Boulevard Read online

  At a certain point on Bourbon Street the streets were no longer barricaded and the tourists no longer wandered, but there were still a lot of people walking on the street, nearly all of them men. He passed a corner where two bars faced each other, and the doors of the bars were all open, so that he could see inside as he was walking. The bars were also full of men, lounging on stools facing outward, or leaning against the bars, posing, very few of them talking to anybody, listening to the music that pounded from beyond the doors. Newell walked past the doors and through the crowd on the street, and he could tell people were watching him critically; he knew he had on the wrong kind of clothes, that he looked like somebody who wasn’t sure where he was. Trying to keep his eyes to the ground, but unable to avoid staring at the men on the streets and in the bars, he made his way down one block, then two, and after a while he came to the sign for Barracks, and turned there and found his way home.

  He stood in the middle of his room with the thought in his head that he had been for a walk down Bourbon Street and had come back from it, that Bourbon Street and the French Quarter were still out there if he wanted to go back, and the feeling of anticipation filled him completely, so that he was for the moment unworried about money, about finding a job, about all that. For a moment he was simply delighted to be here, at home in his one, narrow room with the breeze blowing through the open balcony door.

  But when he lay down under the blanket he found himself thinking only of the latter part of the walk, when he had passed through the invisible barrier on Bourbon Street into the country of men, where men had been all around him, watching him, and he had watched them in return, with no need to say anything about it. He tried to remember a particular face to think about, to dream about, before he fell asleep. But the faces were a sea; he kept going under when he thought back to those moments, thinking from one face to another.

  On Saturday rain fell morning to night, a low drizzle along the streets. He had only two cans of soup left, so sometime today he would have to go to the A&P again and spend more money. But he lazed in the room most of the morning, stood out on the balcony for a long time. Even in the rain a few people with umbrellas were walking, and some of them went into the junk shop downstairs. Later, when he was drinking water again out of the bathroom sink faucet, he thought maybe he could go downstairs and see if there was a plastic cup in all that mess in his landlady’s store.

  Enough people were browsing that he felt comfortable to look as long as he liked, and people were steadily in and out of the store. Some of them were buying the junk in the store and some of them were bringing junk for Louise Kimbro to buy. She had a section of old furniture, a section of used small appliances, a section for lamps, a huge stack of window transoms of many sizes, shelves of glassware in this shape or that. In the glass section he found a milk white glass with raised diamond-shaped beads on it marked for seven dollars, and he thought that was not the kind of glass he had in mind. But she also had tables and tables of the purest junk, dirty baby dolls, broken baby strollers, rusted Gene Autry lunchboxes, old checkers sets, pots and pans of every shape, size, and state of repair, and, finally, a table full of nothing but plastic dishes. He found a cup in a pile marked for twenty-five cents, and he took the cup to the counter to wait his turn.

  Louise had help this Saturday morning—Owen’s daughter, Millie, who was learning to work the cash register while Louise recorded in the ledger each item that was sold. The line moved a bit slowly because Louise took her time with the ledger, and because Millie was pretty and stopped to flirt with nearly everyone. When it was Newell’s turn he set down the cup and pulled out a quarter and a nickel for the tax. Louise hardly recognized him at first, so intent was she on writing the words, “Light blue plastic Loyola University cup.” When she looked up at him she did recognize him, though, and she said, “You’re shopping for that apartment, I see.”

  He noted that the room had now become an apartment. “Yes ma’am. I need a drinking glass.”

  “Did you find a job yet?”

  “No ma’am, but I looked all day yesterday.”

  “You’ll get something.” She nodded, moving to the next customer and adjusting her glasses. Millie took his money and thought he was cute—Louise could read Millie like a book. Louise flashed with jealousy and wondered whether she ought to tell the stupid girl she was wasting her time, but by then Newell had headed for the door again, and Louise found herself watching him too. Something in the way he moved drew the eye.

  “Keep your mind on what you’re doing, Millie,” she said, and returned to the ledger, writing carefully.

