Lazy W Marie

Carpeing all the diems in semi-rural Oklahoma...xoxo

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Tiny T: Episode 9

   T thought for a moment about Olivia’s response, measuring her effervescent voice and testing his own cravings. As he took a breath to speak, he glanced upward. The willowy blonde in the pencil skirt was standing right in front of him, smiling quite directly while eating a fried shrimp po’ boy. Standing elegantly on those vaulted high heels, she rattled him more than women usually do. He scowled and looked away, having to make an effort now to focus on his conversation with Olivia.

   “Well, if you want to have some real fun, let me help, ” he said into his phone as he made a quarter turn away. “You girls shouldn’t be wandering around town alone anyway. It’s just not safe. Let me meet you.” It felt a bit too aggressive really, but the blonde’s stare was ramping him up and he felt this strange need to assert himself in her presence. Plus, he didn’t want to lose the chance to see Olivia again.

   “Umm, okay, what did you have in mind?” Olivia answered gently and with curiosity. Despite a faltering cell phone connection, T had her full attention now. “We are on our way to Frenchman Street now, to see some antique stores. Carly knows the owner of one and my hotel is nearby.”

   “Okay. Just hang loose. I’ll find you.” He clicked his phone off, locked it, and slipped in into his pocket, making a point not to look at the blonde. But he definitely felt her watching him still and after a few seconds couldn’t resist. He squared his considerable shoulders once more and made deliberate eye contact.

   “Hi,” she opened. “I’m Heather.”  Her voice was sticky sweet and decidedly Southern, unlikely to ever give utterance to a stray word or an uncalculated invitation.

   “Hey. I’m T.” He noted the vivid difference he already felt with this woman compared to Olivia. With Heather, he already wasn’t sure who was in charge. Or whether he could trust himself.

   “So where are you rushing off to? And no lunch?” She teased him a little and continued to eat her paper-wrapped meal.

   “Yeah, no lunch after all. I’m meeting some friends across town.” T was surprised by his choice of the words friends and waited for her response.

   “Girl friends? How many do you have?” She pulsed one shoulder up and winked playfully. The fact that she was eavesdropping didn’t surprise him, but the fact that she admitted it freely did. She wiped hot sauce from the corner of her mouth, still made up with lipstick, and took a sip from her drink.

   T had spent so much time digesting the small interactions with Olivia and deciding what to do, and felt so confident with her, that this was really confusing. He just scowled at Heather, trying to not let her hear him breathing harder.

   “It’s okay, You don’t have to answer,” Heather teased again and feigned injury. “But if this city isn’t safe for two women, it sure can’t be safe for one. Walk me back to my office? I’m sure your friends won’t mind.” She grinned and nodded toward a chromed sky scraper behind them. Of course, it was in the opposite direction of Frenchman Street, where music and antiques and a soft, mysterious brunette waited for him.

   “Yeah, sure, of course.” T had chivalry built into his DNA, protectiveness programmed into every aspect of his character, so no matter the circumstances he was powerless against the needful requests of women. They didn’t even have to be attractive women to enslave him to their service, but Heather certainly was. And she seemed to know it.

   “Good! Let’s go.” Heather pitched what remained of her po’ boy into a nearby trash can and twirled the straw of her drink with her tongue, chewing on it a little. She slid one arm through his crooked, muscular elbow and spun him around like they were dancing.

   He had created a small, delicious mess for himself. With less than an hour and a half before his downtown meeting with the journalist, he had promised to find Olivia and Carly on the opposite end of the Quarter and show them a good time. And for what? He really had to idea where it would lead. The sweet, funny, slightly awkward but beautiful brunette was going home soon. Now this tall blonde woman, clearly flirting and leaving no room for doubt about what she wanted, was imposing herself into his day.

   Audience Participation!
Bring it.
xoxoxoxo

 

Tiny T: Episode Eight

   T only had to deliberate with himself for a moment before deciding to call her. Of course he was always going to call her. How many of his hours since last night on Bourbon street had passed without him thinking of her? He moved to the side of the po’ boy stand and under the shade of an ancient magnolia tree. He studied the phone number once more, admiring her handwriting, then folded it and slipped it back into his wallet. Did he really need to keep the paper scrap once he dialed the number? No. He grinned to himself while dialing.

