NO Quarter Read Free

looking past the restaurant’s front windows after the police lights.
    “See?”
    “ Two of ‘em, even.”
    “Wonder what they’re after ... ”
    “Aww, I don’t believe any of it.”
    “See?” Again, said like a point was being made.
    I had nearly burned myself, but my face stayed neutral. Never flinch. Somebody brands the back of your thigh with a careless cigarette or coffee pot, don’t cringe, don’t respond. Nobody likes to hear about a waiter’s problems. Certainly not your customers, who want a dining experience where they and they alone matter in the universe.
    “You live ‘round here?” I was being addressed by the See? ing one. Addressed flat and direct, the way lords of the manor talk to servants in period-costume dramas. A demanding voice.
    “I do,” I said.
    “Here’n the French Qwardah?”
    “Here in the Quarter.” I waited by the table. I had two other parties—two-tops, locals I knew. I’d already brought out their plates. They were eating, happy. They would tip decently.
    My foursome here were out-of-towners, but Southerners. I can’t distinguish the subtleties of cracker accents, so I couldn’t say from where. Two couples, middle-aged, dressed for the heat. The women were heavy, the men heavier. Drunk, the gals would make public nuisances of themselves, and the guys would become belligerent. I could extrapolate their behavior at a glance. Luckily they weren’t drunk—not yet, anyway. This late-night supper would fortify them all the way back to Bourbon Street. They were off the normal tourist beat here at this far end of Decatur Street, near Esplanade, here at this restaurant that’s mostly a locals’ hangout.
    “Tell me sump’in’.” He leaned toward where I was standing. Latent aggressive air. “What’s it like? Inna Qwardah, livin’—acsh’ly livin’ here. What’s it like?”
    I don’t know what tourists see when they come here. When Sunshine and I arrived two years ago, we got busy scrambling for jobs, hunting up an apartment—not much sightseeing time. The Quarter very quickly became, simply, our neighborhood. It was real. It was where we lived. There are a good many residents here, more than you’d guess, residents to whom Bourbon Street is just a street . The endless stream of tourists—and regardless of the season, they never really stop coming—have different expectations.
    I offered my table a smile that didn’t involve my eyes. “The party never stops in the French Quarter,” I said with a leer in my voice.
    What they wanted to hear. They grinned, cackled. People in their forties, aroused by the decadence we sell by the glass here. There are strip joints, adult novelty shops, and bars, bars, bars. It was giddy culture shock for these four, reminding them of younger days—the males: tireless stud-machines; the females: slim and beautiful, with their pick of dates. At least, that’s how they would remember it. They were cutting loose.
    “Y’er skinny,” the woman with the other man said it at me the way you’d point and comment, “That dog has a fluffy tail.”
    I slid my eyes toward her, held there briefly, while she laughed at her own wit. I thought of telling her I had cancer. But you’re working for tips—their tips—the money they’ll leave you for good service, but more for letting them enjoy themselves however they want to.
    “But those po-leese, they jus’ went by—what’s going on, who’re they after?” It was the man again. He had a thick, graying mustache that looked like it grew right up into his flared nostrils. They all had their individual physical characteristics. My mind recorded just enough while they were here and would attempt to erase them when they left. Of course, they would always be there, somewhere in my head, locked in with all the other things I could not completely erase.
    The two squad cars had been heading down Decatur—toward the Square, toward Canal. No sirens, just lights. Whatever it was had already