The grinning face of an older white girl, her long dreadlocks weighted towards the ground, soon appeared at my tent door. As I offered a return smile and reached for the steaming mug she offered, thoughts of yesterdays adventure with her came to my mind.
B.B. at the wheel, I had ridden in her police van as we’d visited the hospital to pick up an 80-year-old man. I’d then sat in the backseat listening to his seemingly deluded story of how the power company had shut off his home until eventually he’d simply wondered away. Now the man no longer knew where he lived. In his pocket was a check for $7,000.
The shelter to which we delivered him was a crowded place and most seemed genuinely happy to see B.B. Three staff members hugged her. Once she’d told of the old man’s plight he was admitted.
This place was filled with the city’s ragged people and many of their faces lit up at the sight of my host. For although B.B. works for the police, wears a cop suit (I kid her that she smells like bacon) and drives a cop van, she is technically not a cop. B.B. carries no gun and her only job is to help those unfortunate or homeless people who occupy this city. It’s a job in which she seems to exude great passion and because she’d helped so many, most vie constantly for her attention and it took quite some time get out of there.
Days later, B.B.’s research confirmed that, without family, the old man resided alone and had outlived most of his friends. Although he did have money with which to pay utility bills, this senior had simply forgotten that such things exists. Dementia maybe. In time they’d find him a home in which to finish out his years.
So is the daily routine of this city’s happy little Mother Teresa (whom I often kid, “Sister Teresa”). Yet in her off-time B.B. is into motorcycles, parties, and other things that the real Mother Teresa would never have considered. Still, B.B.’s the most altruistic person I’d known and this opportunity to spend time in her presence was a unique and wonderful experience.
After two sips and a groggy, “Good morning”, I promised to be down at the cop-shop soon. B.B. headed off to work.
Eventually, I arrived at the station. It seemed strange that I should have become so familiar with this place. But I’d been coming and going for quite some time and most of the police knew me by face, if not name. They’d become familiar to me as well.
Under B.B.’s influence to community service, I’d offered to help set up the big metal Christmas tree that’s traditionally erected in the N.O.P.D.’s yard at this time of year. I was told that a parade (oh, how New Orleans loves its parades) of children, proceeded by cops on horseback and a brass band, would soon be coming to place their homemade decorations on the tree.
Made little sense to me at the time but over the course of four days, I’d spend considerable time getting that damn tree ready. The afternoon passed easily as I worked with two other volunteers.
Three days later a famous New Orleans musician stopped by B.B.’s home. Ten years ago she’d traveled the world, acting as this man’s road manager and B.B. knew him well. I’d been listening to his music on the radio since boyhood, and had seen him on TV only last week. Dr. John walked slowly into the house and took a seat. In this most personal setting I enjoyed the great pleasure of spending time in his company, and took a liking to this guy right away. I think the feeling was mutual. He seemed an easy going, shit talkin’ type of dude with very kind eyes. In fact, his whole demeanor felt kind. B.B. later confirmed that this observation was correct.
At the age of 73, Dr. John’s still touring the world playing music, and still sells the house out at almost every concert. Truth is Dr. John doesn’t know if he’s 73 or 74. He told me that long ago the governor got in trouble with a woman and burned the House of Records down—and Dr. John’s birth certificate with it—to cover his tracks. When I asked if he ever gets tired of traveling, Dr. John said, “No. But it’s best when we’re on the tour bus.” I got the feeling airports were kind of a drag for him. Like myself, this man seemed a chronic case of wonder-lust.
Originally from New Orleans, Dr. John carries only a modest 10th grade education. He told me that, in those early years, he’d play two gigs a night in the French Quarter, or its vicinity, then be too tired for school in the mornings. He said that back then these nightclubs were really fronts for prostitution taking place in back rooms. Customers would hang in the bar drinking and listening to music until their turn came up.
Then, in 1962, a new District Attorney closed these places down or, “Padlocked the joints” as Dr. John put it. This pretty much wiped out the New Orleans music scene and probably 90% of the musicians left the city. Dr. John went to California, New York, and ultimately on to play around the world.
Turning to B.B., he told her that Bonnie Raitt said, “Hi.” I guess they all used to work together. Dr. John then told me he knows many people who say that B.B. saved their lives. I’d heard this from so many others who live in this city as well. I think that living in the company of Mother Teresa for those two years really influenced her. In fact, B.B. later told me that Mother Teresa and Dr. John have been her biggest mentors.
In case I ever wrote something about him, Dr. John said to tell you guys, “Fuck it.”
An interesting note is that, both being dropouts, it was somehow arranged that Tulane University would grant Dr. John and the Dalai Lama honorary degrees and a graduation ceremony on the same day. After only a few hours Dr. John left us. For me, it had been a very interesting afternoon.
With the nearing of Christmas it was decided we’d make a local toy run. Although I’ve attended a million toy runs and seldom write of them, this event was unique.