   It rang three times, then a long pause, then he heard her voice giggling and trying to say “Hello?”

   “Hello? Hey. It’s me, T.”

   “T? Oh my gosh, hello! I… Hello! I can’t believe you called. I sort of didn’t expect you to.”

   “Why?” He felt steady in the wake of her flustered sentences. And he liked the idea of being her ballast.

   “Well, I missed our breakfast date, I mean I tried to make it, but the guy told me I’d just missed you. I am so sorry!” She rattled out her feelings like an overtime buzzer was about to disconnect their call. Her friendly desperation pleased him a little.

   “Well, it happens,” he said smoothly, “and I pity the fool who can’t understand that.”

   “Oh, well thank you so much. And thanks for the spinach croissant too. That was so sweet of you.”

   He cleared his throat.

   “It’s almost lunchtime, are you leaving town soon?” He was excited to learn whether he had a chance of seeing her again. While he stood beneath that magnolia tree, chatting with her and avoiding eye contact with another po’ boy customer, a tall willowy blonde woman wearing heels and a pencil skirt, he noticed himself standing even taller than normal and holding his shoulders even more squarely. Was he sucking in a little too? Nah.

   “Well, I really should. Yes. I need to be home by tomorrow morning and had planned to drive to at least Shreveport by nightfall. The thing is, I met this girl and we are having so much fun! I kinda don’t want to leave!” More giggling now, including some from another female voice in the background.

   Audience Participation:
Does T interpret her answer as a brush-off?
or does he jump on the opportunity 
to convince her to stay in town?
Or does he do something completely different?

Tiny T: Episode 7

   Once the young women were clear of Ben’s duplicitous gaze, escaped from the wide open vulnerability of Fortune Tellers’ Row, they slowed down to a comfortable stroll. Each had one arm wrapped around the other’s waist, and both were laughing and trying to catch their breath.

   “So I guess you’ll never know whether he’s the one,” Carly teased.
   “I guess not,” Olivia admitted playfully and with a false air of drama, “my love life remains a mystery.”  Then, after a pause, she said, “I wonder, do you think Zane found him?”
   “I bet he did. He sounds like he’s pretty hard to miss.” 
   “That is for sure!” Olivia giggled and had no trouble recalling her mysterious date’s features. A pang of guilt lingered in her belly, and she hoped his feelings weren’t hurt. 
   “So what’s next, since you won’t have your palm read?” 
   “Well, I could definitely eat something. Are you hungry?”
   “Always!” And just like that, they followed their noses to the nearest greasy spoon local cafe, dragging a cloud of giggles behind them.

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   T couldn’t tell exactly whether it was his run in the brisk morning air, or the hearty breakfast, or the plain and simple magic of his favorite city, but he was feeling a maximum charge, both bodily and mentally. Having returned all of his emails and firmed up his next move for work, he showered and dressed in fresh clothes then took that same elevator back downstairs to that same ornate hotel lobby.  Piano music was still lilting across the ferns, and his thoughts drifted to the brunette. He had to admit, it felt wonderful that she hadn’t skipped their breakfast meeting. That she had reached out to him, better late than not at all, had to be part of the charge he felt.
   He pushed through the tall brass-framed doors to the street outside. Almost midday now, the sun was warming up and the humidity was thickening, but the air was still fresh and comfortable enough to enjoy a walk. He had an hour and a half to burn before a meeting with a journalist downtown, so T strolled easily down the sidewalk toward Louis Armstrong Park, hoping to catch more street musicians. The Quarter did not disappoint. Every other block offered a different sound, a different dream expressed, a different face or collection of faces. 
   Half a block away from the park, T stopped at a walk-up po’ boy stand to buy a quick lunch and soft drink. Inside his billfold was the torn off piece of the paper bag where Olivia’s cell phone number was written. He looked at it in the glare of sunlight and smiled. Then he slid his i-Phone out from his back pocket and stared at it, considering…
 

