Martha Cooney

New Orleans gave me and Jeff a sweaty hug when we got off the plane for a four-day stay. Before a walking tour of the French Quarter, Jeff inventoried: hat, breathable tri-blend shirt, shade spots on the tour route. I got an iced coffee. 

 

Our guide to the free tour had sent a personal text introducing himself as Daniel; we recognized him on the river plaza by his company hat that said “Guy.” He was thirty-something, with a backpack and a friendly smile. When everyone had arrived, he switched the “Guy” hat for one of his own.  He said his job was to be entertaining and informative enough to earn our tips at the end of the tour. 

 

Daniel explained to the group how the city was built on a swamp and surrounded by water that evaporated into the hot air every day, making it so humid.  “We say if you don’t like the weather in New Orleans, just wait five minutes.” He grinned and gave a beat for the group’s golf-clap laugh, bringing everyone in to the expectation that there would be bad jokes, he knew they were bad, and we were in on this together. I approved of him right away. 

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A couple people at the back fanned themselves sulkily with glossy street maps. I wished they would change their expressions. We have to support Daniel! Join the party so we can make a strong start. If you must fan yourself, make your face read I’m so excited to be here and embrace the novelty of the climate! I’m an extra in Streetcar Named Desire! This is an opportunity to explore all the varieties of ice cube! 

 

I rested my hands on the bottom curve of my backpack straps, elbows out and body straight, and tilted my chin slightly toward Daniel. I made sure my face was positive but not patronizing. I didn’t want to look like one of those overly supportive participants who gush – you can’t trust them – and knew my baseball hat already pushed me close to the line. 

 

We assembled in the historic square, and Daniel told us about the chaotic 22-minute Battle of New Orleans. “Basically, the first Mardi Gras parade,” he said, with the same grin as before. 

 

A woman near the front in an all-black outfit of a dozen different pieces piped up. “And the British bla bla bla bla bla artillery bla bla bla.” 

 

Daniel affirmed her fact with a generous smile, gave a relevant addition, and turned to the group to continue. The woman spoke first. “And bla bla Napoleon bla bla bla.” She turned to her companion and went on, loud, “Bla bla cathedral bla bla - bla bla bla.” Now there was pointing. “Bla bla, triple spires bla bla bla.” 

 

Daniel began a speech about pirates as we headed to a historic alley.  While he talked the other woman led her own tour for her friend at football announcer volume. Jeff and I made eye contact.

 

Daniel carried on, confident and calm like a first grade teacher smoothly wresting back control, and finally she shut up. The tour was great. We walked past bubblegum-colored shotgun houses with tall green shutters and shaded black iron balconies (galleries, Daniel called them) doodle-penned around the second floor. We looked into an open-air courtyard where people used to sleep outside and the tiled ground made it easy to clear floodwater. Everyone had adapted to the climate with innate strategies to counter heat and dampness. 

 

Like Jeff, I thought. I’m Irish, Italian, and German – the northeast Philly special – but the Italian keeps me unconcerned in the sun, and Jeff’s a pale full-on Irish descendant and gets very pink when overheated. He bikes in the morning before it’s hot and knows what “UV index” means, and has an instinct for airflow mechanics and respect for the power of humidity. He fit right in.  

 

Even on party streets bars and clubs kept doors open to keep air circulating. Daniel reminded us of the open container law and said, “In New Orleans, if you’re walking down the street with an open beer, you’re an alcoholic; if you’re walking with a plastic cup, you’re a pedestrian.” One guy in the group laughed too much, which made me think he’d be face down in the cobblestones twelve hours from now. 

 

“This city is a place with every opportunity to indulge in whatever your vice is,” Daniel said. I nodded: I was ready; mine was coffee, and I’d happily taken in Daniel’s earlier info about the coffee culture and his recommended places. We’re a mixed-faith household; Jeff doesn’t participate in coffee. He calls it “boiled bean water” and thinks it’s gross. He supports my values, though, and was happy to accompany me on cafe stops for the trip. Anyway, of all the things a person could get into in Nola, coffee wouldn’t do any harm. 

 

Daniel announced a stop and situated himself; I watched him assess the group and engage in the delicate art of clocking the exact split second after everyone had assembled and before their attention went elsewhere. He kept his easygoing smile the whole time and at the perfect moment opened his mouth. 