I pulled the old FL into the truck stop/casino some miles from town. The day’s cold air hindered attendance and only a smallish crowd of motorcycles graced the lot. I threw down the kickstand and we ambled inside to grab coffee.
Once back outside with the others, B.B. told the story of this run’s origin. The original founder of Louisiana ABATE—B.B.’s late husband Pops—had started this run to place a direct contribution into the hands of those in need. And although he’d been gone for over 20 years, the rally still lived. In fact, for his relentless service to the community in years past, there’s still a public park dedicated Pops name.
Another old Electra Glide sat among the bikes and I moved to make conversation with its owner. Evan Delahoussaye is a serious gear-head and this shared interest granted us plenty of fuel for conversation. Evan had boxes of old FL parts at his home and said I should come check them out. He also offered the use of his garage/shop for any maintenance Betsy might need. I took his phone number.
Eventually a police escort led the bike procession onto the highway. The ride seemed long as it wound slowly along the Mississippi riverbank. It was fun to watch, besides the riders, the cops were having a great time playing with their sirens and otherwise entertaining the crowds, and their children, who lined the streets to watch us roll by.
In time we entered the driveway of Magnolia School and I noted a most unusual sight. Near the front entrance Santa and Mrs Clause stood beside their decorated bagger with sidecar full of toys. But it was the unusual crowd that caught our attention. For there, among a few staff members, one young man stood wearing a leather vest and helmet as he jumped around screaming and shaking his hands with great exuberance. Beside him a girl sat in her wheelchair grinning excitedly as we rode by. There were others too. Magnolia School is home to the mentally retarded and, although ages ranged from young to 60, there was hardly a mentality among them beyond the age of six.
After passing through the line to retrieve drinks from the CMA’s display and jambalaya from the staff, we sat at a table to eat and watch the action. Before long Santa, Mrs. Clause, and three elves took the stage beside a huge pile of presents. Long before the run each child had made a list of the items he or she most wanted from Santa. These lists were then distributed among the CMA, ABATE members, and a few others. In this way each kid would receive exactly what they asked for. When Santa called a name that kid would approach the stage to receive his/her present. Some were so excited they ran and, on two occasions, hit Santa with a big hug that I thought might knock him over. What great fun it was!
When the last present was handed out we ambled outside. It was there, among what was left of the crowd, that I ran into friends I’d known since that first trip to N.O. back in the ‘90s. After catching up on old times, we all took a ride together.
A week went by
I looked through the window of my little French Quarter coffee shop in time to see a parade of children pass by. They could only be going to my tree! After grabbing the camera I started after them.
In the cop-shop yard a card table, staffed presumably by parents, offered drinks and donuts. Near the fence a four-man brass band played as the children hung their handmade decorations upon the tree. Of course, Santa was in attendance to take present requests. Everyone seemed to be having such a great time as I observed quietly from the sidelines. And although I’d only worked that Christmas tree in service to B.B., my emotion at the happiness the outcome produced was far more powerful than expected.
With donuts in hand, the children then settled upon the ground at yard’s center while an officer stood beside my tree to give his safety speech on the dangers of strangers. After the band had played some more, all began to filter out and I, the last to leave, returned to the coffee shop.
Although I seldom stay in one place for longer than a month, it was approaching the seventh week since arrival in the city of New Orleans. It was time to go. But there was motorcycle maintenance to consider so I called my new gear-head friend, Evan Delahoussaye. Although Evan used to build and race cars, he’d grown tired of the expense and pressure associated with racing and took to building rat-rods. Evan built his own Harleys as well. This weekend however, Evan and best friend Ralph would lock themselves in the garage to work on the latest rat-rod project and I’d been invited to join that party.
I slept in Evan’s garage that night and the work began by morning. Betsy got a new clutch cable, oil change, and a few other odds and ends while the boys labored on the new car. These two grease monkeys love nothing more than garage projects and the atmosphere was that of excited children with a new toy.
Starting with an old V8, some ancient, rusted out, auto body, and two double wide semi truck wheels, the car, frame included, was sculpted together from scrap metal and other junk. I found it fascinating how anyone could actually build such a thing.
For the entire weekend that garage was my home. Evan’s wife, Gwen, fed us amazingly well and by evening Evan and I hung in the living room watching the tube. In this way I made a few very good friends and would be seeing them again in future. And of course it’s always good to know a tool laden garage junky when one is a homeless vagabond with an old motorcycle.
The air grew cold this late in the year, and it was to the promised land of southern Florida I pointed my front wheel. I was to meet with a man who’d recently moved aboard his motorcycle. We’d already ridden together in Idaho some months ago, and would hook up to tour the Sunshine State for a while then hang in the intense heat of Key West through the hardest months of this uncommonly cold winter.
But then, that’s another story.
