johnbyronkuhner.com

http://pulsobeat.com/tag/kiffy/ The next day I brought my stuff over to my old haunt, Johnny Angel’s place in Carrollton. I had rented a room there five years ago; and I had always been impressed by Johnny, and wanted to get a chance to talk to him again. He had real depth as a person; he was thoughtful and loyal and had actual knowledge and experience of life. I would spend two nights on his couch.  I had a lot I wanted to do that day, so I was going to drop my stuff off and head out immediately. I was planning on going to Jazzfest, but I wanted to go down to the French Quarter first to hit Arcadian Books, one of the few great bookshops left in the country. I’d talk to Johnny when I got home that night.

Puerto Cabezas Coming up the steps I stopped in my tracks – then started laughing. This was why I loved New Orleans so much – why it was in certain ways my natural city. I hate change. When I was a kid my mom used to have to throw my shoes out because I would never, of my own accord, get rid of my old ones: I would walk around with my toes sticking out of them, but not throw them out. She had to buy me new shoes without me trying them on, because I considered it infidelity to my old shoes to get new ones. I treated my bike the same way: it was the same bike I had had for fifteen years, and despite the fact that it was heavy and not suited for this trip I was not going to get a new one. It had been across the country, through Italy, even to Canada and Mexico. It was my bike, that was the end of the story. I didn’t want another. My tent was also fifteen years old, and it didn’t keep out rain anymore, but it was my tent and I was going to be loyal to it.

Well, next to the door at Johnny Angel’s place was a little sign that said

BELL NOT WORKING
KNOCK

It was the one I had put up five years ago, when a friend came over and stood at the door ringing the doorbell for five minutes before he realized the bell didn’t work. It was still there.

My brother had a similar story about New Orleans. He had stayed at a friend of a friend’s place, which happened to be an old brothel. The brothel was a normal-sized house which happened to have about twenty rooms, most of them big enough for just a bed. It was a great guest house for Mardi Gras of course, but otherwise during the year most of the little rooms were not used. My brother came twice, separated by four years. The first time there were some home improvements being done, and the windows in my brother’s room were getting caulked. A tube of caulk, with its caulking gun, were on the windowsill. Four years later, when my brother was led to the same room and put his pack down, he saw the same caulking tube and gun, on the same windowsill. He said it was even pointed in the same direction.