Canal Street

I haunted Canal Street. There were so many places to go, so many things to see, but like most of my childhood I was alone when it seemed that everyone around me was in groups. And that's how I took it all in....alone. A kid in a bubble, floating along through downtown ...before the malls killed the central city.
There were so many places to go... At the International Trademart, I would go into the various travel agencies and come out with all sorts of posters and pamphlets of places far away. I would make up some kind of story about doing a project for school, and with that lie came tons of stuff.
The posters went up in my room, the pamphlets I would read...filling my in the blank places on my mental map.
And the Trademart was so conveniently close to the Algiers ferry...good for free rides to Algiers and back ...as long as I wanted to watch the barges and freighters push through the chocolate water.
There was Werlein's music store where I spent endless time talking to the instument repairmen on the third floor as they worked on all sorts of horns. These were friendly guys who put up with the endless questions of a curious kid with nothing to do but watch and ask.
One floor down from the repairs was a whole floor full of pianos. Kids would be walking in and out for their lessons...some were better than others. There would be families pricing instruments...huge grands that would never fit in our house.
At street level, the glass cases filled me with lust... There they were, brand new horns with no dents, no scratches, all sitting in plush cases of deep blues and reds.... Sexy before I knew what sex was.
And the sheet music for sale...with people I could tell were real musicians flipping through stack after stack...some carrying instrument cases, looking important.
When I got thirsty, drugstore soda fountains were good for a glass of water...Walgreen's, Waterbury's... Drugstores were different then...with lunch counters, small juke boxes every so often.
One time I saved up and bought my mother a bottle of Chanel #5 at Waterbury's.
If I was really broke, I would put a nickel in the paper machine, grab a big handful of the Times-Picayune
and become a newsboy.
I loved being downtown, playing some kind of role.... going to the Grayhound station and milling around being a passenger....going to the huge main branch of the library being a student...going to Charity Hospital's emergency room being a patient.... but the thing about the emergency room is that sometimes I saw and heard harsh things as people bled and moaned with pain.
Thom McAn Shoe Store was many times a stop because there was a machine that x-rayed your feet, showing you how your shoes fit. I don't know how many times I went in to see the bones in my feet.
And Woolworth's? Oh man, that store had EVERYTHING. Tropical fish, endless toys, a lunch counter... This store was a main stop. On Saturdays, all sorts of gadgets were demonstrated...things that sliced, diced, and were ready to change your life in significant ways.
Woolworth's on Canal was also the site of the first civil rights demonstration I ever saw. Black people serious about wanting to eat at the white counter were crowding the street carrying signs and singing.
It looked dangerous...like something bad could happen....like something fragile was about to get broken.
I watched.
The Roosevelt Hotel. I'm surprised I got in, but there were important things to do there. ....check out the rich people, walk on plush carpets, use a bathroom where there was a friendly black man to hand me a towel...a cloth towel. And the gift shop was a whole other world of china, sculptures, glassware, jewelry... And nothing was decorated for Christmas like the Roosevelt!
Kress', Maison Blanche, D. H. Holmes, Krauss'...all the workers in these huge stores knew me...and never lost patience with my aggressive enjoyment. I looked at everything, touched everything, and if at all possible, tried things out...electric putting machines, punching bags....
I could fill a whole day, moving from wonder to wonder...but alone. I would walk on the fringes of groups of strangers because I wanted so badly to be with somebody, anybody. I watched them enjoy my city, my street....talking, laughing, with the potential of carrying some of it home...the potential of making some of it part of their lives. But I was in my bubble with nothing comiing in and nothing comeing out.
My bubble... It was there even at home. I decided early on that nobody noticed me or gave me much thought. One morning, I got a red sticker, put it right in the middle of my forehead. ....just to see how long it would take someone to notice it. Nobody...not one person said anything about it all day.
That evening, I was in an evil mood... I was alone.
But the rhythm of Canal Street, noises like rumble of the street cars, my ritualistic stalking....As New Orleans gathered me up in her arms, rocked me, distracted me with her charms.... for a time I wasn't lonely...just alone.