The afternoon sunlight fell on the window, and outside was the bustle of the French Quarter in New Orleans. It was Thanksgiving afternoon. Inside Kaldis Coffee there were only five or six tables occupied, scattered, and a beggar sleeping soundly.
Jazz was playing in the shop, and in between came the noise of the grinder.
A blond woman wearing a leather hat and denim walked up to me. Her blue eyes looked at me.
“Hey, sorry to bug you,” she said, voice very pleasant. “Can I steal a cigarette off you?”
“Certainly.” I picked up my pack.
“I just want a plain Marlboro,” she said, shaking her head.
“I have finished that brand.” I shook the empty pack beside me.
“Okay, fair enough.” She smiled, took the black-bodied, gold-filtered Nat Sherman I handed her, and pushed over a quarter. “Here. I pay my debts.”
“This can be considered making a friend.”
I pushed the coin back. She grinned and pocketed it.
“Happy Thanksgiving, then.”
“You as well.”
I nodded and ended that brief conversation.
She sat down at the long table beside me, found an empty spot, and took out a gold lighter. With a clean click, a spark jumped out.
Dupont, I thought, and glanced at her.
She turned and smiled. “Yeah, this one’s not mine.”
“You do not need to explain.” I smiled politely.
“This belongs to some Japanese tourist,” she said like it was nothing.
“So that is what happened?”
“You know. He drops it, I pick it up.” She gave a slightly guilty smile. “Sorry, my friend. Same thing I did to you.”
I touched the table. My Zippo was gone. She flicked her hand and my lighter slid right back in front of me.
“Relax,” she laughed. “You’re my friend. I mess with my friends.”
“How did you do that?” I asked, genuinely surprised.
“It’s part of my job. Well, one of them,” she said. “You know how it is. They cut welfare, we still gotta eat.”
I remembered the news about the U.S. government cutting welfare budgets and nodded. “So you are a pickpocket.”
“Sort of. That’s more like a side hustle,” she admitted.
Only then did I notice her short skirt and long boots. She spoke again.
“I dance on Bourbon Street.”
She clearly meant those strip pubs in the French Quarter. I did not wish to get involved with that type of person and did not intend to continue the conversation. But she spoke again.
“So, you here traveling?”
“No,” I lied. “I am a student at the University of New Orleans.”
“Nope,” she snorted, and pulled out my passport. “You’re from Taiwan. Student visa. Harvard. Boston boy on vacation.” She handed it back.
“You…” I did not know whether to be angry or impressed. I touched my pocket to confirm my wallet was still there. Then I said:
“Your movements are very fast.”
“Thanks for the compliment.” She laughed like a kid and put my pen, sunglasses, keys, and wallet on the table. “There. Full refund.”
I was shocked again. Before I could grab my things, I pulled a wallet from my pocket and saw it was not mine.
One of the IDs inside had kanji: “Yutaka Shioya.” Obviously the unlucky Japanese tourist who had lost his Dupont.
I quickly retrieved my things and tossed the stolen wallet back to her. She took it happily.
“I assumed,” I said, “that your behavior is illegal.”
“Yeah, you nailed it,” she said, not caring.
“You do not seem worried that I might report you,” I said, trying to sound stern.
“You won’t,” she said, smiling again. “You’re a tourist. You don’t wanna deal with cops. Plus I didn’t keep anything of yours.”
“That does not prove you have not done it to others.”
“Maybe I have,” she nodded. “So. You gonna turn me in?”
“I will reserve that right.”
“Which means you won’t,” she said.
I had nothing to follow with. I picked up the dark coffee and took a sip.
“Chicory coffee,” she said.
“What?”
“I said,” she pointed at my cup, “you’re drinking chicory coffee.”
“I am not certain.”
“I am,” she said. “New Orleans special. Out-of-towners all order it.”
“How do you know I did not just order an Americano?”
“Because you wouldn’t,” she said, smiling. “Trust me.”
I did not want to argue. I put the cup down and picked up my pen and notebook.
“You’re gonna journal,” she said again.
“That is incorrect,” I said without turning.
“Five bucks says you’re writing a diary.”
“Then you will lose.”
“Okay, then tell me what you’re writing and I’ll give you five.”
I paused, then shook my head. “I do not want your money, and I do not wish to discuss my actions. In fact, I do not wish to talk.”
“You scared I’m gonna hit on you, huh?” she said, teasing.
“You can interpret it freely.”
“So you wanna end this conversation,” she said.
“That is correct.”
“Alright, I can take a hint.” She said, “But gimme a sheet of paper?”
“No problem.”
I tore off a page quickly, to dismiss her.
