I'd been thinking for awhile that I would head up to New Orleans this weekend. My mentor had a field trip planned for his coastal geology class - an 'urban geology' tour of the city, something that I was totally interested in. Then, seeing as another field trip was planned for Friday and also in NOLA, I thought why not see if I can stay the night, recharge with some good local eats and breathe some different air. I got in touch with friends and was graciously offered a place to stay - this time west of the city, near Tulane's campus.
I was hesitant, but, with a little reassurance from Mia (conversed over a game of Backgammon), convinced on the decision. The plan was for me to take her car up to the city and traipse around with the class, stay the night and then, Friday morning meet the interns and our director for field trip #2. Afterwards, she'd drop me in the city with my bike and keep driving north for Baton Rouge to visit relatives for the weekend. Sunday we'd meet up and find some art galleries and good music to get lost in, until the end of the Beyoncé concert that night, which the other folks were attending. Once that was finished we'd pick em up and drive south back to Lumcon.
Slightly simple insanely complicated. But doable.
Mishap strikes just after 9am, Thursday morning (the first day of this plan).
Driving up Highway 56, not 15 minutes into our trip, there's a loud thwaping noise. My inability to detect the source results in repeated stops on the side of the road. It isn't until a sizable piece of rubber flies up along the side of the car, that I am able to pin point what the hell is happening.
Inspection confirms that the noise previously heard was that of aged tires being shredded, its fragments slapping against the plastic sheet encasing the tire's inner hub. One thing was certain: this tire wouldn't be making it up to New Orleans.
Instead, calls were made. In the next couple hours, probably a half dozen. First, I called my mentor. After telling him the situation, he turned around bringing with him, his crew of students, who immediately jumped to help replace the tire with the spare. From there, another problem surfaced: the bolts were angled oddly, making it impossible to remove the shredded tire from the car.
This brought about the second phone call, to AAA. Followed by the [attempted] third to Mia (it's her van). And then, as I waited for the tow truck, three more: to parents, and Allana. I reassured all the worriers that I had water, snacks, my book, and was well off the highway.
Then, I called my grandmother. I did not tell her why exactly I had such a long break to talk, but that didn't matter. We had enough to catch up on.
By 11am, the tow truck had arrived. The man driving was not overly-friendly, not overly-Cajun, just your average middly-aged mechanic. I was in a good mood and initiated the surface talk. The ride wasn't long, just 10 minutes or so, paralleling the bayou towards Chauvin.
Arriving at the repair shop, I was met by an atmosphere of subtle masculinity. I had been slightly prepped for it two hours previously, when the men in my mentor's class had rolled up to the scene. Each had their own routine, hoisting up their man pants, directing the business of trying to change the tire, or else using their big manly muscles to twist some nobs and crank other shit. I had stood at a well-calculated distance, taking note of what they were doing (so I’d be able to replicate it if need be), but not getting in the way of things.
But here, the landscape had changed. Rock music filtered from the open garage doors, while vehicles of enormous mass were strewn across the side of the road. There even seemed to be a certain amount of grit suspended in the air. Having an uncle as a mechanic, the turf itself wasn’t terribly unfamiliar to me.
The tow truck owner (his name was Matthew) motioned towards a small office space to the left of the garage and I hurried over, anxiety mounting just a little. Through the door I was greeted by the cool, yet harsh air-conditioning and a clamor of gruff voices. Some looked up from their lunch plates, while others continued the conversation that I had interrupted. I explained my situation; that they should have received a phone call an hour or so earlier, and that I was the owner of the problem needing fixing. At first, I couldn't tell if the confused faces were from the lack of details my friends had provided in the phone call, or if the dazed faces were the result of the lunch break that I had just barged in on.
With a little more talking, I was able to lead one of the men away from his plate and back outside to where both the van and Matthew awaited attention. I showed the mechanic which tire it was (back right) and while he inspected, I paid Matthew for the towing fee... and nonverbally thanked my parents for including me in their AAA plan.
