“You, you need a taxi? Its hot hot tonight, dont need to be a’walkin the street tonight.” A man standing nearbye shouts. You turn to face him, happy for the converstation. So far on this journey all you’ve had to listen to is Glenn Miller records repeated on an endless loop. You heard “Elmer’s Tune” at least three times on the trip from Benton Arkansas alone. You still don’t know why you decided to take a bus, especially that bus. Now you know, with travel agents you get what you pay for.
“So, you need a ride ya?” You nod as you walk over, carrying your luggage. The driver rushes forward to help carry the bags. His dreadlocks seem to pin a certain Bob Marley look to the man, who ouickly puts your luggage in the trunk of his aged taxi and opens the door for you. “Come, Ill take ya where ya need to go.”
You sit down where the man, Andre Smith you read from his liscence, tells you to. The seat is better than you first imagined, the exterior of the car hides its condition. This is your first time in a private cab, you don’t know ouite how it works. You never took one in New York, the subway was allways easier, and faster. But, this city didn’t have the Big Apple’s underground network of rails and trains.
“So, first time ya? I’cn tell. Welcome to En Ville, or what’dya calll it? The Big Easy ya?” The driver was astute. It was your first trip to New Orleans. It had taken a great deal of time to get down here, but it was important. You someitmes thought that your livelyhood depended on it. You prided yourself on your accuracy and backround. And if your next novel was to take place in the city of New Orleans, then you would have to come and visit. The acedemic circles back in Washington had told you of the man you were going to meet.
“He’s as old as the city itself, crazy old fool, but he knows more about that city than any living person.” Harrison had told you. You sure hoped that turned out to be true, because you had blown a great deal of money and time going on this little cross-country trip. Your brother told you to think like the Kerouac of the twenty-first century. You decided to take the safe route instead. Kerouac may have thought it safe to hitch rides across the country, you didn’t.
So, here you were, the farthest south you had ever been, not counting that trip to Orlando when you were in the school drama club. For some reason Disney World didn’t strike you as a true representation of the south. The driver started making small talk, he wasn’t from New Orleans originally. He had moved in from Baton Rouge ten years ago, but considered himself a native now. His residence was clear to you, he kept inserting French words in his speach. Not like someone who grew up with it, but someone who had learned it in his adult years. An accent, not a dialect.
“So, where ya going?”
That was a question. You knew the man was south of New Orleans. But aside from that you knew nothing, not even his name. The guys back in Washington had assured you that you could find him. You began to wonder if this wasn’t some prank they played on new writers. You mention the old man to the driver who suddenly turns his radio down and looks at you through his rearview mirror.
“You go’in to him ya? I know where he lives. Ill take you there.” You are suddenly impressed. This driver keeps suprising you, now knowing of the leading scholar in New Orleans. The driver sat in silence for the rest of the trip. It took longer than you thought, the silence may have made the trip feel longer. It was a long time before the taxi pulled to a stop.
“Here ya are sah. This is as far as I can take yah. The rest of the journey is yours.” You look out the window and see a hotel beside the taxi. The driver helps you get your bags out of the car and drives a few blocks down and parks infront of a large house. You turn and enter the hotel, dragging your luggage behind you. An attendant rushes forward to help you.
“You here to see the old man? That’s why most people come. Hot hot tonight no? Come.” The attendant was far more French in your eyes. He even carried himself like you thought a Frenchman would. Not that you have ever been to France, but hey you had your oppinions. You planned to go to Paris someday, like all great authors. You let the attendent lead you to the front desk, where you reserve a room. A man stands in your way as you walk to the staircase.
“You here to see him” You nod. “Come wit me.” The tall man leads you away from the hotel as an attendant takes your baggage up the stairs. “We haven’t got much time. You are late.” The man did not have a very noticible accent. But the sounds of the street stung you as very local. A man shouted as you walked by, trying to sell you “patates, gumbo, et pistaches.” All this helped, the dialect you heard back in D.C. was nowhere near as authentic as this. The man led you down the street, most people dodged your progress, one young man wasn’t paying attention runs into you.
“Im sorry,” you begin to say. The young man interupts you.
“Yes, Yes, of course.” He seems distracted. You try to continue, but he keeps walking away, back towards where the taxicab you came in was parked. The tall man leads on, as if nothing happened. You reach a home at the end of the street, a little more decrepit than the other houses on the street. The tall man walks through the open door. In an open window above the broken balcony of the house you see a man sitting. You assume he is the man you’ve come to see.
The tall man turns as you enter the house. “Up the stairs, the only open door. Please, make yourself at home. He will be ready for you.” You follow the man’s instructions, although you are tempted to check into the other rooms. In the end you walk down the hall into the room. An old man sits smoking a cigar. He blows a long trail of smoke as you approach his desk. On a stack of books nearbye a bottle of wine stood uncorked. You approach in silence, but the old man says nothing.
You clear your throat ouietly, and the man turns to look at you. “Please, take a’seat podna. I’ll have my man shut le Ferme. Please, sit down. Now, you want to know about En ville, oui? Cigare? They are cuban, finest tobacco. Non?” The old man lets out a slight sigh. Then motions towards the wine. “Mon frere sends the bottles over, a fine year I do believe, but the shipping, cho!”
You pour yourself a glass and take your seat infront of the man. He smiles, showing his cragged and deformed teeth. After you take a sip, he begins to speak again. “So, you are here to hear the tale now? Bon, bon. So, I shall tell you. Let me see, where to begin. Ah, I know, the beginning...
