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A Guarded Good Morning 7.19.98
Heading for the river at 7 a.m. I see as I cross Bourbon and then Royal, on St.Peter,
an ambulance and some victims at the corner of Chartres--fat white brawling
tourists, and their blood, begin dotting the sidewalk. Following the drops I come to the
motherlode spot, ouch, and glance over to see a victim shimmied onto a
stretcher. And a pile of poop steams at the base of a no parking sign, the
obligatory vomit and the urine and beer make the sidewalk slick. And plastic
cups and paper fill the gutters
Heading home over flagstone with the Pontalba on my left and the wrought iron
of Jackson Square to my right. A black woman about my age in colorful ethnic
garb is sitting in the area reserved for artists and fortune tellers. The area
surrounding her on the bench is filled with treasure laden shopping bags.
Fifty feet away and I have entered her space and acknowledged her presence in
an offhanded way. At twenty feet I make shaded eye contact. Her eyes are
more tired and experienced than mine. Her expression is guarded, hopeful, and
resigned. And I know what she means by that and it makes me smile at her, and
say, "good morning." She returns my smile and years drip off her face, for
but a second, and then its gone, as if her cheek muscles, unpracticed and out of
shape, cannot bear the weight of momentary happiness.