She took the paper, pulled out a gold fountain pen.
Probably stolen, too. I secretly pitied poor Mr. Shioya and hoped she would stop talking.
She started writing. The paper was recycled, the pen was a fountain pen, and the strokes made a nice sound. A steady brushing rhythm. It sounded more like drawing.
I was curious but did not want her to latch on again, so I held back.
The sound kept going, with a kind of tempo, flowing nicely.
I shifted slightly.
“I’m drawing alphas,” she said suddenly.
“What?” I said.
She smiled and lifted the page. “I’m drawing alphas.”
“You do not need to tell me…” I said quickly. Her smile was sly.
“Yeah, I don’t,” she said. “But you wanna look, so here.” She waved the paper.
The page was full of α, big ones, small ones, straight, slanted, some with little flourishes, some like typeset Greek.
I sighed and stopped resisting.
“Your α is very good.”
“Thanks.” She smiled.
“Does α have some meaning?”
“I thought you knew it’s the first Greek letter.”
“Yes, I know that.” I said, “I am asking why you draw it.”
“’Cause it’s Greek and it’s the first,” she said. “Means a start.”
“A start?”
“Yeah. When it starts, there’s hope,” she said. “Day one energy.”
“So you want to get hope by drawing that symbol?” I asked. “No matter what you are hoping for.”
“Something like that.” She nodded.
“What do you hope for?”
“Change,” she said straight. “Anything that’s not like this.”
“You refer to your life?”
“Not just that…” She considered. “My life, me, this crappy city… I want all of it to be different.”
“Your life is not good?”
“That’s a dumb question,” she said, face blank. “I steal and I take my clothes off. You think I’m thriving?”
“…,” I did not know how to respond. I asked, “Then what is wrong with you yourself?”
“Because I’m a pickpocket and a topless dancer,” she said.
“I apologize…” I said, embarrassed, and changed topic. “Perhaps I should ask what is wrong with New Orleans.”
“Oh, New Orleans is a mess,” she said. “Place packed with thieves and hookers. What’s to like?”
“I think it is possible to change. Your work is based on your choice. I do not see a reason you cannot change.”
“That’s what people who don’t live here always say,” she sneered.
“Then tell me the realistic view.”
“If I had a choice, you think I’d be doing this?” she said. “Maybe ‘cause you’re not American you don’t get it: America’s not built for losers.”
“I thought America is a land of opportunity.”
“That was, like, the ‘30s.”
“I thought you meant the 1920s,” I said. “The 1930s had the Great Depression and then war.”
“See?” she snorted. “You’re from another country and you know U.S. history better than me. That’s what I mean by lopsided chance.”
“I do not believe you have zero chance,” I said.
“I kinda do,” she said.
“What about your basic education?”
“Key word there, professor—‘basic,’” she said. “That’s all I got.”
“If you want more, it is not impossible,” I said, a bit stubborn. “Systems exist. I am a foreigner and I can study. You should not be at a disadvantage unless it is your choice.”
“Oh yeah?” She laughed.
“Yes.”
“How much is Harvard?” she said.
“That is a different issue,” I said. “State universities are cheaper for locals. Tuition is only thirty to forty percent of private schools.”
“Still too much,” she shook her head. “I don’t have that.”
“Even without higher education,” I said, still unconvinced, “there are employment-protection programs, welfare systems, adult-education programs… many options.”
“You really read the brochures, huh,” she said.
“You cannot deny what I said.”
“Oh, I can,” she said. “Like adult ed? You need to have finished basic school to get in. That kicks me out.”
“Why did you not finish basic school?” I asked.
“Jail,” she said. “Drugs.”
“That is your own action,” I said. “You cannot say the consequence is society depriving you.”
“Buddy, if you knew our public schools you wouldn’t talk like that.”
“You can explain.”
“Real simple. You gotta act like the gang to survive.”
“If not?”
“You tell me,” she said coldly. “They got guns.”
“Alright,” I said, trying to regain the upper hand. “Then what about employment-protection programs?”
“They don’t take ex-cons,” she said.
“I heard there are independent systems for ex-prisoners.”
“You mean the reentry thing?” she laughed. “Yeah. Men go flip burgers, women go serve drinks.”
“What is wrong with those?”
“Nothing,” she grinned. “Except they don’t pay the mortgage.”
“I do not believe the government designed it like that.”
“Oh, it’s like that,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Unless you got money. Then your PO sings a different song.”
“You are referring to bribery?” I asked, touching my wallet.
“Ugly word,” she said. “Call it a ‘thank-you gesture.’ And no, I didn’t take your wallet.”
“Then… what is your view on welfare?” I asked, already losing momentum.