  Newell washed the cup with the same soap he used for bathing, figuring that would clean it well enough, and save him the cost of dishwashing detergent. He rinsed it a dozen times, tasted water from it, and put it on the top of the toilet. He ate a can of soup. He read the one book he had brought from Pastel, a science fiction novel called The Time Traders by Andre Norton. He sat with the book in the light of the lamp, rain falling beyond the balcony outside, a steady cloud of water as far as he could see. He stepped outside once, studied the street, the rooftops, the clouds, figured it could rain forever, and he had to buy more cans of soup. But he read for a while and waited, and sure enough the rain lightened, became a mist again, and he headed out at once.

  Rain fell over everything, street and sidewalk, roof and gable, falling into all the courtyards invisible to him, beyond the walls of the houses that came right up to the edge of the sidewalk, down all the carriageways and passageways he glimpsed as he walked. He hurried from gallery to roof overhang along the streets, managing to stay fairly dry. In only a few blocks he came to a sign that said “Verti Mart” over an open door.

  He went in and wiped the beaded rain off his forehead. The store was tiny, the shelves shoved tight together, and he had to wander, bending a bit to see the lower shelves, before he found the soup. The price was higher than the A&P, so he only bought three cans.

  When he stood with the cans he noticed several other men in the store, all about the same age as Newell or a few years older. They were watching him, waiting to see if he would watch them back, not as a group but each alone, so that on the walk to the cash register it was as if he were being plucked by magnets, these big-eyed men with their neat haircuts, their trim moustaches. He bought the soup and the friendly looking, trim cashier smiled and said, “A little wet out there, honey. Better watch you don’t melt.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” He felt awkward, wishing suddenly he could think of something else to say. He rolled the top of the bag into a wad and headed for the door, once again crossing past the other men who were shopping or looking at magazines, but who were watching him at the same time, and watching each other, and watching the door to see whoever else might come in.

  He found he had been holding his breath and at the door let out a long sigh into the rain. He hurried under the same roofs, the same galleries, and when the rain began to come down harder he found himself on Barracks close to home.

  In his room he picked up the book but thought about the store for a long time, holding the book open to the page where he had stopped reading. Gazing into the rainy day, he could not recall a single face, except the sweet cashier who had taken his money so politely. He read the book for a while before dropping it to daydream about the men, through the afternoon and into the evening.

  Sometime later the rain stopped, and his restlessness called him out to the streets. He walked down Barracks and up Chartres this time, and pretty soon learned that more men roamed this street as well, congregating in particular in front of a bar called Travis’s a few blocks from where he lived. Men had spilled out the door onto the sidewalk and even into the street. Walking past, picking his way through the crowd, he was almost holding his breath again, wondering whether anybody noticed him. Music from inside the bar, lights, somebody dancing on a barrel, a whiff of a joint. The crowd thinned, and soon he had passed and wanted to go back. Wanted to go into the bar. Where
everything would cost money. So instead he walked to Jackson Square again, and crossed the levee to the Moonwalk. The river was low and he climbed down to it, as close as he could get, sitting near the moving surface. He sat there for a long time staring into the dark water, watching lights from the bridge in the distance reflected in the river, cars moving across the bridge in a steady stream, clouds rolling overhead. He was hardly thinking of anything, but now and then he would feel as though he were walking through that crowd of men again, simply taking stock of the feeling, the men around him, having come together to that bar for a reason, to look at one another, to drink from plastic cups, to listen to loud, loud music. He sat by the river in a posture as if he were listening to something under the water, or trying to call something out of the river, waiting there for something to climb ashore. Waiting beside the river because no one could charge him any money for doing that.

  He walked home again but took a different route, down Bourbon Street, out of his way if he were in a hurry, but he had nothing in particular to do. He walked up Bourbon a couple of blocks, not so many people here as last night, because of the rain; the T-shirt shops and arcades and strip clubs all appeared a bit bedraggled and forlorn. A hawker called out half-heartedly, “Hey fellow, these girls in here are for real,” but Newell ignored him.