The mechanic didn't take long to inspect, and as I was rummaging through the van, collecting my belongings that I'd need for the next 18 hrs, received a shout from him, "Hey when you're done come on in and join us for lunch?"
Energy perking at this invite, I quickly stuffed shit into my bag - forgetting, now I realize, the last servings of homemade hummus in the container behind the driver's seat - and headed back to the small office door. Inside, I set my stuff down on an empty chair and was immediately offered some of the grub. An elderly man sitting at what looked to be the boss' desk, said, "You hungry? We got su' mor soup." I hesitated for a quarter of a second, and then graciously accepted. I was directed towards a stack of styrofoam plates, plastic cutlery and a bowl of rice. Heading next towards the deep, metal pot that took up a large portion of the boss' desk, I asked, "What kinda soup is it?" At this point, I knew I had already signed into this gig of trying their soup, so my question was more out of curiosity than for concern of dietary preferences.
"This is crab soup," the man said, as I started ladling it onto my plate, my pace slow but confident. The other men chuckled a bit, as the first added, "Well, it's really a lazy crab soup." "Why's that?" I asked.
"'Cuz," he replied, "all I done is dropped the whole crab in there. Nuttin' else, but added some potatoes too." Sure enough, my next spoonful contained what looked to be the carapace of the crab, the outer shell that protected it from predators. Looks like it hadn’t helped him here.
Returning to my seat, my new friend sitting next to me took it upon himself to lessen the confusion on my face and teach me how to eat the crab. He showed my how to snap the claw and then use it to pick out the meat in its first leg. There wasn't much meat tucked inside, maybe 2-3 small bites. Awareness mounted of the work involved in this type of meal. Turning the crab over revealed a small golden orange cluster of eggs, pronouncing this crab to be a she, not a he as I had assumed before.
Next, my friend showed me how to crack the skeletal plate. Compared to the legs, there was an abundance of meat inside, of which I sorta picked and sucked out. The meat was stringy like chicken but a distinct flavor unlike much of what I had tasted before; hinting at salty, but perhaps I say that only since I assumed it to be caught from these brackish bayou waters.
Taking a break from the crab, I put my fork down. I seemed to have surrendered the average manners one should on a first-meeting meal. The bossman had noticed, suggesting to the room “my, might have starved had we not offered her lunch.” Catching my glance he chuckled. I grinned back, now accepting a napkin from my neighbor.
I was glad to be surrounded by these men. They had very much grown on me, providing quite the turn of events for my afternoon. And, the spontaneous meal was quite the bonus - nothing to throw a trophy at, but something to be shared for sure.
Bossman, who seemed to be thinking the same thing, said, “Didn’t think you’d be getting a tire change and have lunch, did ya Claire?”
“And make new friends,” I added. Done with my meal I was ready to jump into conversation with the men. “Now y’all know my name, but I don’t know any of y’all’s.” Looking towards the elderly man behind the desk, I ventured a guess that he was who the repair shop was named for, “Are you Cyrus himself?” I asked.
“Yes ma’am.” Cyrus nodded towards a scruff, middle-aged gentleman sitting between us, “and that’s Cyrus Jr., but we call him Bubba.” I misinterpreted his nod, acknowledging the younger man to my immediate right, the one who had taught me how to disassemble my crab. In response, Cyrus and Bubba roared with laughter. “Nahh, that boy right there, we found him hatched from an alligator egg - boy’s only part man,” Cyrus explained as I joined in with their raucous laughter.
“And, this man,” Cyrus said, motioning towards the man sitting to his left, and to Bubba’s right, “is Dean, but he ain’t even work here.”
“He’s just here for the food,” Bubba added.”
Dean speaking up for himself said, “I work in cabinets, up the road.”
“Real good cabinets,” Bubba assured me, with the rest of the men nodding in agreement.
A stroke of inspiration hit me.
At the start of the summer, I’d volunteered at my friends’ farm out in Rougemont and over lunch gotten into conversation with one of their full-time field hands, Angie, who was currently renovating her used-Airstream. Ever since, I had it in my head that I would, not just buy one and renovate it, but also live in it for the remaining two years of college. Dreamy, I know.