Tiny T: Episode Six

   His body depleted from the long run and almost refueled by the rich, flavorful breakfast of fried eggs, buttery, peppery grits, and andouille sausage, his heart kept strong and tender by the series of odd interactions that morning, T settled back into the broad iron chair. He closed his eyes and let the banjo music wash over him along with the cool breeze. Background noises of car horns, bicycle bells, early Bourbon Street revelers breaking into drunken song, and that same classical piano filtering in from the hotel lobby… all of it combined into a perfect spell. He inhaled the chicory coffee, the flower vines, the pool chlorine… a pleasant gumbo of fragrance that kept him seated in that perfect moment.
   His email messages had put him at a crossroads. One job offer was to hop on a plane that evening and fly to London to do a candy bar commercial, but the script was tainted with a homophobic undertone which was extremely offensive to T. Man, I pity the fool who thinks that stuff is funny, he had thought to himself after reading it. Thankfully, his agent’s assistant, Carin, had given him a good warning about that. Another job offer tempted him out west to Los Angeles to make an appearance at a Derby Dolls skating bout. That would be fun, and he had some good friends out there named Gen and Julia who could talk all night about books and would probably take him to eat at Umami Burger. But every intense detail of this city, of this small neighborhood that was its own universe, made the choice easy. He was staying a bit longer. Two days in New Orleans is never enough. And besides, he had offers here too. He treasured the freedom and flexibility of his profession.
   T swallowed the last of his pulpy, sweet orange juice and dabbed his mouth with the thick cotton napkin. He thanked his server and made sure to leave a generous tip which would be billed to his hotel room. He made his way to the sidewalk, wanting to hear the end of the musicians’ set right up close, then dropped a handful of quarters and dimes into the open banjo case. They thanked him in heavy, mysterious Cajun phrases, smiling and bowing and dancing, blessing him with their particular street magic as if he had laid down a hundred dollar bill. He did not resist the grin this time. T even danced with them a little, shuffling his high-top sneakers on the sidewalk and letting that feather earring swing. Then he nodded goodbye and turned back to the hotel. He had some emails to send before showering and getting on with his day.
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   Reluctant at first to abandon the coffee shop and leave unanswered the question of her weird message being delivered, Olivia needed very little time with Carly to feel not only distracted but completely fascinated. She had never really seen the Quarter in daylight, much less in these misty morning hours while a whole new slice of the city was getting started to work, and she was rapidly falling in love with it. Why do I keep feeling this here? She wrestled silently with her constant swell of romantic inclination in this city. From the dark, handsome stranger who had kept her awake all night though he was in a different hotel, to the instant communities that formed at every street corner for various reasons, Olivia felt knitted to this place. Drawn to it for her own reasons and craved by it all at once.
   Carly was dragging her now past the restaurants and narrow alley ways, a few blocks away to an expansive stretch of pavement and flat rock, a walkway laid like a dangerous wide ribbon between two spiritual lakes. On one side stood the bleached white, vaulted cathedral called St. Louis, an historical icon that instantly cast shadows onto Olivia’s heart. It pointed to an emptiness in her lungs, an old hunger she had forgotten about. On the other side, just at the edge of the lush and meticulously kept Jackson Square gardens, the cathedral’s antithesis: A string of mismatched chairs and folding tables, umbrellas, and hand painted signs all populated by men and women who could be gypsies. Or vagrants. Or mystics from another realm, most of them holding mangy but smiling dogs on leashes: Fortune Tellers Row. At night, this place was packed with people, mostly risky tourists, but this morning barely a dozen souls lingered at the park benches and not one street performer had taken up residence yet. This patchwork of fortune-telling characters and their piercing eyes sent inky black tendrils of fear onto the flat, wide walkway, snaking coldly toward Olivia, sucking all the noise out of her ears despite the growing activity around her. She had never felt such a distinct spiritual fear before, and to feel it at a moment when she was enjoying so much romance and possibility was very much like being splashed with cold water from behind.
   She stopped walking and pulled back a little, asking Carly, “Uh, what are we doing here?”
   “We’re gonna have your palm read, silly! Let’s see if Mow-hawk Man is the one!” Carly giggled and huddled in close like they were old friends at a slumber party. Like they were just opening and folding a little boxy paper fortune teller, for fun. Olivia enjoyed the smell of Carly’s patchouli and noted the odd mix of it with her own expensive perfume.
   “No, that’s okay. I mean, I don’t have any cash on me anyway.” She lied. Olivia was stiff now, once again adjusting her call cap and hugging herself, and her senses were on high alert, all of the romance quickly draining from her veins. She caught herself glancing around for an escape route and felt ridiculous. In every direction, rationally, there were only lounging people and leashed dogs. Plenty of space to bolt if she needed to. Wide open air and daylight, what could happen? Still, that icy snaking feeling of assault wouldn’t go away. And her companion was oblivious.
   “No problem, Ben here owes me a read.” Carly was aiming them toward a guy perhaps in his twenties with a scratchy four-day beard, a yellow and red knitted cap, and a sun-bleached trench coat covering up an old Madonna t-shirt. Like a prayer? Yeah right! Olivia thought. He wore a stack of plastic Mardi Gras beads around his neck, and Olivia judged how dicey they looked, how unnatural, compared to the stunning jewelry T had worn. She suddenly missed him, this man she barely knew, and wished he would appear to help her out the way he had protected her from the drunken collision last night. Then she worried that Ben could read her thoughts, especially her lie about having cash, and decided she had better shut up.
   “No, seriously, I don’t want to.” In a rare resolute moment, Olivia stood firmly on her high-heeled boots and thrust her skinny arms down to her sides, and shook her head. “I really, really don’t want to. I’m sorry.”
   Carly was dumbfounded, “What? Why?” She giggled again, this time trailing off a bit as she realized her brunette friend wasn’t kidding. Carly’s long, colorful skirts were swishing around her legs from the brisk walk. “Hey, are you okay?”
   Olivia glanced around, trying hard not to look directly at Ben for fear of him casting a Stephen King-style curse on her, and said in a high-pitched voice feigning casualness, “Yeah, I’m okay, I’m just… hungry. You know, you did eat most of that spinach croissant.” Maybe a smile and a joke would trick Carly into forgetting about her abrupt halt a moment ago. It did not.
   “Okay, whatever you say. But I’m telling you Ben is the best palm-reader in this town. You ought-ta try him out.” Carly wrapped her cozy arm around Olivia, pretending to only be warming her and not chasing away her obvious fear, and they turned back the way they had come.

