by “SNOW IN NEW ORLEANS” was first published in 2015 in the short story collection “IN SEARCH OF FIERY SKIES”.
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Langston O’Neil woke up automatically after only four hours of sleep. It was early in the morning. Desire was still asleep when he rose out of bed. He made coffee and drank it. He did not feel like eating. Not at all. That happened to him in the morning after long nights at the bar. His clothes were where he left them close to the front door. Taking them off was a challenge that late at night. Langston considered changing but decided that he did not care. The clothes were as good as they were four hours ago. He dressed and opened the door. It was too cold for January 23. Cold by New Orleans’ standards, and they were high. Langston looked at the sky. There was sure something special about this day. The sky remembered him of a day about three years ago. Back then, the city had been covered by snow. Not a thick layer of snow they had in Chicago every winter. It looked like god had spilled flour over the town. Langston grabbed the coat that hung on a rusty nail right next to the door for special occasions like the one he anticipated. On his way home he will curse himself because the coat will make him sweat. Like an innocent boy he considered leaving the coat at home. Reason kicked in and he put it on. He pulled the door close and went down the stairs. There was a bus to catch and a bar to sweep. Nobody ever said that 1955 would be his year.
When Langston went down the road he felt as if it had gotten a little colder. The coat was good and he needed it. He zipped it up and was glad to have it. The sky turned even grayer. Flakes of snow started falling on the sleeping town. I’m one of the few to see this, Langston thought. His body heat vaporized the flakes before they could really touch him. The same happened to those falling onto the pavement. At the bus stop, his hair was wet. He did not appreciate the fresh air of this special morning until he smelled the not so fresh air inside the almost empty bus. The radiator had not been turned on in quite some time and you could tell. It made the air warm and old at the same time. More and more flakes of snow started falling down but the ground was too warm and now it looked like it had rained. The windows of the bus were wet. The warmth turned them into raindrops. Langston watched the houses flying by through the window. It was not the first time he encountered snow in New Orleans. A sensation it always was. Langston could never get used to seeing snow on the leaves of a palm tree, as they did now. The trees were not as hot as the ground or the bus. Nevertheless, he knew that in only a couple of hours the sun would probably beat down on the town again, raising temperatures to 56, maybe 60.
In the French Quarter he got off the bus, determined to walk the rest of the way. He needed that special, that fresh air you were so rarely getting in the deep South. Last night was still in his system, like a parasite feeding from his blood and his energy. It was never a good idea for a bartender to drink with his customers. Even more so when the customers were sailors on official leave after several month on a ship. Some lessons you learn the hard way, but you never remember to remember them for long. It happened a lot to Langston lately. He told himself to be more careful, knowing that the next lesson waited around the bend. In the French Quarter, you could learn a lesson every day and night of the year, as there was always something going on. You either loved or hated it. At the moment, Gordon hated it. Somehow he longed for a change, being aware of the fact that change was hard to come by, except you would become one of those sailors who were in serious need for change themselves after months of painting rotting wood and rusting steel, peeling tons of potatoes and carrying out orders like they were little boys. The only other alternative for him was to go back to the chemical plant he used to work for. He remembered the rash he took for a month until his skin became numb for good at some spots, deciding that change did not sound as good as it had sounded only a moment ago. He turned the corner, entering Toulouse Street, feeling hungry suddenly.
He could not imagine the man selling tamales was out that early. He was from Mexico and a catholic, which meant he might expect the riders of the apocalypse to be next up because of the snowflakes, if not worse. Toulouse was deserted, apart from the last victims of the night stumbling home. And Julio, the man who sold tamales.
‘Mornin’, Julio. You’re out awready?’, Langston asked him. Julio protected himself from the cold as good as possible by hiding underneath a steel balcony.
‘Hey, Langston. Seems I went to bed in Uptown and woke up in Chicago.’
‘Yeah, unpleasant mornin’ f’sure. You got one of them tamales ready? Ma stomach feels like a punchin’ ball.’
‘Ain’t had no breakfast?’
‘Cup a coffee n’ zip. Shoulda known better than that.’
Julio produced one of the tamales and put it in a fresh slice of baguette. The baguette was still hot from the oven. It steamed from the cold.
‘I always have breakfast in the French bakery where I buy the bread. That tamale might still be cold.’
