The Grandfather Clock Page 5

  I had parked the van in a large lot along the river that I knew well. After a moment of Zen watching a barge pass, I walked down into the French Quarter. I followed my instincts to Johnny PoBoys. It was a place I could always find, but could never give directions to. I ordered a Gatorade to fight the dehydration from a night of coffee stops and junk food. I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese po boy and walked to Jackson Square. A few people read their morning newspapers, and the occasional jogger strode past. It was warm. I took a seat on a bench and ate my breakfast slowly. It had been over a thousand miles of driving since I’d last seen a bed, or even dined at a table.

  I wandered the streets a bit, waiting for a reasonable hour to call Brian. I remembered a small hotel that I’d crashed at once during the Sugar Bowl. I knew it was along the river, but couldn’t remember the name. As with most everything I know in New Orleans, I found it by feel. The French Market Inn had a great location, lots of charm, and fortunately was a little rundown, so it was reasonably priced. By the light of Sunday morning, maybe it was more than a little rundown.

  A young woman with dyed black hair greeted me. She looked like the day shift hadn’t arrived yet. She wore a dusty black shirt that had lost its shape. Her crooked nametag read “Andrea” and wanted to tear a hole where it was pinned. She looked at me blankly.

  “Can I help you?” she asked in a thick southern accent.

  “Do you have any rooms available?” I asked. “Right now?”

  “Yeah. I got one. $69.”

  “Done,” I said.

  I woke to my phone ringing. It was 1:00 again, only this time it was the afternoon. It was Brian.

  I grunted a groggy greeting.

  “You okay? What happened to you?”

  “I drove all night. Slept in a cow pasture.”

  “Nice. Where the hell are you.”

  “Decatur Street.”

  “Oh, no shit!”

  “You want to get some lunch,” I asked.

  “Yeah. Actually, I gotta work in about a half hour. Why don’t you come down?”

  “Work. You aren’t with Globe Bank anymore?”

  “No,” Brian laughed. “They shit canned me last year. But it’s good. I’m playing down at the Steak Pit.”

  I never figured out whether the Steak Pit on Bourbon Street sold steak, but they did sell “Huge Ass Beers.” The bar was no more than twenty feet wide. A single row of booths lined one wall. The steamy heat of New Orleans was comforting and familiar after the dry desert, and the beers were indeed huge and cold. I sat and watched Brian playing his guitar on the world’s smallest stage. He sat in a raised nook above the end of the bar that had room for two folding chairs and an amp, but the sound was rich. Brian’s voice poured into the street as he played “Mr. Bojangles.”

  I had a hamburger and sweet potato fries and downed two “huge ass beers,” probably more than a six pack. Brian took a break and we stood at the bar talking to a group of girls from a bachelorette party. A tall blond from the University of Texas was wearing a tiara with a veil. I had come full circle from the bar in Orlando. Or maybe I hadn’t moved an inch. It was just another hot, steamy tourist bar in another city.

  She had three friends: two were comparing their red tongues from the hurricanes they drank. The third was more reserved. I decided to make conversation.

  “You guys going to last until sundown?”

  “Not likely,” she said. “We need to go someplace and sit down, get some food in their stomachs.”

  “There’s no shortage here. You should force feed them all muffalettas or Lucky Dogs.”

  “Not a bad idea,” she said.

  Brian was getting badgered to play “Delilah,” by Plain White T’s. He claimed he’d already played it, but I didn’t remember that. Everyone did a shot. Brian had another set and pulled me aside to tell me that we’d get dinner with his girlfriend when he was done. The bachelorette party stayed to listen and he opened with “Delilah,” which prompted them to drop a fistful of dollar bills in the jar. He was making good money.

  The ladies sat in a booth with their huge beers getting warm. The bride-to-be had her head on the shoulder of her red-tongued friend who was shouting along with a country song. The freckled brunette I had been talking to came to stand next to me at the bar.

  “Do you know how to get to Café Du Monde?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said above the din.

  “Want to go there with me?”

  We stepped into the busy street. New Orleans has the smell of great food, alcohol, bleach, and trash, all mixed into something truly its own. It’s not as offensive as it sounds, but it isn’t good either. Once in a while, in another city I’ll catch a whiff and think, “Bourbon Street.”

  “Are your friends going to miss you?”

  “God, no. I’m the sister in law. She’s marrying my brother,” she said. “I came out of obligation. Don’t get me wrong, I like to have fun. I just haven’t been, um, welcomed by them.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Oh, it hasn’t been bad. I get it. They don’t know me. It would be more fun if I hadn’t come. Fourth wheel. I’m Erin.”

  “Michael.”

  “You live here, Michael?”

  “Oh no. Just passing through. I know Brian through work. Home is in Florida.”

  “When do you fly back? Not being nosy. Sorry. Just talking,” she laughed.

  “Actually. I’m driving through from California. Long story,” I said. “And you’re from... let me guess. Atlanta.”

  “Charleston. Nice try though. I went to school in Athens.”

  She told me about her work for an advertising firm. She was a few years out of school at University of Georgia.

