anybody's ever had
much interest. They're stacked up down by my room still. Bible's 'bout the only thing anyone 'round here ever reads."
I showed him a picture of David and a copy of the one Don took of the patient claiming to be me and asked if he remembered
seeing either of these men. He shook his head and, in exchange for a twenty, agreed to show me around.
Next stop was the warehouse district, until recently a desolate region of abandoned, boarded-up buildings and shattered sidewalks,
now quickly filling with art galleries and upscale apartments built into the old hulls. The mission had no name beyond Gold
Dew worked into the bricks above the doors, for the beer long ago brewed here.
A peculiarly small man sat at a desk to match in what was once the building's lobby. He wore a brown plaid suit with a bright
yellow rayon shirt and blue knit tie that, from the look of the knot, never got untied.
"Hep you?"
I introduced myself and was telling him why I was there, when he interrupted.
"Look, you don't mind my saying, we got two int'rests, them that needs hep and those that's got somethin' for us to hep with. You dressed too good for the first, and 'less I'm mistaken I don't see you carryin' thing one. Have a nice day." He looked
behind me. "Next"
No one there, of course.
Putting my hands on the desk, I leaned over him. If rain had broken out among the ceiling's high struts and girders, he'd
have stayed dry.
He looked up, thought about it, and decided he might have time to hep me after all.
But he couldn't remember ever seeing either of those two. Couldn't be sure, of course, so many coming and going every day,
so many that just needed a meal, a warm coat or a pair of shoes that didn't leak too bad.
I knew: none of them amounting to much more than their need.
We touched base on clothing and books, how the place operated, hours and occupancy, records. He'd think about it, get back
to me should something come to mind. In the meantime maybe I had a dollar or two? Not for himself, mind you.
I gave him two twenties and stepped out onto the street. This part of town, it could still be 1940. The ancient brick buildings
fill whole blocks, shut off view of the rest of the city: downtown's high-rise hotels, the Superdome. Trucks delivering foodstuffs,
bread, beer, liquor and cleaning supplies thunder by. There's only the sky you see directly above you, this heavy, rumbling
commerce, an occasional glimpse (high between buildings as you cross a street) of the twin-span bridge vaulting the river
to Gretna and Algiers.
I crossed Canal, which not too many years ago was itself on the way to becoming a wasteland, and stopped at the Cafe* du Monde
for what remains the best cup of coffee in a coffee-crazed city.
The usual gaggle of tourists, dark-eyed locals and Quarter freaks, all in ill-fitting clothes. Tabletops and floor sticky
as ever from powdered sugar. Cringeful out-of-tune calliope music from behind the levee, one of the cruise ships there.
A Swamp Tours van stopped out front to retrieve dropped-off clients, backing up traffic for blocks. Across by Jackson Square,
carriage mules shrugged shoulders in their livery, flicked tails and snorted. A young man bantered at passersby on the sidewalk
outside, periodically breaking off to perform solo versions of a cappella hits.
I had told myself that I wouldn't spend more than half the day trying to track down Lew Griffi. Then I'd get on with what
I should be doing: looking for Shon Delany. Though really I shouldn't be doing either. I should be sitting at home getting notes together
for my classes, possibly taking another look at the pages I'd done for what might be (increasingly I thought of it as such)
a new book. I asked the woman at the next table if she had the time. For what? she said, then laughed and told me. Almost
eleven. Okay. Thirty, forty minutes to walk there, another twenty to have a look around, I'd give myself that. Say
much interest. They're stacked up down by my room still. Bible's 'bout the only thing anyone 'round here ever reads."
I showed him a picture of David and a copy of the one Don took of the patient claiming to be me and asked if he remembered
seeing either of these men. He shook his head and, in exchange for a twenty, agreed to show me around.
Next stop was the warehouse district, until recently a desolate region of abandoned, boarded-up buildings and shattered sidewalks,
now quickly filling with art galleries and upscale apartments built into the old hulls. The mission had no name beyond Gold
Dew worked into the bricks above the doors, for the beer long ago brewed here.
A peculiarly small man sat at a desk to match in what was once the building's lobby. He wore a brown plaid suit with a bright
yellow rayon shirt and blue knit tie that, from the look of the knot, never got untied.
"Hep you?"
I introduced myself and was telling him why I was there, when he interrupted.
"Look, you don't mind my saying, we got two int'rests, them that needs hep and those that's got somethin' for us to hep with. You dressed too good for the first, and 'less I'm mistaken I don't see you carryin' thing one. Have a nice day." He looked
behind me. "Next"
No one there, of course.
Putting my hands on the desk, I leaned over him. If rain had broken out among the ceiling's high struts and girders, he'd
have stayed dry.
He looked up, thought about it, and decided he might have time to hep me after all.
But he couldn't remember ever seeing either of those two. Couldn't be sure, of course, so many coming and going every day,
so many that just needed a meal, a warm coat or a pair of shoes that didn't leak too bad.
I knew: none of them amounting to much more than their need.
We touched base on clothing and books, how the place operated, hours and occupancy, records. He'd think about it, get back
to me should something come to mind. In the meantime maybe I had a dollar or two? Not for himself, mind you.
I gave him two twenties and stepped out onto the street. This part of town, it could still be 1940. The ancient brick buildings
fill whole blocks, shut off view of the rest of the city: downtown's high-rise hotels, the Superdome. Trucks delivering foodstuffs,
bread, beer, liquor and cleaning supplies thunder by. There's only the sky you see directly above you, this heavy, rumbling
commerce, an occasional glimpse (high between buildings as you cross a street) of the twin-span bridge vaulting the river
to Gretna and Algiers.
I crossed Canal, which not too many years ago was itself on the way to becoming a wasteland, and stopped at the Cafe* du Monde
for what remains the best cup of coffee in a coffee-crazed city.
The usual gaggle of tourists, dark-eyed locals and Quarter freaks, all in ill-fitting clothes. Tabletops and floor sticky
as ever from powdered sugar. Cringeful out-of-tune calliope music from behind the levee, one of the cruise ships there.
A Swamp Tours van stopped out front to retrieve dropped-off clients, backing up traffic for blocks. Across by Jackson Square,
carriage mules shrugged shoulders in their livery, flicked tails and snorted. A young man bantered at passersby on the sidewalk
outside, periodically breaking off to perform solo versions of a cappella hits.
I had told myself that I wouldn't spend more than half the day trying to track down Lew Griffi. Then I'd get on with what
I should be doing: looking for Shon Delany. Though really I shouldn't be doing either. I should be sitting at home getting notes together
for my classes, possibly taking another look at the pages I'd done for what might be (increasingly I thought of it as such)
a new book. I asked the woman at the next table if she had the time. For what? she said, then laughed and told me. Almost
eleven. Okay. Thirty, forty minutes to walk there, another twenty to have a look around, I'd give myself that. Say
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