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There’s a crowded little bookstore in the Faubourg Marigny where creative voices are always welcomed and nurtured by the owner. A reading is scheduled for a sultry May night. The usual smells permeate the streets of New Orleans–the river, the bars, the sweat and urine and sick of tourists, the droppings of mules. Dough frying and crawfish simmering. I’m a little tired and overheated after a long day, so I persuade my friend and writing partner Timothy to take a cab with me to the bookstore. Earlier, we saw our friends walking. They decide to stop for drinks along the way, so we get there just before them.
The store is hot, even hotter because we all stand close among the stacks, or get brushed by people on their way to the back of the shop, where a few bottles of wine have been opened. A couple of red plastic plates hold crackers and pretzels. Most of those will be eaten by two or three men who probably missed lunch and are overdue for dinner.
The reading is kicked off by the dynamic Theresa Davis. She mesmerizes me. Others I can’t hear because late arrivals whisper and rustle and cause people around me to shift, blocking the opening that allowed me to see and listen to the readers. A couple of writers reinforce my conviction that I should never read my work aloud–some of us just don’t have the voice or the skill to do right by our stories. As the event ends, the air is so thick with humidity and performance anxiety that I have to get out of there. I can’t breathe.
I stumble outside, inhaling, craving air conditioning, and hear someone call my name. Catty-cornered from the bookstore is a restaurant with benches on the sidewalk around it. Without my glasses and in the dim street light, only my familiarity with their voices enables me to recognize Rhonda and Lindsey. I cross to them. A waiter has come from the restaurant and persuaded them to accept a hookah. It’s my first experience with this, though I decide it’s really not that different from the water pipes of my distant youth. I don’t smoke cigarettes anymore, but I enjoy the scent and taste of the hookah’s sour apple tobacco.
The mouthpiece is passed among us. Not all of us smoke. We’re passing time, waiting for Trebor and Timothy. We decide we’ll all meet at a Middle Eastern restaurant around the corner. I go with the first group, and once inside, I sit with Rob, Melissa, ‘Nathan, and Dan. The restaurant is busy, but not too noisy, and it’s easy to hear their banter. I’m laughing a lot, as anyone would be with this group.
Lindsey and Rhonda come in with Mike and Jeffrey. They put two tables together–close to us, but not close enough for our conversations to intersect. There are bursts of laughter from their table, and I feel utterly content to know that all these people I enjoy and admire are getting to know one another and form new friendships.
Trebor and Tim finally enter the restaurant. This is a dinner we’ve tried to have for two years, and I join the two of them at our table. I’m enchanted all over again by Trebor. We jump from subject to subject, and he always has something intelligent, provocative, or entertaining to share. Occasionally I throw in a comment, but really, I’m happy to sit back, savor my grilled vegetables and basmati rice topped with feta cheese, and listen to two people who make me think and laugh and feel wonderful life from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes.
It’s only later, much later, that I step outside the memory of those moments and realize that they are, in fact, made of that big magic that some biographer or storyteller of the future might put in a book. I have no idea which artist or writer or photographer or musician among us will be the principal and who makes up the supporting cast. But I dream that some young reader invited into this night will have lit within her the vision of a life made of creative work that she loves and gifted friends to illuminate the path to her dreams. |
Tom obligingly went through bins in the attic and garage looking for Barbie stuff OTHER than dolls. I’ll be posting about some of that later, but in the meantime, I found this scrap of honest-to-goodness 1970s fabric. I don’t know what I’ll use it for–it’s not much material–but I’m sure you’ll eventually see it on one of the Mattel Top Models.