   “See you latah, alligatah!”  Ben called out after them in a booming voice with no trace of a Cajun accent. Phony. Then he threw a bright green puff of chalk dust or something at the concrete in front of his table. The women squealed a little and broke shamelessly into a run.
This episode is dedicated to Carin, sweet and creative blogger at Artfully Carin.
who recently told me a story about the REAL Mr. T 
declining a candy bar commercial in Great Britain
because of its offensive homophobic undertones.
This episode is also dedicated to my little sister Gen and my literary mentor Julia,
who both skate with the Los Angeles Derby Dolls and have all my love from Oklahoma!
Finally, it is dedicated to my husband who always thinks it’s hilarious 
to peer-pressure me into voo-doo type activities 
when we visit my favorite city in the universe.
Rude.

Tiny T: Episode Three

   At a full run now, fueled by the disappointment- alright, the embarrassment- of not finding the beautiful brunette where she said she’d be, T covered almost half a mile in just a few minutes. He was threading through the busier and busier streets, dodging many more cars and pedestrians than just an hour earlier. Without knowing exactly why, he was aiming for the river. The mighty Mississippi. He ran another mile, past three more coffee shops, a convent known to be haunted, and a bakery with wicked, wide open doors. The fragrance of sugared donuts and rising yeast rolls made him homesick, and that empty feeling reminded him of being stood up by a woman. A woman who had smiled at him so sweetly, so warmly, last night.  Why do they do that?

   He could hear the river traffic now. the barges and the ferry, the seagulls screaming and spiraling wildly. Just another quarter-mile. As his feet fell rhythmically, his solid arms pumped and ached through every emotion as if their physical strength was holding him together mentally. Man, I just wanna go home. 

   He slowed to climb a hill. At the top, a streetcar was filling with downtown commuters and about to slice across his path. So he waited. He laced his gold-decked fingers together on top of his mow-hawk and drew several long, deep breaths, pacing in easy loops. Summoning to mind the rocky slopes next to the Mississippi river bank, now only yards away. I just wanna go home.

   Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a burst of activity just downhill, behind him. It looks like someone trying to get the attention of a streetcar passenger, but the streetcar is gone now and the guy’s gestures are getting bigger and bigger. It’s someone on a bicycle, waving one arm- which holds a small paper bag- and screaming, “Hey Mr.! Hey, T! I’m supposed to find you!”

