January 14th 2007 - In The Garden of Good & Evil

January 14th
I’ve always been conscientious of the water I use: how long I’m in the shower, turning it off when I’m brushing my teeth, etc. However, I’ve never been so aware of it as I am here, now, in New Orleans. When it runs out of the bathroom sink, and my hands take it, cupped safely in my palm, up to my face, I actually wonder where it’s coming from. Where was that water before it reached my face? What has it seen? Where has it been? What was its life before it touched my face? Now instead of me wondering how much I’m consuming, I wonder how much it consumed before me. Who am I washing my face with? Whose grandparent, beloved, pet, belongings is in the water I consume? What else would make you think this, what other event in history would make you second guess your water in the same manor? Perhaps war or famine. I can’t think of anything else right now.

If you couldn’t tell, I had a terrible week.
Not because of anything of note, well not until the end; Just because. Sometime you have those. A week where it seems everyone and everything, the odds, the forces are against you. The office politics, the boys club. Impenetrable. Where everything and everyone is swimming in the opposite direction, going downstream, you up. Etcetera, etcetera, the clichés continue. Whatever, it was horrific that way, and there was nothing I could do or say or think of to resolve it. Made me wonder if I wanted to continue with these Hollywood types.
Not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, especially after what had happened on set, but some things I wasn’t used to. So when Friday came, I was overjoyed that the official work week was over; although it did not show on my face.

I realized how disposable I was, how useless and replaceable. Yet, the events of that Friday day also reminded me that we, here in New Orleans, are in a bit of a war zone. And regardless of how horrible some petty thing at the office makes us feel, nothing is as bad as this.

Our set location is in the Garden District, a place called The Nolan House. The district is an upscale neighborhood bordered on both sides by roads that were once terrible places…and apparently sometimes still are.

Friday night, on set returning some DMAGs to the camera department I heard a pop. A sound initially (if you don’t know any better) that sounds like a firework going off, something that reminisces joy and good times. It was perhaps 200 feet from me, maybe one small New York City block. After the initial pop, a pause, followed by seven more cracks that were very distinct, methodical and loud. Even I knew, now, what they were. I was certain. Someone was unloading a clip. I can’t believe I turned as calmly as I did, and as I walked away from the camera truck, toward the street where my car was parked, the chorus of “Whoah’s” that resounded from the security department only confirmed my fear, especially when they all reached for their belt buckles. Where there were no guns. They’d all been locked up at base camp. A set rule. No weapons allowed.
Besides the security guards chorus, it was eerily silent. Everyone had stopped what they were doing. All bodies, the few there were as most were inside, turning as if in slow motion, all with the same expression of shock, confusion, and questioning curiosity.
I walked past the guard securing the farthest corner of the street and our set. He and I were the ones closest to the gunshots. He stood lone, the gas lights from the neighboring house slightly flickering, jumping on his dark skin making it possible for me to see him as he blended into the night. He was shaking his head, slowly, back and forth as he looked in the direction of the noise. “Damn” he whispered quietly. “Damn”

I decided it was best to head back to the office. Since the news coverage of the recent deaths in the Fabourg Marginy, the sounds of sirens have increased ten fold. I feel I hear them every night. And I had no desire to be the reason for them.

As I walked the dark street outside the Nolan House and headed for my car, the security guards started running and mobilizing. The head of security was exiting the garden entrance to the house:
“Marco?”
A bit distracted, he responded
“Yes sweetheart?”
“Is that what I think that was?”
“Yes”

That night I went home with the overwhelming urge to hermit myself in the ghetto apartment I call my temporary “home” (my use of that word as loose as a Basin street whore), where my bed is officially where the kitchen nook aught to be. But I looked in the mirror and came to the conclusion that to make my world sane I ought to venture out into the mad universe of New Orleans and at least hang with the locals on Maple Street; the Tulane and Loyola students. If nothing else, talk to others who had nothing to do with Brad Pitt or Cate Blanchette, or gunshots; who had no other concerns besides completing their finals and getting laid on a Friday night. I made up my face and headed out to the old standard, the Uptown Cajun.

And I’m glad I did.

As I sat at the bar, the place crowded and packed with familiar and friendly faces – Patrick, Alex, Chris, Logan, Shane, Margaret….I hear Rob yell out:
“Hey! Did you see what I got for you?”
“No, what?” I yelled back over the roar of the bar.
“Look down, its on the bar”
Ah! Everything was right with the world. Gunshots be damned.
There, before me, a large red steaming heap of those cockroaches of the bayou.
I thought, “At last, at last, finally, you’ve come and I’ve been waiting for you, my little sweets” and like the Walrus and the Carpenter with their oysters, I was ready to devour every last one.
Finally. It was crawfish season.