...Many years ago, stay with me now Monsieur, it is not every boug I tell dis story too. Now, many years ago, dis couyon named Beaulieu was a’sailin off...
“So, you need a ride ya?” You nod as you walk over, carrying your luggage. The driver rushes forward to help carry the bags. His dreadlocks seem to pin a certain Bob Marley look to the man, who ouickly puts your luggage in the trunk of his aged taxi and opens the door for you. “Come, Ill take ya where ya need to go.”
You sit down where the man, Andre Smith you read from his liscence, tells you to. The seat is better than you first imagined, the exterior of the car hides its condition. This is your first time in a private cab, you don’t know ouite how it works. You never took one in New York, the subway was allways easier, and faster. But, this city didn’t have the Big Apple’s underground network of rails and trains.
“So, first time ya? I’cn tell. Welcome to En Ville, or what’dya calll it? The Big Easy ya?” The driver was astute. It was your first trip to New Orleans. It had taken a great deal of time to get down here, but it was important. You someitmes thought that your livelyhood depended on it. You prided yourself on your accuracy and backround. And if your next novel was to take place in the city of New Orleans, then you would have to come and visit. The acedemic circles back in Washington had told you of the man you were going to meet.
“He’s as old as the city itself, crazy old fool, but he knows more about that city than any living person.” Harrison had told you. You sure hoped that turned out to be true, because you had blown a great deal of money and time going on this little cross-country trip. Your brother told you to think like the Kerouac of the twenty-first century. You decided to take the safe route instead. Kerouac may have thought it safe to hitch rides across the country, you didn’t.
So, here you were, the farthest south you had ever been, not counting that trip to Orlando when you were in the school drama club. For some reason Disney World didn’t strike you as a true representation of the south. The driver started making small talk, he wasn’t from New Orleans originally. He had moved in from Baton Rouge ten years ago, but considered himself a native now. His residence was clear to you, he kept inserting French words in his speach. Not like someone who grew up with it, but someone who had learned it in his adult years. An accent, not a dialect.
“So, where ya going?”
That was a question. You knew the man was south of New Orleans. But aside from that you knew nothing, not even his name. The guys back in Washington had assured you that you could find him. You began to wonder if this wasn’t some prank they played on new writers. You mention the old man to the driver who suddenly turns his radio down and looks at you through his rearview mirror.
“You go’in to him ya? I know where he lives. Ill take you there.” You are suddenly impressed. This driver keeps suprising you, now knowing of the leading scholar in New Orleans. The driver sat in silence for the rest of the trip. It took longer than you thought, the silence may have made the trip feel longer. It was a long time before the taxi pulled to a stop.
“Here ya are sah. This is as far as I can take yah. The rest of the journey is yours.” You look out the window and see a hotel beside the taxi. The driver helps you get your bags out of the car and drives a few blocks down and parks infront of a large house. You turn and enter the hotel, dragging your luggage behind you. An attendant rushes forward to help you.
“You here to see the old man? That’s why most people come. Hot hot tonight no? Come.” The attendant was far more French in your eyes. He even carried himself like you thought a Frenchman would. Not that you have ever been to France, but hey you had your oppinions. You planned to go to Paris someday, like all great authors. You let the attendent lead you to the front desk, where you reserve a room. A man stands in your way as you walk to the staircase.
“You here to see him” You nod. “Come wit me.” The tall man leads you away from the hotel as an attendant takes your baggage up the stairs. “We haven’t got much time. You are late.” The man did not have a very noticible accent. But the sounds of the street stung you as very local. A man shouted as you walked by, trying to sell you “patates, gumbo, et pistaches.” All this helped, the dialect you heard back in D.C. was nowhere near as authentic as this. The man led you down the street, most people dodged your progress, one young man wasn’t paying attention runs into you.
“Im sorry,” you begin to say. The young man interupts you.
“Yes, Yes, of course.” He seems distracted. You try to continue, but he keeps walking away, back towards where the taxicab you came in was parked. The tall man leads on, as if nothing happened. You reach a home at the end of the street, a little more decrepit than the other houses on the street. The tall man walks through the open door. In an open window above the broken balcony of the house you see a man sitting. You assume he is the man you’ve come to see.
The tall man turns as you enter the house. “Up the stairs, the only open door. Please, make yourself at home. He will be ready for you.” You follow the man’s instructions, although you are tempted to check into the other rooms. In the end you walk down the hall into the room. An old man sits smoking a cigar. He blows a long trail of smoke as you approach his desk. On a stack of books nearbye a bottle of wine stood uncorked. You approach in silence, but the old man says nothing.
You clear your throat ouietly, and the man turns to look at you. “Please, take a’seat podna. I’ll have my man shut le Ferme. Please, sit down. Now, you want to know about En ville, oui? Cigare? They are cuban, finest tobacco. Non?” The old man lets out a slight sigh. Then motions towards the wine. “Mon frere sends the bottles over, a fine year I do believe, but the shipping, cho!”
You pour yourself a glass and take your seat infront of the man. He smiles, showing his cragged and deformed teeth. After you take a sip, he begins to speak again. “So, you are here to hear the tale now? Bon, bon. So, I shall tell you. Let me see, where to begin. Ah, I know, the beginning...
...Many years ago, stay with me now Monsieur, it is not every boug I tell dis story too. Now, many years ago, dis couyon named Beaulieu was a’sailin off...
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