 

A man standing near the front asked, “Do you have any good restaurant recommendations for dinner?” 

 

I didn’t look at Jeff; we were too close to the guy. Daniel gave a few suggestions and moved easily into the next topic. We continued through the Quarter. Just as much as the history I liked Daniel’s sharing about himself. He was a multi-generational New Orleanian displaced during Katrina, when his local college sent their students up to Penn State to finish out. He worked in a shoe store on the days he didn’t give tours, he lived with his girlfriend, and he seemed to know the local history inside and out.  

 

We were so impressed that we gave him a big tip and when he told the group the company was doing a Garden District tour in a couple days – with a different guide, but still – we signed up.

 

Later, at Deanie’s restaurant on Iberville Street, Jeff and I sat by the circular chrome bar and broke everything down over blackened redfish and green beans. We gave notes on Daniel’s strong performance and agreed that the humor worked because he knew it was cheesy and was laughing at it with us. Bad jokes were harmless and added to the vibe.

 

“How about the girl who started giving her own tour?” I said.

 

“I know,” Jeff said. “Did you see the one guy who made sure he was at the front when we walked and tried to hog Daniel the whole time?” 

 

It’s always good to do a debrief to cover the bases. After our big post-wedding party, I asked everyone “What’d I miss?” If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have known that during speeches one kid pantsed another kid on the dance floor. I only wish I had gotten to see it for myself. 

 

We had another tour booked – a swamp boat – for early the next morning. At the hotel breakfast, hungover adults in pajamas stumbled to the lobby in silent acknowledgement of being human and sleeping in the same place last night like a weird slumber party and then holding up a buffet line of strangers while struggling to spoon up fried potatoes. I liked the conveyor belt toaster; you send the bread off (“Byeeeeee!”) on a little ride (“Wheeeeeeee!”) and it comes out the other side (“Hiiiiiiiii!”) all glowed up after the adventure. I took to-go hotel coffee on the tour bus, which had a cartoon alligator on its side.

 

The bus had televisions with chipper HR-training style videos (“Honeybadger facts! …Now, honeybadger trivia!”) on our ride to the bayou. We entered through the gift shop (genuine alligator tooth: 2.99. Oh yeah? Show me a dental certificate) and sat in our colored-wristband-assigned group on the designated bench; the unspoken contract was we were children on a field trip, slotted into a spot and entertained, and we were here for it. I couldn’t wait to see the creatures.  

 

We boarded a flat-bottom boat with a canopy on top and open metal bars big enough for a gator to stick his face through. About twenty-five of us squeezed onto the benches; a man with a baseball cap and mirrored sunglasses wearing a company branded shirt got on and sat at the front. His sun-dried arms were the stuff of nightmares for every suburban mom setting a timer to reapply their kids’ SPF 100. This guy flossed with the whiskers of wild boars. He probably had gills. 

 

The man got on a loudspeaker and introduced himself as Captain Everett. He had a ninety-nine point nine percent success rate of people not dying on the tour, he told us. The group cooperated with a laugh. About the alligators, he said, “No one’s ever got bit who kept their arms inside the boat.” Again, the group complied and laughed. This was the flavor of the priest doing the whole bit: “We listen to ‘first shall be last and last shall be first,’ but then forget it in the church parking lot.” Ha, ha. 

 

The boat zipped across the bayou water, coated with algae ranging the full deck of green paint sample colors, and we waved to another boat. “That’s Captain Crash,” Captain Everett said. He stopped the boat to look for alligators. 

 

“Is that one?” I pointed. 

 

Captain Everett asked my name. “You’re very bright, Martha,” he said. Immediately I didn’t trust him.

 

“That one’s Wally,” Captain Everett said. “C’mere, Wally.” He tossed a snack over the rail. Wally swanned over with the familiar claim of a private-supper-club member and ate the bite with indifference. My aunt has a squirrel that visits her South Philly patio every day to eat peanuts she lines up on the railing, and if she hasn’t put them out yet, he sits there and waits for what he’s entitled to. 

 

Wally gave us the side eye. Here’s today’s ship of fools. I’ll give you a minute, but don’t expect me to hang around all day. I got a lot of other things going on. Where’re you from? Midwest? Knew it. 

