...geography, philosophy, history, nothing
social anthropology a lot of nothing...
- Tuli kupferburg
*****
A LOT OF NOTHING
Christmas Eve. I took the ferry over to the French Quarter. I just wanted to experience the Vieux Carré when it's quiet. Didn't see how it could be much quieter than Christmas Eve. A stiff wind blowing down Royal Street makes it feel cold, though the temperature is almost 50 and the sun's out. The ferry was crowded this morning with last minute shoppers headed to Holmes or Maison Blanch or wherever, and 9-to-5-types dragging themselves to their offices, their hearts full of hope the boss will let them out early. They should be glad they don't have my boss: he's sending me to Kansas City for Christmas to cover a football game. The regular NFL writers didn't want to go. Anyway, I hope to get out of sports soon.
The Vieux Carré is quite calm. The drunks from Texas and the Midwest, who come to throw up in the gutters on Bourbon Street are not here. I think they're waiting for the Sugar Bowl next week.
As I pass the TV station I decide to say Merry and Happy to the news folks. The station is located in a maze of buildings between Charter and Royal. Eighteenth century on one side and 1948 on the other. After checking in with the receptionist - Gestapo type with big tits - I walk across the courtyard to the news offices. Margot smiles as I walk in. "Merry Christmas," I say. "Can't wait for it to be over."
"And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Scrooge," she says. "Don't be such a cynic."
Margot, now in her 40s, is the lead producer for just about all the local shows. She jokes about being the first French Quarter hippie: Ken, the station manager, says that one day in the 1950s, she wore jeans to work, and before he could admonish her the station owner walked in and mentioned what a nice ass she had. She has worn jeans every day since, though her nice ass is a bit on the large side these days. Still, she's one of the nicest people in the world, and highly competent in a medium known for its incompetence.
"I was kind of hoping you'd drop by today. This is my friend from New York, Emily Fischer," she said, turning in the direction of a blond, academic type sitting on her desk. "You studied anthropology, didn't you?"
"Yes, that's why I'm a sportswriter."
Margot ignored by sarcasm: "Well, Emily and her husband are in the anthropology department at Columbia. She's the department chairman and he's the star."
"Your husband must he Munro Fischer. Mayan stuff, I think. I read one of his books in an archaeology class."
"Well, I'm not quite as well known," Emily smiled.
For a few minutes we discussed anthropology. I was graduated only a few weeks ago, and I knew nothing about "the anthropology of women," her specialty.
Margot and Emily have known each other since graduate school, and they get together whenever Margot goes to New York or Emily comes to New Orleans. Emily was to meet her husband this afternoon for a romantic Christmas in New Orleans, at least that's what Margot said - Margot does all the talking, all the time.
After saying my goodbyes, I walked over to the sports desk down the hall to say hello to Wayne - he's going to Minnesota to do the Viking and Cowboys - then to the studios to talk to the camera guys and techs before exiting out to Chartres, and walking over to Napoleon House.
I stand at the bar and ask for a shot of brandy and a cup of coffee and chicory to warm me up. As it arrives I look over by the tall French doors that open onto Rue St-Louis, and there she is sitting alone, Emily Fischer.
"Dr. Fischer, I presume." OK, it was a bad joke. "May I join you?"
"Certainly, Mr. Strange." She was either kind enough not to laugh my bad joke or she missed the joke altogether.
"Mr. Strange is my father. I'm Jack."
"It was a pleasure to meet you. . . Jack."
And thus began what was to turn out to be a fling - for lack of a better word, - with Dr. Emily Fischer, Ph.D.
I was cold sitting at the French door, but Emily didn't seem to mind a bit. In fact she seemed to relish it. She was wearing a navy blue sweater, which she filled nicely even if such filler was frowned upon in academic. But the dark blue sweater and the blond hair with its sparkling silver highlights. She has a Mayan necklace around her neck, actually a pendant of sorts worn on a silver chain. She was, of course, wearing jeans, which incidentally fit rather well, almost snug. And boots with high heels, the kind obviously popular in northern climes like New York but seldom seen here except on go-go girls and 14-year-olds trying to look 20.
We picked up the boring conversation we had begun earlier about the anthropology of women. I had no idea what she was talking about. I told her I wanted to study The Intermarriage of Transsexual Mennonites with Upper Class Hopi Indians, 1850-1852. She agreed it was a good topic.
"Can I get you something," I asked. "How about an espresso and a Calvados?" They drink that in France instead of breakfast, I think."