“Man, you really don’t read the news?” She pulled out her wallet, took out her welfare card, waved it. “This used to mean five-fifty a month. Now it means nothing unless you’re sick or dead.”
“As far as I know,” I said, “the welfare reduction was announced two years ago. Plus a two-year buffer. You should have joined the job program in that period instead of complaining now.”
“You sound like a public defender.”
“You can correct me.”
“Gimme another cigarette and I will.”
“Alright.” I gave her another Nat Sherman.
She lit up, took a deep drag, slowly exhaled. “So. Two-year buffer. You’re right. But did they do anything in those two years? Nope. They just rolled out the same old program. Result? More people can’t pay rent, more people sleep under bridges.”
“Is it truly that bad?”
“Yup.” She nodded. “All it does is stick laid-off people back in some job. Not even the job they know. So unemployment dips for a bit, then boom, back on the street.”
I listened. She went on.
“Me, for example. They sent me to Houston to wait tables. Fancy place. Couple weeks later I’m out. Reason? I smoke.”
“That is not a reasonable reason,” I said.
“You say that ‘cause you weren’t there,” she said. “Super fancy. They said no smoke smell.”
“You did not know that beforehand?”
“I didn’t. Nobody tells you that,” she said. “Then I go back to the office, and they tell me it’s on me. They find you a job, they don’t keep you in it. And they say quitting is policy. If you don’t follow policy, you get cut.”
“That is absurd,” I said. “But why did you not quit?”
“I didn’t refuse,” she said. “They just wanted me gone. Soon as they got a pretext, bye. They didn’t even tell me about the no-smoke rule.”
“So you started your current work?”
“I changed jobs a few times,” she waved. “Same result. Nobody wants a girl with a record and no skills.”
I was silent, then asked:
“Then… how do you feel about your current work?”
“Good and bad,” she said. “Money comes. Money goes.”
“Do you plan to continue?”
“Nope,” she said at once. “Bourbon Street is not for living. I wanna leave.”
“So you will save money?”
“Save?” Her eyes went wide. “Honey, this is New Orleans. We don’t save.”
“Is your dancing legal?”
“That part is.”
“How is the pay?”
“It’s tips,” she said. “Holiday? Better.” She smiled. “Lucky for us, New Orleans thinks every other day is a holiday.”
I smiled.
She put out the cigarette. “Anything else?”
“No,” I said, concluding. “Talking to you is interesting.”
“You got plans tonight?” she asked.
I paused.
“No. Why?”
“What’s with the pause? You scared to have dinner with me?”
“No, do not misunderstand,” I said. “I was checking whether I have plans. I am a tourist. I do plan my schedule.”
Truth was, I was afraid she would invite me.
“Mm.” She seemed convinced. “Then come watch me on Bourbon later.”
“Uh… well…” I felt embarrassed. “Actually, I have never watched a strip show.”
“So that’s a no?”
“Yes.”
“Jeez,” she laughed. “It’s Thanksgiving, you know?”
“So what?”
“Being alone sucks.”
“That is not the key issue.”
“Fine.” She shrugged.
We stopped talking. I drank the now-cool coffee, put it down, and started writing my diary.
She picked up her pen and kept drawing α.
At that moment, the music in the coffee shop stopped. They were changing discs.
“House of the Rising Sun,” she said.
Soon the music started again. I heard the intro and froze.
“Told you,” she said.
“You guessed correctly.”
“That wasn’t guessing. They play in the same order every day,” she said. “So you know this one.”
“It is a famous song.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “But nobody listens to the words.”
I paused. True. I had never thought about the lyrics.
The version was a rough male singer, jazz style.
She hummed along softly.
From the lyrics I suddenly realized it was set in New Orleans. A house called the Rising Sun. Poor kids. Drunk father. Hardworking mother. No hope.
The coffee shop was quiet. The music was not loud but very clear. It echoed in Kaldis’ high wooden columns and big windows.
The music went on. The father left. The mother said, “Don’t end up like me.”
I felt myself affected. I picked up the elegant Nat Sherman and suddenly felt I should not smoke something so expensive.
She glanced at me, seemed to think of something, and asked for another.
We smoked quietly. The western sun came in, dyeing the smoke red.
The music ended.
“Shall we?” she said. “Walk by the river?”
“I do not mind,” I said, and gathered my things.
So we left the quiet Kaldis coffee shop on Thanksgiving afternoon.
•
We crossed the crowds at the French Market, under the unstable but beautiful dusk, past street performers, jazz players, fortune-tellers, voodoo stands. Soon we reached the wide Mississippi riverfront.