Langston took the tamale and dug into it, parts of the tamale falling out as usual.
‘Man, that tamale’s colder’n that goddam snow!’, Langston said mouth full and chewing.
‘Told you so.’
‘No way. You said it might be cold. No way you said ice cold.’
‘Hey, buy at your own risk. No refunds.’
‘I didn’ pay yet.’
‘And you call me a cutthroat?’
They both laughed and Langston produced a dollar bill.
‘Keep the change fer ya kids.’, he said. ‘An drop by’n the bar if that snow don’t stop fallin’ soon. You’ll catch a cold or somethin’. What’cha doin’ outta here that early, anyway?’
‘Wanted to sell tamales to the needy, which are the ones stumblin’ out of the bars. Now it seems I gotta wait for the tourists.’
‘Looks like it. See ya around. And don’t forget ma offer.’
‘Sure won’t. Thanks.’
Langston ate while he walked toward the bar. The flakes kept coming from the sky but they would still not stay on the asphalt. Langston expected that the snow would not turn into what you would validly call a layer of snow. At the moment it was not even measurable.
After the tamale he felt better. When he unlocked the bar the word change did not cross his mind anymore. Inside, he found the mess he had left behind when his eyelids had become too heavy to be held open. The smell was exceptional. Langston left the door open and pulled open some additional windows. It was still cold but he anticipated to be cooked in his own juices in a couple of hours, so he chose the cold over the smell. Compared to outside, the bar was like a sauna but he left his coat on. The cold air would turn his back into purest misery if he exposed himself to it for more than ten minutes.
He started lifting the chairs on the tables so that he could sweep the filth out of this place. He was skilled in sweeping and this was not a five star joint, so he did not pay much attention to it. The furniture looked like it had been found in a sunken pirate ship from the 17th century at the bottom of Lake Ponchartrain and it would be dirty two or three hours from then again. Not that anybody would notice.
Langston swept the floor around the bar first. Splintered glass was easier to sweep once the liquor had dried up. Still he cursed himself for not doing it last night. He could be in bed right now, waking up after the snow had vanished, never even knowing about its existence, sun shining as usual. Soon, the first tourists and only some hours later the early night owls would be checking in, normally around one pm.
‘Good mornin’, sir. Are you open?’, a voice asked from the door. Langston was surprised. He had entered his thoughts entirely, seeking inspiration from the furniture, picturing the interior of a pirate ship in search of distraction. He always did that. It had become a habit over the years. As soon as he touched a broom, his mind started wandering around automatically. Returning to earth took him a moment. He stared at the man standing in the door. Not a big man. He had a friendly face which, in combination with the snowflakes falling down in the background, made it difficult to send him away.
‘Technically not.’, Langston answered.
‘And untechnically?’, the man asked.
‘If you don’ mind seein’ me sweepin’ this place you may come in.’
‘I don’t mind at all, thank you very much.’
He entered and Langston pulled one of the chairs off the bar for him.
‘What can I bring you?’, Langston asked walking behind the bar, broom still in hand.
‘Comfort. No ice.’, the man said. He put a bundle of sheets he carried on the bar and sat down.
‘Hard night’s day?’, Langston asked while mixing the Comfort. In his opinion, he made the best all over town but he never bragged with it.
‘I anticipate a hard day’s night tonight for sure, but no. The taste’ll give me a feeling of coming home. That’s at least what I hope. I used to live in this street.’
Langston placed the Comfort in front of the man, grabbed the broom and resumed sweeping while they chatted.
‘Don’t look like home this mornin’, huh?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Them snowflakes always disturb me as well. Where have you been after leavin’?’, Langston asked. The broom made a rhythmical sound, almost like music. Langston hurried. He did not like the weeping and there was more than enough to be prepared in the kitchen until the chef arrived. I should ask for a raise, he thought.
‘I’ve been drifting around. Here and there for some time. I was really looking forward to coming here again, but the closer I got, the more I expected something that could not be found here.’, the man said. He took a sip of the Comfort. ‘That’s one fine Comfort you’re making.’
‘Thank you, sir. What is it that you were expectin’? No snowflakes, right?’, Langston asked. He finished sweeping and started taking the chairs off the tables again.