And, as chances have it, there’d been this old - what looked to be abandoned - airstream sitting by the side of the road, here in south Louisiana. I had spotted it maybe the second time driving down to LUMCON, and probably about a half dozen times since.
I was in awe - taken aback even - at the chances of coming across one so randomly. I think it was this surprise that created an uncommon shyness in me. I seemed unable to stop, introduce myself and give the owner an offer.
And yet, here I was, in an auto repair shop, eating soup prepared by people I had only met a half hour previously, enjoying their humor and entertainment and being anything but shy.
“Wait, y’all this might be incredibly out of the blue,” I started, “but do y’all know that old airstream up the road?”
I was met with blank looks. “Looks like a big ol’ aluminum can on wheels, up near the bayou a ways,” and to clarify I asked, “y’all know those big ol’ green school buses?” It was a landmark I was sure they couldn’t have missed. Sure enough, I receive some nods and I continue, “It’ll be between us and them, and on the bayou side.” Luckily, Cyrus pipes up then, “yeah that’ll be cross the street from the cemetery.”
Once I’m certain they know which mobile home I’m referring to, I ask, “y’all know who that belongs to?” I don’t receive any direct names, the men instead are muttering to themselves. I try connecting my train of thought aloud to see where that takes me: “ya see I want one - an airstream that is - wanna clean it up and live in it the rest of college.” Meeting Dean’s gaze, I say, “I’ll need some cabinets for that renovation. You have a card or somethin’ Dean?”
“I don’t,” he says. “I have a number though.” And I scramble quick for the back of a receipt in my bag. “What’s your last name Dean?”
“Robichaux,” he replies. Laughing, Cyrus suggests I try and spell that. Dean however is understanding of my apparent non-Cajun-French upbringing.
Bubba interrupts us, listing off numbers that I am quick to scribble down. “That’ll be Todd’s phone number,” he says.
“Who’s Todd?” I ask, amused.
“Man, you’ll call for inquirin’ bout that Airstream of yours,” Bubba finalizes.
My face is a glow, lit by the shear goodness and connectedness of humanity. Cyrus looks over at me, obviously entertained. “Ya know, you could be right Cajun I think.”
And, if that’s what it takes to be Cajun, I’d be down for it.
Now I have no intention of glossing over the low points of the day - I hope rereading this I’ll see the entire slosh of emotions - but to close up shop on this story (since it was a long one indeed), I will have to give the brief summary of the rest of the day:
basically I end up back at LUMCON after lunch, checkin in with Mia about her car
I do some lab work, touch up some maps, and do minimal writing of my report
then racing off back to my dorm, I find the paper I wrote those 10 digits on
calling up Todd, my questions were received by paralleled enthusiasm and as much friendliness as I had encountered at Cyrus’ Auto Repair
and yet, downfall strikes. While the Airstream is quite familiar to Todd (he is the owner, or brother of the owner maybe)... it has been sold.
Heartbreak is hard. I realize suddenly, unexpectedly, I had grown attached to this idea, locked in on this image of me: busting my ass, puttin sweat [and now tears] into this project and then seeing the result of a happy place all my own, a home. With maps plastered to the inner walls, my minimal but compact cooking supplies, a laundry line of sundresses outside, me roasting up an eggplant on a little campstove… Yep. I had painted the picture.
So anyways, I was a bit torn up. And other pieces of disappointment and uncertainty of my future flew at me then, and I needed air, and an out. Movement.
I found the dock, a space where I wasn’t moving, but the air was. The water too, which I could hear, whispered calm whispers beneath my dangled feet (chacos flung off for once). I shut my eyes, but it wasn’t enough to shield away the penetrating brightness of the angled afternoon sun. I pulled up my shirt. I draped my arm across my face, tucking my face into the crux of my inner elbow, just like my mom does when she’s too exhausted to turn off the bedside light.
And, I stayed there for a good while.
gamechangershow
titsay
stormborns
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
romaincrisis