I force myself out of bed at the early hour of eleven, arm myself with a beach towel and head to the French Market for some live jazz with Jane Harvey Brown. Ms. Brown is white. Her band is brown. She wears raven-colored feathers in her hair. I buy a pair of binoculars from a vendor who sleeps behind mirrored glasses. He complains he hasn't sold a thing all weekend.
I find that my wallet holds receipts that read "Crunch Eggs", "S and P set" and "Xhil Tessie" an Illinois license, 5 postcard stamps and a hefty array of cards. Alas, no cash. So, I chase to the ATM across the quarter. During my 24-block round trip I gaze at the local art work and make the acquaintance of Kaffir who specializes in ink prints of jazz musicians on pastel watercolor backgrounds. I remember reading somewhere in some cultures it is a very blunt and forward thing to do to ask someone's name before you get to know them. I blush beneath my heart-shaped glasses and duck away.
I cannot pass a bookshop. Enter, say hello to the puppy in the pram wearing a yamaka (not so strange), browse the short story shelf, chat about Garrison Keillor, Dave Eggers, leave empty handed (pretty strange).
En route to the stand with the binoculars I walk by a shop in the quarter that sells, well, a lot of leather goods, and overhear and old man say to his wife "Look at that mask with the penis on the forehead". Shake away an unwanted visual and tread on.
Break out the beach towel and kick of my shoes. Chow on crawfish cornbread and wiggle my toes to the beats of Ole Man River Band performing Elvis covers. Reluctantly leave my shady spot and head home to convert from shorts, tee shirt and flip flops to pencil skirt, collared shirt and high heels.
My highlight at work is serving cognac and checking in two Cajun guests who hate their room. I fail at the Sunday crossword puzzle. A box of Cabernet awaits me at home.
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