‘It was rain I was expecting. Never occurred to me it might be cold enough for snow. It feels like the end of the world after just reaching the top of it.’
‘Good news is we’ll probably be able to roast a pig on the pavement a couple of hours from now. Them flakes don’t even make no layer a snow on the ground.’
‘That’s good news. Even though I believe that a five inch layer of snow would not have changed anything. You know, achievement and disappointment are evenly destructive.’
The man took another sip of the Comfort. Langston watched him for a moment, not knowing what he was talking about. It surprised him that the glass was still almost full. That was unusual for a man drinking this early. Normally, Langston would have made the third Comfort already.
‘So, what is it that lured you back here? I mean, it can’t be the atmosphere, for the Quarter might as well be a shot mule in the Mexican desert at the moment.’, Langston asked him.
He was still busy arranging the chairs in a manner that made them look like nothing organized. He actually loved placing them perfectly straight around the not so perfectly made and maintained tables, but he never carried out that humble order of his conscience. It would have been to no avail.
‘I’d love to claim it to be for melancholia’s sake exclusively, but it’s ultimately business that brought me back.’
‘Where’s your business?’
‘Tulane.’
‘Man, what’s goin’ on there’s beyond me. All I know’s the Quarter, the Square and the place I call home for the nights when I wanna get four hours a sleep. What’re you doin’ there, if I may ask?’
‘Proving that I’m jealous of my own creation by doing something that I should not be doing under any circumstances.’, the man replied. Langston looked at the sheets of paper on the bar. He returned behind the bar and tapped the papers with his fingers.
‘You’re lecturin’ on yore own work, is that it?’, Langston asked and started washing glasses.
‘Sort of, yes.’
‘And what does that feel like? I mean, presenting yore own work to a bunch a people who think they know it better’n you?’
The man smiled at him. He took another sip before answering. The glass was still half full.
‘To me it feels like seeing the headlights of a fast train coming at me while I’m standing on a bridge I can’t jump off. But let’s not just talk about me. What’s your story, sir?’
Langston started enjoying this unlikely conversation with the man whose name he did not know because he did not ask. It was a pleasure having a serious conversation you could not expect from a sailor who asked for the closest cat house.
‘I’m from a place called Desire. Some miles away from here.’, Langston said. The man looked up from his glass.
‘Desire. Some call it a working class neighborhood. I’m not that cynical. I believe it lives up to its name.’
‘I’m not as confident in that regard as you are, sir. But it’s not a bad place f’sure.’
‘I could never bring myself to taking the streetcar from Canal to Cemeteries. I preferred taking the one to Desire and never regretted it.’
‘Maybe you should give it a go. The one to Cemeteries’s still around while there’s nothing but busses that goes to Desire. Guess that means somethin’.’
‘It probably does. I think I might be ready, soon. Once I’ve stopped the tide.’, the man said. He got up and floored his glass. He put a five dollar bill on the bar and extended his hand, which Langston took automatically. ‘It’s been a pleasure.’
He walked toward the door, where the last snowflakes glided down on the pavement and where the sun was coming out.
‘It’s been ma pleasure. You don’ want another drink?’, Langston asked him. The man turned around. He was smiling.
‘There’s a time for leaving even when you don’t know where you’re going.’, he said. Then he was gone. Langston wanted to tell him that he should come back whenever he wanted. He did not manage to do so and the man was gone. There was only sunlight shining in there through the door, bright and strong. Not a trace of the snow was left. Langston took off his coat, feeling that it was getting hot again. Now you’ll make me sweat on the way home, he thought and hung the coat on a nail.
The first tourists started occupying the Quarter until they would be banished in the late afternoon by the early night owls. A man’s voice, loud and not to be missed under any circumstances, penetrated the bar.
‘Martha! I told you we should have gone to Florida! All I’ve seen so far is snowflakes but not one black cat playing the trumpet! Now, where’s that Square? I need a bench to sit on! In Illinois I know where the benches are!’
Langston went into the kitchen, away from the voices. There was still a lot to do but it was better that the kitchen was far enough away from the street. Not hearing the tourists, that was all he needed for the moment. What did they know? While Langston started boiling water for the potatos he started peeling he thought about the man, whose name he did not know. He wondered whether he would go to Tulane or rather take the streetcar to Cemeteries just for the hell of it.
2015