  We found a table and ordered two café au laits on ice and two orders of beignets. Powdered sugar covered our faces and clothes with one bite. I was exhausted as I assessed my new acquaintance. Erin was pretty. She looked like she’d gone to a makeover for women in advertising. She had dark brown hair, with a shoulder length cut, held behind her ears by dark rimmed glasses. She battled the hot weather with a white tank.

  “So, driving from California alone? What’s that all about?”

  “I’m transporting a family heirloom, a grandfather clock, because no one else wanted it.”

  “A clock? Wow. That’s a lot of effort for a clock.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I needed to get away.”

  She grinned. “Really, come on. This sounds juicy. It’ll be boring if you don’t tell me.”

  “I broke off my engagement.”

  “Whoa,” she gasped, spraying powdered sugar. “I didn’t see that coming. What happened?”

  “It’s going to sound petty,” I said.

  “Oh, please.”

  “You’ll think I’m a jerk.”

  “What the hell do you care what I think?” she smirked.

  “Okay,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect. “It was a bad relationship getting worse. I was trying to find a way out. Then this little thing just set me off. We were at her friend’s wedding. She was wasted. Everyone was wasted, so... I was sitting by these three bridesmaids at the after party – not even talking to them – and one of them tells her that I look like Ben Affleck.”

  “I can sorta see that.”

  “Anyway, Christie, my fiancée, sneers at them and says, and I quote, ‘Have you seen Ben Affleck? Ben Affleck is HOT.’”

  “Ouch, that’s kinda harsh.”

  “Yeah. I know it sounds like I overreacted, but it was something that just snowballed.”

  “No, I can see how that might be a symptom of a larger problem.”

  “Yes. Exactly! I probably should have been more vocal, but to say something would just have started a fight. I should have never let it get that far.”

  “Seriously, why did you propose in the first place?”

  “It was the thing to do I guess.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine, Michael.”

  “Oh, here�
��s the kicker. This happened a week ago today. She’s already slept with someone else.”

  “Oh, man,” Erin moaned, shaking her head.

  “I’m almost glad she did that.”

  “Really? Are you?” she asked.

  “I am! I think so.”

  “Okay.”

  “What? Okay what?” I probed.

  “Just that, I could see how it might hurt to find out she moved on so quickly.”

  “I can honestly say that I’m relieved I won’t have to deal with convincing her it’s really over.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you psychoanalyzing me?” I asked playfully.

  “Yes. I was a psych major, which is how I came to advertising.”

  “Here it comes...”

  “So, you broke off your engagement with brutal suddenness. You feel bad about it, but not bad enough not to do it. So, to make up for it, you decide to rescue an old clock because it will seem like an altruistic act. But in reality, you are worried that people will realize you are just using it as an excuse to avoid dealing with the reality of your life.”

  “I think I need another drink.”

  “See... there. You avoid the subject. You’re not only afraid that people think you’re a jerk, you are afraid that you are a jerk. You can’t even convince yourself of your own value.”

  “That’s pretty deep, Erin.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I mean it,” I said. “Honestly. The other day, I was hanging out with this girl from high school. I barely know her, but we connected. At one point, she was ready to join me on the trip.”

  “So you’ve, uh, moved on too. Now I see why you weren’t mad when Christie screwed someone else.”

  “No, nothing like that happened. At the last minute, she said she wasn’t coming. Didn’t give a reason and I didn’t ask. A part of me was relieved. I mean, if you’re going to drive three thousand miles with someone, you’re going to have to give the other person your life story. I wasn’t ready to hear to hear me tell my life story.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because,” she said, answering her own question, “you haven’t done anything yet. Your life doesn’t mean anything. The biggest moment of your life is breaking off an engagement.”

  “Wow. Don’t sugar coat it. Thanks.”

  “Michael,” she said, getting animated. “Do you know how many people dream of having the courage to make the right choice, even when it’s hard? Even when it hurts? Man, Michael, maybe you made some bad choices because they were the easy choices. But when push came to shove, you had the balls to do something about it.”

  “Gee, thanks,” I said, feigning bashfulness.

  “There are millions of people who would cut off an arm to go back and make that decision. Instead they end up miserable, or divorced. Or both.”

  “Well, I appreciate your encouragement,” I said. Accepting her analysis. “I’m not sure if it’s the sort of thing that I can put on my resume. My next girlfriend can introduce me, ‘Dad, I’d like you meet Michael. His greatest accomplishment is backing out of a marriage before it was too late.’”

  “Own it.” Erin jumped from her seat. “Okay, I’m ready to have some fun now. It’s New Orleans!”

  Erin held on to my arm as we wandered quickly through the quarter. We camped out on the balcony of Tropical Isle and put away Hand Grenades that looked like antifreeze. Before we knew it, it was eight o’clock and we saw Brian and Erin’s three friends making their way up the street.

  A typical night on Bourbon Street is a blur at best, and this one was no different. We dined at an oyster bar, and hit the requisite tourist spots. Brian’s girlfriend never materialized. As it got late, Brian lead us to another French Quarter bar that tended to get the after-work crowd, along with a few tourists. Ol’ Toons Saloon had a corny name, but it had a pool table and a good bartender named Dan. With the House of Blues around the corner, good bands tended to hang out smoking and playing pool before and after gigs. I’d been there many times, and every single time, the sidewalk sign read, “$2 Rolling Rocks.”