The water was brown. Boats moved along.
Foghorns floated over. The streetlights came on.
A streetcar line ran along the river. The famous New Orleans streetcar. Red car, green roof, moving slowly. It made you think of “A Streetcar Named Desire.”
We sat on a bench.
“First time in New Orleans?” she asked.
I nodded.
“You like it?”
“It is quite romantic,” I said.
“How long you staying?”
“One week,” I said. “Today is the fifth day.”
“You coming back?”
“If I do, it will be a long time later.”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “Tourist district only goes so far. A week is plenty.”
I watched the river.
“What you doing tonight?” she asked.
“In any case, I probably will not go to Bourbon Street.”
“God, you’re cautious,” she laughed.
“I do not wish to create any misleading promise,” I said.
“Okay, okay, message received,” she said. Then, “Honestly I don’t want you to come either.”
“Why?”
“You’re my friend,” she said. “In there, guys come in with dirty eyes. We look at them like wallets. That’s not for friends.”
I asked, “You have never made friends there?”
She shook her head.
“Not that people never been nice,” she said. “But I don’t need ‘nice.’ I need money. So sometimes I go out with them. Sometimes I sleep with them. Mostly ‘cause of their wallet.”
I said nothing.
“I don’t do it a lot. Makes me feel cheap,” she sighed. “Most of it’s dancing money.”
“Dancing does not pay enough?”
“Depends,” she said. “We kinda adjust our performance. Different crowds, different tipping. If it’s the one-dollar guys, we don’t kill ourselves.”
“So?”
“So for guys like you, better not come,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“You’re from Taiwan,” she joked. “I’d have to work hard for you.”
I laughed. She said:
“I hope you don’t look down on me.”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Thanks,” she said, finally smiling for real. “They were right. Chinese people are softer.”
“That is because you treated me as a friend.”
“Yes. Friend,” she repeated. Then she raised her brows and smiled. “Fine. I promise. I won’t pickpocket Chinese anymore.”
I laughed. “Then I will thank you on behalf of all Chinese.”
“You’re welcome, my Chinese friend.”
She took off her hat and waved. We dropped the topic.
The sunlight was golden, on the water. A gray bridge far away. A big cargo ship passing under.
She asked about my student life. I told her some interesting things. She seemed a bit envious but did not show much. When I mentioned funny things in class, she laughed like she was there.
We talked about Boston. New Orleans. America. Taiwan.
She taught me French words. I taught her some Chinese.
She did a coin trick. I asked for the coin. She said it was the same coin she used earlier to buy the cigarette.
Just then, an old Black man in suspenders came along with a golden alto sax, stopped by us, and started playing happily.
His front pocket had bills and coins.
He seemed to misunderstand us, smiling warmly. After a jazz tune, he played Elvis’s “Love Me Tender.”
We looked at each other. She took my arm, I put my arm around her. We smiled and hummed, letting him keep his misunderstanding.
When it ended, she reached for her wallet.
I stopped her, took out mine, pulled two twenties, and put one in his pocket.
He was delighted and played “Are You Lonesome Tonight?”
The sound was soft, floating on the river; the sax shone in the sunset.
She sang. He got warmer. I sang too.
She leaned closer.
She gently took the other twenty from my hand.
Just as gently, she kissed me and slipped the bill into his pocket.
The old man smiled bigger.
With his smile and the river light, the music faded.
We kissed until sunset.
.
The day was ending.
We walked along the river to the streetcar stop.
After silence, she said, “Kinda want you to come to Bourbon tonight now.”
“I understand.”
“You still won’t, right?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Weird,” she frowned. “So much can change that fast.”
“In Chinese,” I said, “we call that yuanfen.” I said it.
She asked the English meaning, asked me to write it. I wrote the characters, the romanization, and taught her.
She looked at it, folded it carefully, and put it away.
I felt reluctant. She said nothing.
After a while, the streetcar came.
She kissed my cheek. “I gotta go.”
“Please take care.”
“You too. Thanks for the afternoon. I was happy. And thanks for the smokes.”
I handed her the whole pack.
“Thanks,” she smiled. “Good present.”
“Get on,” I said.
“Hope I see you again.”
I nodded. “I think so.”
The streetcar stopped, doors opened. She got on.
Through the window she waved.
Her smile was faint. Not like before.
I suddenly froze, frowned, and patted all my pockets.
Wallet. There.
Passport. There.
Pen, sunglasses, keys, lighter. All there.
I turned. The streetcar was gone.
Her smile, too.
I lowered my head, ashamed.
I stood in the streetlights for a long time.
Then I took out two hundred-dollar bills and walked toward Bourbon Street.