I signaled to a waiter, who after ten minutes of staring at the hot-dog vendor in the street, came over and took our order.
"So, what are you and your husband planning to do this week? Whoa, that's a bad question. I mean what are you planning to see and stuff."
"Well to tell you the truth, we're not doing anything," she said. "I didn't tell Margot, but Munro isn't coming back for another two weeks."
"Ouch! That much work still to do?"
"I'd like to think so, but I know better."
"Sorry. I really don't know what to say or do."
"Well you could stay here and talk to me for a while."
So we talked. At least I talked. This time we avoided anthropology, and concentrated on talking about the French Quarter, New Orleans and Louisiana. We had another round of Calva - skipped the coffee this time - and I talked away. I was sure I was boring the hell out of her with my minutiae, but I just kept on going.
"May I buy you lunch?" she asked. My Southern Gentleman objections were met with, "Well, I'm not a Southern Belle, so I can pay."
So we went to lunch, followed by my lengthy walking tour of the French Quarter: where Mumford was hanged, where Blaze Starr took it off for Uncle Earl, where the Regal brewery was, where the Lafitte brothers hid out, the Italian gym, and of course Cosimo's.
At about four-thirty, as the winter sun was sinking Uptown, I decided that my duties as a tour guide were spent: "Well, let me take you back to your hotel. I'm sure you have better things that to hear me ramble on."
"No. I don't want to go back to the hotel, at least not yet," she said. "And I want you to ramble on. I want to listen to you. I don't want to be alone.
"When I was a child, Christmas was so special. It was a magical time of the year," Emily said. "The tree, the presents, the big dinner, the aunts and uncles and cousins. Not a nice Christmas present from my husband today - and his latest 22-year-old."
"Come on, I'll show you Algiers. That's where I live."
The ride across the river was a bit on the chilly side. So, of course, we stood alone on deck, leaving the wiser pedestrians to drink coffee inside and the sage motorists below to keep their heaters running. I put my hands on the railing and looked up river as the fog crept in. Emily was along side of me, the turtle neck of her sweater turned up and her hands in the pockets of her jeans.
Somewhere about mid-stream, she put her hand over mine, and when I turned, she smiled and snuggled, putting her face against my sweater, her arms around my waist. I stretched my jacket around her. It was at this moment, on the Algiers Ferry, that she changed from Dr. Fisher the anthropologist to Emily the woman.
I wanted to kiss her. But I wasn't really sure how that would be taken. So I waited for her to make the first move, that first gesture. She didn't. "Just hold me for a minute, Jack," she said. "I need to be held. Oh, do I need to be held."
After landing we walked the three blocks to my shotgun double. I made some coffee and left her listening to blues, while I went to the rear-bedroom-turned-office to arrange papers and stuff for the football game, and make family and business phone calls. When I returned to the front room, she was seated in my overstuffed chair, reading Harry Williams' biography of Huey Long.
"I'm going to cook us some dinner, I have some albums under console and there's TV," I said. "I shouldn't be too long, but if you're tired, you can go lie down in the bedroom. I'll take you to your hotel after dinner."
Only took about half an hour to make dinner, most of that time spent waiting for the rice to be cooked. A couple of cans of gumbo, half a loaf of revived Rising French bread and a bottle of Mouton Cadet, red. I set the table and went to invite Emily to dinner. (OK, it wasn't much of a dinner, but remember I was only 23 years old.) She was bundled up as before in a wool blanket listening to Buddy Guy and Junior Wells, and reading about Huey Long.
We went through dinner rather quickly, as we did with the Bourdeaux. She had quite an appetite, despite the large sandwich she had had at lunch. I was full quickly and watched her eat. She was fun just to watch: Her hair tied up in a sort of bun behind her head, her blue eyes that blinked to the rhythm of Buddy and Junior, a sharp chin with just a hint of a dimple, lips that would be full had she wore a stronger lipstick, cheeks with very little makeup, a long neck - sometime that afternoon she had removed her Mayan pendant.
"I'd like to stay here tonight, if you don't mind," she said.
"I've got to get up early to get to the airport," I said. "I may not be able to take you to the hotel in the morning. You would have to take a cab."
"I don't want to be alone tonight. I should be OK in the morning." And she smiled. (Gawd, what a great smile.)
I walked into the bedroom and returned with pajamas, a towel, a wash cloth and a toothbrush still in its wrapping for her. I also brought along a pillow, blanket alarm clock and pajamas for me.
"Here, go sleep in my bed," I said handing her the pajamas and stuff.
"Is this your Southern Gentleman thing?" she asked.