 

Captain Everett must know all the different gators, I thought. Maybe he came down here to talk to them about his life – the one place he really opened up – and they listened, like dogs with all different personalities. Wally was probably a union leader. No, he was more a behind-the-scenes type, pulling strings and reporting back on everybody’s business. 

 

Other gator heads popped up nearby. “Wally,” Captain Everett called to one. “That one’s Wally too,” he told us. “They’re all Wally.”

 

I felt fooled, and also that he’d disrespected Wally #1. He granted him personhood, and then took it away. I hadn’t known the gator like I thought I did. It was a bait and switch. Daniel wouldn’t have done that. 

 

“See his nose?” Captain Everett pointed to a gator’s squashed snout. “He’s been in a fight.” At this point I didn’t know whether I could believe him or not. We motored past cypress trees and alligators hanging with turtles on logs. It was great, with everybody pointing things out to make sure nobody missed anything. We loved the baby gators. Captain Everett told us that only five percent of alligators survive babyhood – the others eat them – and survivors live up to 65 years. If Daniel were there, he probably would have made a joke about it being too bad; they were so close to retirement. 

 

Other passengers asked questions, and before he answered, Captain Everett requested their name and where they were from, and teased them about something personal or the question itself. He pulled the boat through some side alleys of the marsh and backed up into the swamp grass to tell us about the plant life. I drank up the information, but how did I know he wasn’t making it up? When I was a camp counselor I told the kids a troll lived under the creek bridge, because I had power. Captain Everett started the boat and tried to pull forward. It wouldn’t move. 

 

“Uh oh,” he said. “Hope we’re not stuck.” He tried a few more times. Nothing gave.

 

Okay. I know exactly what you’re doing here. It would be just like him to make it part of the act. 

 

He kept trying to get the boat out of the bank. It wouldn’t move. What if he wasn’t faking? I could step up. I’ve been waist deep in Springsteen’s swamps of Jersey; I’m not afraid. What do you need? I could get in and push the boat. It would be fun. Or I’d swim to the closest of the little houses that we’d seen tied to the trees and floating on the water. She was incredible! Did you see the gators swimming alongside her? She led the guy with the barge over to pull us out, and he had a crab boil going, so it turned into a party. Yes indeed, that girl saved the day. Captain Everett insisted she wear his captain’s hat, but she was very humble. 

 

Captain Everett dislodged the boat, adjusted his baseball cap, and acted relieved that we were out. I didn’t trust him. 

 

At the next stop, he pointed out a raccoon, and people scrambled to take pictures. I had no idea raccoons were a novelty in other places. There are so many of them having late-night trash can flash mob raves in Philly that the city has a beautiful two-story mural of one eating a soft pretzel. If Daniel were leading the tour I’d feel safe enough to bring that up, and he’d probably say that one man’s trash panda was another man’s treasure. I missed him. 

 

Later at Daisy Dukes cafe over red beans and rice with Crystal hot sauce, Jeff and I assessed: the tour was great but a different experience from yesterday. Daniel was genuine; the Captain was a character. He could have just as easily been straight out of a Wawa parking lot as he could have been a British Oxford anthropologist who got so into his research he started faking the whole thing, and there was no way to know. I respected his need to separate and protect the inner self from the persona that fame demands; like Beyonce, or Kierkegaard. But we’d never know him. Not the way we knew Daniel. 

 

The next couple days, in between “Romance without finance doesn’t make sense” jazz lyrics, magick-with-a-k shops, a steamboat cruise under an orange tissue-paper moon, tracking down Truman Capote’s hotel, relishing the bride’s black dress in a wedding parade and, many times, noting a young man headed somewhere with a tuba, we incorporated detours: Jeff planned indoor stops to break up the heat in air-conditioned museums, art galleries, and an antiques place with an eight-hundred-piece silverware set, and I took us for coffee stops. At Cafe Du Monde's open-air, ceiling-fanned patio I asked Jeff if he wanted to try a sip just to see what the city’s classic chicory flavor was all about. He refused. Coffee was coffee and it was gross. He chugged ice water to protect himself from the thought. Too bad for him; I was participating in what the tourism periodicals called Nola’s symbol of community and hospitality. 