   Mr.? T?? man, is this fool yellin’ at ME? T turned a dramatic semi-circle and looked quizzically at the fast-approaching messenger.

   “Oh man, T, you are not easy to catch up with, but you sure are easy to spot! Can I call you T?” The guy was wearing corduroys with a wrinkly button up shirt and a narrow orange neck tie. He laughed generously at his own remarks but enjoyed no response, just a studying gaze. So he combed his free hand through his curly, moppy hair then thrust the small paper bag forward. “This is for you. The girl- the girl at the coffee shop? She wanted you to have it.” The orange-tie comedian was panting. It must have been quite a ride.

   Feather earring still gently swaying from his run, T accepted the bag. It was the same one he’d left for her with the spinach croissant inside. It was empty now and boasted a brand new message:

I was such a jerk to be late.
I’m leaving town today, around lunchtime.
here is my number…
thank you for breakfast!

   T furrowed his brow a little extra to conceal his grin from the panting messenger.
********************

   Could Zane possibly have found him yet? She felt ridiculous for caring so much. As soon as the young clerk with the gauged earlobes had told her “T” was gone, and pointed to which direction, Olivia had flown out of the north door, yelling the dumbest thing anyone has ever, ever said on a first date, ever: Thank you for the spinach croissant! It was still warm!

   When she didn’t hear his gruff voice in reply, she tried once more: Thank you!!

   This time someone from an upstairs balcony a block away in the wrong direction answered her, “You’re so welcome, dahlin’!”
   This little outburst had garnered the attention of a few people. Zane, wearing his orange necktie and laptop messenger bag, riding by on his bicycle. Carly, a redheaded girl dressed in so many layers of patchwork cotton and hemp that she was probably headed for a fortune-telling gig on Decatur. And Anthony, a local Italian limo driver dressed in a black suit, black shirt, and black tie. He was not quite on duty and freely explaining to other coffee shop customers the differences between cold press brew and traditional hot drip.
   They all circled around Olivia and wanted to hear the story she was happy to tell, short though it was. She so convinced the three that she and T were meant to be acquainted, that she might have even felt love at first sight, that they sprang into action. A passionate, spontaneous, well oiled machine of human nature: 
   Anthony, the limo driver, in his bizarre Cajun-Italian musical accent, rapidly explained to Zane, the bicyclist, how best to navigate the labyrinth roads at rush hour. Olivia interjected to describe T to a, well, to a t. And Carly shoved an ink pen into Olivia’s hand, saying, “Quick! Your number!”
   Carly’s swift, affectionate movements wafted their little sidewalk air space with patchouli. And maybe something else.
   Loaded with the empty, message-bearing paper sack, a mental image of T, and a ride plan, Zane checked for cars behind him and launched his bike, orange neck tie flapping. “Wish me luck!”
   “This is for love at first sight!”‘ Anthony bellowed. “Find T!”
   That same balcony voice from the wrong direction sang out, “That’s a’more!”
   Now, a little while later, Carly and Anthony still kept Olivia company. They all three nibbled at the spinach croissant, though it was no longer warm. And they took turns going inside for more coffee. The clerk with the gauged earlobes was greedy for updates every time. “Any sign of the big guy?”
   “Nope, not yet.”
   Olivia must have checked her silver watch two dozen times. Eventually she grew worried that she had sent her cell phone number with a total stranger. 
   Around 8:15, Anthony received a text beckoning him to the Windsor Court hotel downtown. Some clients needed to arrive at breakfast in elegance. He extended his best southern wishes, and Olivia believed him. He kissed her hand and was gone.
   Carly offered Olivia a sisterly little hug now, though they too were strangers, and said, “I’m sure he’ll come back or at least call. I’ve just got this feeling!”
   “I basically stood him up. If it were me, I’d be pissed.”
   “Well, yes.” And her face bloomed with enjoyment. Something in Carly’s unfiltered agreement was very comforting. Either way, it would be alright. They both laughed and laughed. Then Carly’s eyes flashed with mystery and she said, “Come on with me. Lemme show you somethin’ you won’t see anywhere else…”

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