  The bachelorette party was passing out. The bride was giving Erin and I a hard time, declaring, “You two lovebirds are thick as thieves. You guys are gonna get married. Erin, we’re going to be sisters! And – what’s your name again? We’ll be brothers in laws.” Things were beginning to fall apart.

  Brian and I sat at the bar talking to Dan while Erin did triage on her crew, administering water and pretzels. We were all inebriated, but those three were in for a rough morning.

  “Dan,” I said to the bartender. “You would have no reason to remember me, but I’ve been here probably twenty times in a decade. Maybe more. You’re always working here.”

  He laughed. “I remember you. I thought you lived here. It’s been a while.”

  “Nice gig. What, 12 hour days?”

  “I work Thursdays through Sunday. Four to four.”

  “Cushy,” Brian said, grabbing his own beer from the bar.

  “Gets old, but the money is good.”

  “I’ll bet,” Brian said.

  “Brian,” Dan said, “We’re looking for a Monday through Thursday bartender. Has to be a guy because the other bartender is a girl and you have to bounce people.”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Brian said. “I promised my dad I’d stick to music. And I don’t have to deal with people’s bullshit.”

  Dan looked at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “I need someone for Monday,” he said, dead serious.

  “I live in Florida,” I said.

  “Do you?” Brian asked rhetorically.

  I laughed nervously. “I have a job.”

  “That you hate,” Brian added.

  “No pressure,” Dan said. “You can make two or three hundred bucks in a day easy. More on others. You can pick up weekend afternoons. Mardi Gras is sick. You’ll pay your yearly rent during Mardi Gras if you survive.”

  I rubbed my eyes. I was drunk. I was supposed to drive to Florida in seven hours. And I was considering quitting my professional job, for bartending in New Orleans. No health insurance. No retirement. Just cold cash.

  “Four in the afternoon to four in the morning?”

  “You get used to it. And you can close early if it’s dead. When the service industry people start getting off at one or two in the morning, this place gets busy with good tipping people who don’t give you one word of shit. I wouldn’t trade this job for one waiting tables in Commander’s Palace.”

  “Tempting,” I said.

  “And the women are unbelievable,” he added.

  “Done,” I said.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow and introduce you to the owners.”

  I made my way to Erin and her three plastered friends. The bar was filling up and I met more of Brian and Dan’s friends. I was subjected to an initiation ritual of sorts, involving shots of nearly frozen Jaegermeister and a lot more beer as I was baptized into the service industry’s band of brothers and sisters.

  At some point, Erin and her three friends slipped out the door. I didn’t know her last name or where she was staying, but I was grateful for her brief friendship and her unsolicited evaluation of my life.

  Dan said I would get used to twelve-hour shifts that ended at four in the morning. He didn’t say how long that would take. Three weeks in, I wasn’t sure what day it was. I was crashing at Brian’s apartment, since I didn’t have any belongings, aside from a seven-foot clock that loomed in the corner of his living room. There were only two events that stood out in those first exhausting weeks.

  They both happened on the Sunday after I accepted the job at Ol’ Toons. I woke in my dingy hotel room to my phone buzzing. Christie was sobbing, having learned that I knew about her and Frank Murray. For an hour she apologized, and tried to elicit some opinion from me other than that I didn’t care and that there was nothing more to say. Finally I broke the news to her that I was
not returning. She got angry and threatened to keep all of the furniture, which I then told her she could have. She said she was going to throw all of my clothes away, and I said I wished she wouldn’t but I couldn’t stop her. I planned to call Sam and have him move my car. He’d have to get it from the airport for me. I would want it in New Orleans eventually. I’d go back to St. Pete and tie up loose ends soon enough.

  The second major event occurred later as Brian and I struggled to maneuver the clock up the stairs to his second floor apartment. The brick, French-style building wrapped around a corner, and butted against a mirror image of another building that had a corner grocery store. It was just a couple blocks beyond the crowds of tourists. The clock was manageable for the two of us. Unfortunately, the stairway was so narrow that we couldn’t carry it with one of us on each side, going up the stairs. We each had to grab an end and one person had to walk up backwards. To make the turn in to his apartment we had to turn it on its side. That’s when it happened.

  Inside the clock there was a hard bump. I assumed it was the weights shifting, but it seemed larger. It clacked against the glass door on the front of the main body of the clock. Holding the base of the clock with one hand, I reached up to hold the glass door in case it gave way. The weights were in the bottom of the clock. Whatever was hitting the glass was longer.

  “It must be the pendulum,” I said. We edged around the corner and into the door. We laid it flat on the floor between the coffee table and television. I wiped my brow.

  “Nice clock,” Brian said. “Does it work?”

  “It used to,” I said. “I have no idea how to make it work. I’m not too worried about that right now.”

  Brian moved an artificial palm tree that sat in the corner and slid the worn green love seat out of the way. We gingerly leaned the clock upright. Again something thumped hard inside. We shuffled it flush to the wall and I opened the glass door.