Me and My Arrow.

I’m gonna do the name dropping stuff about the blurbs I was able to get for DMR in the next blog entry.

I camped on the Alabama gulf shores on Wednesday night, and it was a beautiful area. The sand was white and the water was warm, at least compared to the New England Atlantic. I don’t think I even knew Alabama had a gulf shore until I actually visited there. It was a very nice surprise.

On Thursday I gave a reading at the Mobile public library. Nancy Anlage coordinated the whole thing and it went very well (despite the fact that I had the wrong library address posted on www.otppub.com). Many members of the Mobile Writer’s Guild, headed by Joyce Scarbrough, attended and had a lot of great questions. They also taught me some things about online promotion and networking. I’m jealous of their group and wish there was something like it in Brockton (if there is something like it for prose then I’m not aware of it).

After the reading, I drove straight to New Orleans. My older sister was there to visit me. I was thrilled to see her for two reasons: solo road trips can get kind of lonely, and she had a hotel room with two beds.

After watching the end of the first NBA finals game (Celtics won), we went out on Bourbon Street. (And I’m sorry to mention the Celtics so much. Mike Bibby was kind of right about me, but I’ve been having a great time watching the Cs this year.)

The rumors you’ve heard are true; the French quarter is pretty fun. We got a couple beers and walked around with them (everyone else was doing it), just kind of getting a feel for the place.

A short man from India or Pakistan tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a ticket from a book that looked like the books meter maids carry. I noticed that his uniform was kind of odd looking, but I immediately began apologizing for walking down the street with a drink in my hand. I explained that a sign in the bar where we got the beers had said this was legal in New Orleans.

The man, with a very thick accent and in a very serious tone, said, “You are getting this ticket for not partying hard enough, sir.”

I looked down at the ticket. He had circled the party pooper infraction. I explained that I’d only gotten in town an hour ago and that I was tired. He explained that he didn’t really care, he was just trying to get a few bucks for a charity.

At another bar the next night we met a very entertaining bartender who loved to talk about himself. I love to listen to (and write about) interesting people, so we stayed for quite a while. The man’s name is Marty and he was featured in a 2005 New York Times article. He handed me a tattered photocopy of the article which detailed how he was one of the only residents to stay in the area and defend his home. Apparently he has a small personal arsenal in his apartment.

Marty talked to me for a very long time. He told me he’s voting for Obama, he alluded to some past drug problems, he showed me the ankle bracelet he has to wear 24 hours a day, and then he went out to smoke a cigarette. I asked the bar owner, a man who was born in Greece, if Marty was full of crap, and he looked at me like I was insane.

“That man saved this entire neighborhood,” he said. “He saved this bar.” He went on to curse the people who took advantage of New Orleans after Katrina.

When Marty came back in, he told me how he’d been offered many thousands of dollars to tell his story, but he turned all the offers down. I asked him why. He said only, “Money would kill me.”

On Saturday I had my reading at the main branch of the New Orleans library. It was not well attended. This happens sometimes and I’m pretty used to it from the My Dog the Meat Eater readings—at one library in Western, MA, only one woman came to hear me read. But there was an important Red Sox game on that night. Even I didn’t really want to be there.

The New Orleans library did everything they possibly could to promote the event. It was mentioned in two newspapers and the place was full of posters and flyers for the event. After the reading, one of the librarians said they’d been having a hard time getting people to attend readings since Katrina.

After the reading my sister and I went to Napoleon House for some muffuletta, and then to the bar where Al Carson plays. For the first part of the night my sister and I were the only people in the audience, but the lead singer acted as though the place was full, screaming THANK YOU with his arms in the air. I wished I’d done the same thing after my very cozy library reading.

Of course, after a while the place filled up. It was Saturday night in New Orleans. But in my defense, the libraries won’t let me serve beer and liquor at my readings (that’s why I had the book opening at an art museum).

I got my first oil change of the trip last week. I’m probably going to have to get four more, depending on how closely I stick to my original route. The head mechanic came over to me and said in his deep southern accent, “You’re a long way from home, son.” For a moment I swear I heard banjo music, but then I realized the guy was just being sociable. I told him about my trip and he gave me a 10% discount. He’d never heard of a 48-state road trip. He thought it was very cool and seemed a little jealous.

I’ve met a lot of people who say they wish they could come with me or do something like this trip someday. I usually tell them that I wish I hadn’t made the trip quite so long. One of the first things my sister said to me when we met up on Thursday was, “You’ve been away from other people for too long.”