  He had seen an adult bookstore in these blocks, glimpsed it in his walking over the last two days, and he found it again, on St. Ann near the edge of the Quarter, in the bottom floor of a narrow three-story building, galleries over the street and on all three floors, curlicues of iron. He walked past slowly and looked inside. A blond kid about Newell’s age slouched over the cash register. Beside him were racks of magazines with men on the cover, naked, he could see that much from a distance, before he passed the open door. Looked like nobody was in the store, though it was Saturday night.

  Maybe if there had been some other people, he might have gone in himself. But he would never walk in that door by himself with that cashier staring. So he turned around, walked past the store again, took another peek at the magazine covers, then headed down Bourbon Street for home. By the time he had walked a few blocks, the rain began again, and he traced his route home wherever he could find a shelter, under the abat vents of cottages, the projecting roofs, the galleries and balconies, not yet knowing any of these terms but understanding, as he walked and saw, that these buildings were not like anything in Pastel. These buildings were a language unto themselves.

  Monday when he woke, the streets were quiet, the rain still falling, and the junk store closed. He realized as he was soaking in the tub that this was Memorial Day, the last Monday in May. Not much use to look for jobs on a holiday. He had eaten his final can of soup and had nothing to eat, so even in the rain he would have to walk to the A&P. He would have to go that far, at least, because he considered it unwise to pay the soup price at the Verti Mart. So if he was walking that far, he could pass the adult bookstore again, maybe look inside.

  He read till late in the morning, till he was very hungry, almost sick with it. On the walk, he found that, by choosing a careful path, he could find shelter most of the way, even without an umbrella, provided the rain fell moderately. He bought the soup without incident, and a candy bar to ease his stomach, and headed to St. Ann, noting the location of the bookstore near the edge of the Quarter. The store occupied the front of the building, three windows and a door across the front, the windows battened with shutters, hinges like fleurs-de-lis, the casement doors all of glass with wooden shutters to protect them, the door standing next to a carriageway that led into the heart of the block. Galleries of subdued wrought iron surrounded the house on the two sides that he could see. A handsome building, well kept, the stucco painted a pleasant buff color, the shutters a deep green, the ironwork gleaming black. He dodged the rain, stood under the gallery, took a breath and stepped inside.

  The store was bigger than it looked, running deep into the house. Round, incandescent lights hung down from the ceiling, and up there ceiling fans were turning too, shadows weaving back and forth. Rows of magazines lined shelves against the street wall and parallel, leading to a counter where the blond guy was lounging. Around the corner from the cashier booth on both sides curtained doors led to rooms Newell couldn’t see, and a sign over each door said, “25¢ Movies.” A list of the movies was taped to the doors—he scanned the list but could hardly read the writing.

  A big-bellied man stood to the side of the cash register and watched the store laconically. A few men were drifting among the shelves, eyes glued to the magazine covers, and a couple of men were looking at the names of the movies. The old man puffed his cigarette and smiled at Newell in a lopsided way, showing yellow teeth. “Happy Memorial Day,” he said. “I’m a veteran. Do you believe it?”

  “Mac,” one of the men called, “we can’t read what’s on this list, sweetheart.”

  “I ain’t your fucking sweetheart,” Mac growled, lumbering toward them with his pants hiked to his lowest rib, his buttocks pressed perfectly flat at the back. He pulled out his glasses and slid them on his nose. “Louis, you skinny son-of-a-bitch, what the fuck kind of Chinese writing is this?”

  Newell wandered to the magazines at the side while Louis, the blond guy at the cash register, shrugged and rubbed behind his ear with a finger. Newell slid his eyes down the rows of magazines. He looked at the price tags, seven, eight, ten dollars. Men of all sizes and shapes, all descriptions, naked or nearly naked, hunched over one another in various contortions, he found himself glancing at each cover and away, then back, then to another cover, while the old man Mac harangued his clerk and the two men who had started the quarrel disappeared through the curtains.

