Canal Street Calling

Clarence called me tonight as I was walking across Canal Street. Every time I cross the first lane of cars, then the streetcar tracks, then the second lane, weaving in and out of the palm trees and celebratory tourists, I think of a newscast I saw a few months ago with a scared-shitless reporter trying to hold it down with the palms bending around him and Gustav grinning off the coast.

Anyway, Clarence called and I asked him why. He's a talented kid and I wanted to count him as a friend, maybe even give him a couch to crash on now and then after one of his Frenchmen street gigs. But three lies is enough.

I remind him that we had decided to part ways. He replies "I didn't know I couldn't call."

I assured him he can't.

"Man you don't want to hear from a brotha," he says.

No, I don't.

He quickly tells me how he and his bandmates are, once again, out on the street tonight because their car, once again, broke down and they can't get home.

I release a few expletives and tell him, in many more words, that he got himself into this situation, he damn well should get himself out.

He courteously hangs up.

I feel firm, defiant, ballsy. This is tough love, I tell myself. Then I remember he's only 19.

crap. I call and apologize, and no, we can't be friends right now, but, I tell him, "If you're ever REALLY in trouble, call me."

He says he will and hangs up.

Don't befriend the musicans, I console myself, even when they can play like motherfuckers.