Hustle

These things happen.  Not just the writer's block, the writer's pause, the passing of time without production; I'm talking about the treadmill.  This was supposed to be my water break.  Now was the time to raise the chin, open the jaw, spray some fluid in and let the heart beat settle down while scoping out the molded ass of some bored housewife on the nearby machine.  Instead, I'm back on it.  No rest for the wicked or those executing ill-conceived notions about old vehicles.  Odd bedfellows we make, but work we must endure. 

I made it to the Big Easy, albeit with the New York State of Mind.  Not in the sense of wanting to be walking along the snowdrifts laden with cigarette butts or huddled in some trendy coffee shop staring at a screen.  More so vis-a-vis seeing dollar signs everywhere, hearing cash registers ka-ching! at every turn of the ear and whatever onomatopoeia coincides with thirsty creditors with every phone ring.  There is money to be made, money to be paid, and this just so happens to be where I am.  No spare change for the gutterpunks, no drink other than the $2 PBR, no way I'd turn down anything that could generate a little bacon.  I might be downriver and this town may have its own clocks, but we are in the age of global capital.  We're not so different as we'd like to think.

Another city, another hustle.  Another day, another alarm sounding before the roosters.  Another morning of hard-boiled eggs and pushing down handlebars on streets still bereft of cars and horns.  This time, my commute is broken up by a five minute ferry ride across the Mississippi to a point due south commonly referred to as the West Bank.  Once I reach the other side, I get to look up from my gears to see signs advertising boiled crawfish, po boys, and all manner of automotive services.  There are a couple tall bridges and several uninspiring oil refineries.  There are no yoga studios or businesses providing wifi, but I'm sure one or two of them slings drinks for a good three-fourths of this earth's spinning hours. 

It's a chance to see the other side of the muddy tracks at a clip of $20 per hour.  Do something mindless, keep the rent paid, dream about the next job that provides benefits and, if I'm feeling particularly randy, dream about the Big Dream.  That's what the hours are for, after all. 

Tomorrow won't be the same as Tuesday, even if my destination was the same.  Tomorrow I have to hustle back from the West Bank to Arabi with a brief shower in between.  Of course, Tuesday had its own cosmetics via a long overdue hair-trimming as a patron at an otherwise black barbershop in Marrero.  It doesn't really fit into the scheme, be it this brief thread or whatever passes for the Great Saga of my existence.  Except that for some reason, I think it does.