  Dangerous to be here, Newell thought, because he had some money in his pocket. He lifted one of the magazines from the rack. It was wrapped in a plastic sleeve, the top taped shut. All he could see was the cover and the back. But the man on the front reminded Newell of O’Neal McCarter in Pastel, a burly, broad-shouldered country boy who had graduated from high school before Newell; here he was on the cover of this magazine, his body hard, white-skinned, black hair on the chest, a stomach like polished metal. He wore leather pants with the button open, the zipper partly unzipped, and was looking into the camera, deep brown eyes. The price was twelve dollars, the magazine not very thick, though the paper was heavy and stiff. He set it back on the shelf.

  “Good evening,” Mac called to Newell on his way out. “You come on back, now. It ain’t always so slow.”

  All night in his room he longed for the magazine, thought about the image of the man, wished for twelve dollars to fall down out of the sky. The man’s eyes had fixed on Newell from the magazine cover and would not let go, even now when he was far away, as if he had known he could cause all these thoughts to run through Newell’s head.

  Rain, the washing of rain, all night in his dreams, flooding the streets, splashing onto the gallery floor, rain all night and nothing but the sound of it around him, as if he were adrift in a sea. He woke and slept, woke and slept, through the night, and wakened early with his eyes on the crisscross pattern of the muntin on one of the transoms. The fan was turning, air drifting over him, he lay still and waited for daylight. Stained plaster overhead. He stretched, hungry, his stomach in an aching, burning knot. He went to the bathroom, drank some water. He sat on the toilet with his head in his hands. Now he was thinking about the money, about the fact that he had so little left, and it had to last such a long time, he had to find a job; he had been here for days and nothing had happened except that he waited in this room while outside rain came pouring down.

  He ate his last can of soup and his stomach eased some. Looking at the newspaper from five days ago, the addresses he had marked. He would visit them all again, he would only stop when he had checked on every single one. So he set out and walked in the drizzle from place to place, beginning with the Court of Two Sisters, following the whole way round in a circle out through Royal Street, to Magazine, al
ong Poydras and back down St. Charles by foot, managers shaking their heads at him, telling him that it would be hard to hire him until he had a phone number, sorry but there’s nothing here right now, that’s the way it is. Back into the French Quarter, to hotel restaurants and employment offices, asking in each place the same question as earnestly as he could manage.

  Finally in Circle K the manager sat him down and gave him a glass of water. “We may need a dishwasher,” he said. “Come by in a couple of days.”

  “Really?” Aware that he should seem less eager, if he could manage.

  “Come by in a couple of days. We’ll see.”

  Even such a bit of hope made him buoyant, and he crossed into the Fauborg Marigny to check at the White Biscuit and Betty’s Kitchen. In both places, again, the managers behaved in a much more friendly way toward him, and in fact they both seemed to like Newell very much, though neither of them had any jobs to offer at the moment. The manager at Betty’s Kitchen waved his hand at Newell and said, from his tattered office chair, “You can’t get these queens to settle down in one job for long, sweetheart. We’ll have something before long. You just keep coming by.”

  Newell understood the reference, the word “queens,” he laughed politely at the tone. Walking home, trying to think about the Circle K, the possibility that he could earn money washing dishes, he thought of himself as a queen and could make nothing of it, nothing at all.

  Shopping carried him as far as the A&P again, threading his way into those narrow shelves, carrying nine cans of soup, a box of crackers, a roll of paper towels, a roll of toilet paper, a box of plastic garbage bags, to the counter, where a sharp-shouldered, moustached cashier in a sleeveless T-shirt winked at him and ran his purchases back and forth over the new scanner that appeared to work only intermittently; when it failed the cashier tapped some number keys in a bored way and a price flashed up. Nearly nine dollars for hardly anything, the bag was so light when Newell lifted it.