New Orleans

The inspirational spark for my short story Bodies of Water was a place: New Orleans. The characters later swam in my head and played on paper, changing over time.

In reality, I’d rolled into New Orleans’ French Quarter during a nineteen-seventies winter, finding a cheap hotel/hostel at Chartres and Dumaine, a couple of blocks from Jackson Square. Winter chill, wind and humidity were easier for me to me to cope with, than those hellish, humid summers. The early spring would bustle with characters – and Tourist Hell  – as we sat on a sagging wrought iron balcony.

It felt surreal when I walked past Tennessee Williams on Dumaine Street — dapper in his lightly-colored cotton suit, panama hat, and brown wingtips. The extreme humidity could induce Williamsesque ‘spells’ – I imagined Williams’ potential dialog: “I’m feeling a bit faintish, could you fetch me chilled refreshment?”)

The hotel entryway led directly up a dark flight of stairs which took a sharp right turn. There was the check-in desk which preceded a maze of wide, dark hallways. At the back of the hotel was a large communal kitchen. It was big and bare with only the basic necessities. It was a good idea to label your foodstuffs or lock them up due to the bands of roving residents suffering from major munchies.

Large cast iron skillets sat upon an ancient stove. Cast iron skillets: I always found them to be interesting: organic, funky, homey, decorative, and could be handily used as a weapon (see the film Eating Raoul).

Cooking in a cast iron skillet could be exciting, as cast iron gets very hot. How does one time the cooking process? Meat could be black on the outside and pink in the middle. Can you say ‘trichinosis’? The Fried Breaded Stuffed Pork Chop Incident lingers in my mind. The huge pork chop stuffed, egg-washed, dredged in flour and bread crumbs, I managed to lift it, and ease it into sizzling skillet. The result was blackened on the outside and devoured by the residents who hung around.

To the right of the kitchen was a hallway which led to many small, funky rooms. The rooms had old, leftover mix-and-match furniture. Some had fireplaces. My room was on the second floor, facing Dumaine St. It had french doors that led to a balcony. There were bathrooms down the cavernous hall. The bathroom near my room had a huge claw-foot tub; it paid to bring Comet or Ajax. Its rear bare window faced a small, neglected courtyard.

I met lots of people here: not only at the bathroom or in the kitchen, but throughout the establishment. Appearing spaced-out, many milled about near the check-in desk and sat on the stairs. I made a few friendships; some were cemented by impromptu cross-country road trips. From New Orleans to Montana to Oregon to California to New York we went, growing and shedding new friends, like snakeskin. But the Quarter was special.

In May 2005  I wrote the short story Bodies of Water. As I wrote, sinking cities played in my head — subsiding and eroding, moisture permeating and destroying. Nature can no doubt be brutal; the Katrina debacle is beyond comprehension.

—A. F. Waddell