disco upstairs. "More pick-ups take place up there." He pointed at
the ceiling. "Downstairs is more for the weepers an losers. They're
the most generous though."
Tory crunched eagerly on the celery. "Dya sell your ass, Jimmy?"
"NO, not me. No way. Lotsa the kids on Bourbon Street do, though.
Like little Wendy an her brother Tommy."
"Hey, mistah, could ya give us some quarters fer the jukebox? Ya got
any favorites?" Tory hit up the redhead. "Sure, darlin, take all I
got, no one loves me anyway. . .?" He gave her a handful of change.
"Play Cabaret-Please play CABARET by LIZA! I LOVE LIZA!!!" he added.
Jimmy and Tory punched out songs. "I don't sell my ass, neither. But
I don't have nuttin against stealin, though, dyou?" she asked. "Ya
know, shopliften, picken pockets?"
"Play That's Life and My Way, my dad's two faves, did I tell ya my
dad was a singer, Johnny Paradise?"
"No kiddin, no bullshit? We gotta play Diamonds and Rust, Joan Baez
an Tangled Up in Blue, Dylan. Howcum I never heard a your dad?"
"Nobody did, he's a door-man now, on Bourbon Street. We'll bump into
him sometimes." Jimmy shrugged.
"So, ya steal, right?" she whispered again.
"Well, sure, we gotta eat. I almost feel like rollin Red here but
he's too nice. HEY, we need some more drinks over here, BARTENDER!"
he yelled.
"COME TO THE CABARET, OLD CHUMS!" Red shrieked loudly. "Lookit them.
They're ADORABLE. WHERE ARE YOUR MOTHERS? YOU POOR ORPHANS!"
The bartender practically threw their drinks at them. "This is the
last round, for all three of you. I don't like cheap hustlers."
"Oh God, " Jimmy stirred his drink. "Who does he think he is?-BETTE
DAVIS!" They poured their drinks into plastic go cups and stumbled
outside, laughing. "No, Greta Garbo, I vant to be alone!" Tory mocked.
"Bye bye darlins!" howled Red. "NOBODY LOVES ME!"
They walked down Bourbon Street, blinking at the unfamiliar sunlight.
"Let's go down Esplanade, to City Park, it's a great walk, lotsa trees
an-"
"Sure. . ." Tory agreed. "Look, I got a quarter left from the music
money that guy gave me."
"Cool. An later on we can take the ferry to Algiers-it's free! It's
like a sleepy little Southern town. There's dogs an houses an little
kids running barefoot! BAREFOOT!"
Jimmy lowered his voice. "It's a nice change from the streets, know
what I mean?"
She smiled a gap-toothed smile. "I hear ya."
Jimmy brightened.
"Oh, since you're new in town, I've gotta tell ya about all the French
Quarter characters--First there's Ruthie the Duck Lady. Then, there's
the Lucky Bead Lady, Chicken-Man, an Tinkerbell!"
"TINKERBELL?"
"I know em all. An we can make some bucks running errands for the
barkers an strippers. . ."
They walked under stately old oak trees and past rundown plantations.
Little black kids played in the streets.
"I'm still hungry." Tory found a stone she like and kicked it along
every few feet. She wiped the sweat from her face.
"Me too," Jimmy said.
"Maybe we can sneak into the Wax Museum later," he added.
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