 

My commitment was confirmed on the last day, when I went to a cafe to get a coffee before our tour. A regular debated the interpretation of Catholicism with the guy behind the counter; I got talking to the local, who insisted on paying for my cup and welcomed me to the city. Just like everything said: coffee brings people in New Orleans together! I was part of the commonality; we were one family, carrying our iced cups around. 

 

It was almost a requirement in the heat, anyway; it was the worst day yet; you felt like you were wearing cats. On the streetcar to the Garden District Jeff showed me the text he’d just gotten. There was a change in staffing and we were going to have Daniel again. I thought it was great, but then, would he mind? Maybe it would throw him to know we’d already heard his personal anecdotes. I was relieved when he smiled at us with recognition at the meeting spot. The neighborhood had alternate patches of broiling sun and tree canopy, and right away Daniel moved the group to a shady spot. 

 

Daniel told the group the neighborhood was called the Garden District back in the day because the green lawns were so huge. “These days it’s called the Garden District because if you wanna buy a house here you need a garden full of money.” He grinned. We were in safe hands. 

 

The group navigated sidewalks broken with raised tree roots under magnolias and live oaks. As a team we clicked into the physical flow of knowing where we needed to single file on the sidewalk and that it was acceptable to herd close when sharing shade. The air smothered and Jeff fanned his t-shirt. It was getting more muggy. A lot of the group clutched drinks – mine was long gone – in sweating plastic cups, ice melted lukewarm. 

 

Daniel explained the above-ground tomb system at one of the famous cemeteries. The big mausoleums held entire families; when a person was buried, they slid the coffin onto the shelf in the tomb, and after a year and a day, they took the cooked body out of the coffin, put it in a silk bag, and added it to the pile of other family members. It was an efficient system that kept everyone together. “I like to call it one big eternal family reunion,” Daniel said. It was good to be back. 

 

We sweated by a famous restaurant with turquoise-taffy striped awnings; then by Nicholas’s Cage’s mansion, and learned about “jealousy shutters” where you can see out, but people can’t see in. Everyone was desperate to get cool. At the next landmark cemetery stop we tightened up into the shade by the locked gate like we were on an elevator. Behind me and Jeff two women holding iced coffees crammed in; next to us, a Scout-type man in a fisherman’s hat.

 

Daniel told us the public were not allowed inside the cemeteries unless during a special event with an official guide. “Other than that” – he smiled – “There’s only one way to get in here.”

 

The woman behind us barked a laugh so hard she spit her mouthful of iced coffee all over Jeff. 

 

I looked away so I wouldn’t die of secondhand humiliation. Jeff shifted in confusion and half shook his shoulders. Daniel grinned in another direction; he hadn’t seen the spit; now he was moving us across the street – good, he had to be protected from this to keep the integrity of the tour intact – and the two women melted silently to the back of the crowd. 

 

Jeff plucked my shirt urgently to report what he thought I’d missed. There were sticky droplets on his arms and neck and a huge wet spot on his gray t-shirt. He was a little aggravated, but mostly shocked. “I’m all wet,” he said quietly. 

 

“Wait,” I whispered. I couldn’t let the women see us talking and make the sum total of the mortification in the air any worse. I wanted to break down the complete play by play of this later, in detail, so we could cover every angle. For the rest of the tour the two women slunk half a block behind the rest of us, in full view of Jeff’s soggy shirt while he walked in the burning sun, damp with dirty bean water warmed by someone’s hot mouth. 

 

And you have to give him credit, because you know what else? Before he got back on the streetcar in his wet t-shirt, he went with me to the Chicory House coffee shop. I wanted one more iced. 

 

We went to Deanie’s again that night for gritty oysters in sea juice. Jeff told me that years ago he was at the movies to see Ocean’s Twelve and his buddy Andy took a big gulp of red Hi-C and sneezed it all over the woman in front of him. The other guys had to get napkins for the woman to wipe herself down because Andy had frozen in his seat. He didn’t move or speak again until the movie was over. 

 

Maybe it wouldn’t have been bad for Daniel to know what happened. Isn’t it every performer’s dream to make someone laugh so hard they spit their drink? Isn’t it the ultimate when someone comes up to you after the show and says in a low tone, You literally made me pee my pants? He should know.  I’ll send him this whole thing. 

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