Lazy W Marie

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

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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: Introducing His Friends

L   Hey T fans! While our philanthropist gentleman digests his New Orleans breakfast, listens to the banjo and washboard, and prepares for the next leg of his journey, I thought I’d introduce you to a few of his buddies. 

   These guys are always in the wings somewhere, either encouraging T, harassing him, or tricking him out of his cool van. They may even make appearances in this love story… Who knows?
   On the far left, in the black leather jacket, is Felix. He is a womanizer if ever one walked this earth. His classic good looks and penchant for working any room against any odds always give him the frustrating advantage with ladies and business dealings alike.
   There in the middle, the elegantly aging man with the silver crew cut, is Hargis. While not always the man to walk away arm-locked with a beautiful woman, he is definitely the man with the plan. He is the alpha presence in this motley Crüe, and he knows it.
   Finally, seated, is Martin. Martin enjoys a weird stroke of genius in his character, but his numerous oddities make it difficult for T to relax around him. In fact, it’s usually Martin who causes T so many headaches and tries to swipe his van. But it’s cool.
   So there you have it! Three of the people who keep T both grounded and a bit crazy. Who are your friends who provide this blended service?
   Thanks for checking in! See you tomorrow for what happens after T’s breakfast.

Tiny T: Episode Five

   T thanked Zane for delivering the message and tucked the wrinkled, scrawled-on paper bag into a pocket on the front of his denim vest. Zane asked, “Aren’t you going to send her a note? Or have me tell her something? I’m sure she’s waiting for us back at the coffee shop.” The bicyclist’s voice had a needy, questioning edge now. 

   “Nah, don’t think so, man. But thanks again. You be safe on these streets. People don’t watch.” With that, T turned his back on Zane, on his unusual morning in the French Quarter, and quite possibly on the beautiful brunette. But he was no longer disappointed. The street car was long gone, so he leaned forward and once again found his rhythmic, soothing pace. 
   Soon he crossed the tracks, climbed the sidewalk and grassy hill edging the river, and stopped just at the rocky slope there. T smiled broadly at the muddy, churning river below him. Just a few minutes ago, it had been a beacon for peace. A place he could rest his eyes and his thoughts. Now, the swirling brown waters just stirred up his imagination. He was alive again with the possibility of the new day. 
   The ferry shuttled another load of cars across from Algiers. T wondered how many people on that boat believed in true love. Seagulls circled and screamed at the wind, hunting for their breakfast, and out of  nowhere a homeless man wearing a tattered coat and dreadlocks approached T for help with his own breakfast. “Got anything to spare, man?”
   T looked at him and felt a deep, clenching grip on his heart. This man was young. And probably sick. Definitely somebody’s son. He reached into his wallet to see what cash he had left.
   “Sure I do. Here you go. Go get something hot.” T pressed a five dollar bill and three ones into the man’s dirty, calloused hand and gently clapped his other hand against the man’s thin shoulder. I pity the fool who won’t help, who thinks we’re all in this alone, T thought to himself. Then he said aloud, “It’s a beautiful morning… Anything is possible.” He looked at the man firmly but with a rare sort of brotherly love. 
   The homeless man regarded T with caution, perhaps expecting to endure a little preaching as payment for the breakfast cash. But none came. Just a silent, grateful evaluation of the moment. “Yeah, sure, I suppose you’re right. Thanks man.” The young man’s blue eyes were cloudy. He marveled at this stranger’s get up and gave inward thanks for his gift.
   T nodded respectfully then furrowed his brow. He never let people stay in his reverie too long. 
   After a moment the two men parted ways. The young man with dreadlocks walked hungrily west toward the market streets, already planning how he would feast. T gazed at the the big Crescent City Connection bridge, squinted happily against the sun, and decided to get on with his day. It would be lunchtime before he knew it, and he had work to do. Emails to return, calls to make, and travel to plan. Maybe.
   For the next forty-five minutes, T ran through the Quarter to sweat out the last of his thoughts. By the time he had reached his hotel again, he knew what to do next. But he’d worked up a spectacular appetite so he ducked into the adjoining open-air restaurant for a late breakfast of eggs, grits, and andouille sausage. Just outside, a street performance was building steam. It was a couple playing the banjo and spoons against a corrugated metal washboard. I love this city, T thought to himself as the waiter served the steaming plate of spicy fare. A cool breeze ruffled the banana leaves standing an easy guard between him and the musicians. He filled his belly, inhaled every detail, and smiled.
   
   

Tiny T: Episode Four

   Where we left him, Tiny T had just received an empty paper sack bearing a note of apology and phone number from the brunette he’d met in the French Quarter. He was feeling homesick but pleased to know she hadn’t stood him up at the coffee shop. 
   Sometimes a person has to be ready and willing to heal himself if needed. He has to strike out and shore himself up, and often a large body of water helps. For Tiny T, the mighty Mississippi was nearby and exactly what he needed.
            Do you follow Tiny T on Instagram? You totally should.
   Then sometimes, out of the blue, we are pleasantly surprised. We just have to be watching for the messenger.
                                                         *************************
   Tiny T has lots of choices about how to proceed with his day. He needs your help! Does he send a written reply with Zane? Does he continue his run to the river bank? Does he write off this mysterious beauty, knowing she will be leaving town a few hours, and he must stay? Or something entirely different? 
   Thanks a ton for all of your comments and emails cheering Tiny T to a successful love connection! I hope you keep it up. My goal is to incorporate as many suggestions as possible. ❤ 
   Now, back to your regularly scheduled happy, restful, memory-making Saturday! Thanks for stopping by!
XOXOXOXO

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.
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   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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