The Crescent City Cadger

I am sure that the writers for Treme must have known him. He probably hitched a ride with them uptown, made them buy his dinner at Patois, took them on a bar tour, then borrowed twenty dollars before hopping out of their cab on the corner of Magazine and Napoleon while pocketing all of their cigarettes and weed. My Davis.

For me, it all started when his sister called me because she was tripping on mushrooms with her current beau and needed me to drive them in her late model Mercedes (complete with shrunken heads hanging from the rear-view mirror) to her home on Jefferson Avenue. Being the sober friend has it's advantages in these situations because when you suggest to the trippers that a game of homemade twister is just what the doctor ordered, they are all over it, and also all over the homemade twister board. But that's another story...

He showed up in the midst of the mushroom fueled game. Having just finished a gig on Oak Street, he reeked of hemp, Marlboro reds and absinthe. He was surly in his lack of confidence but genius in his talent. I took one look at his questionable hygiene, quavering physique and pearly whites and I fell - hook, line and stinker.

We talked all night about Jesuits, Jazz and Jung. He commenced to enthrall me with his illusions and superstitions. He was jacked up on nicotine and caffeine causing Terre Ferma to shift and stars to collide and softly tumble down around his shoulders in a haze of bong smoke. Misunderstood not a misanthrope as so many perceived him to be - he wanted to keep the soul of the Crescent City pure - his town, his music, his art, his drugs.

As the dawn slivered through the plantation shades refracting off the homemade twister board, I felt sad that our evening was going to end. Would I see him again? Little did I know that my Davis would haunt me for the next 20 years.

Looking back, I realize that I met my Davis at the height of his game. His band had signed a record deal, he license was valid, and his pot was Jamaican. He even slept in a bed with sheets, thanks to his good fortune of being able to squat in his mother's empty home on the Avenue. And, yes, he called, he loved the way I smelled and the way I laughed at his wry observations. I dug his shows, his drummer's mania infused with his soulful glances cast my way. He was a musician, I was a painter, we were in the best city in the world - ah, that crazy love.

Crazy love became just plain crazy. My Davis fought with his band mates and quit the band this led to six months of him drinking black coffee, chain smoking and mooching money. He may have been poor and of questionable hygiene but he never changed his standards. How could I not deeply love a man who would live by candlelight so that he could still eat oysters brochette at Galatoire's? The bitter grounds that littered the kitchen counters seeped into our love. Basically, I was tired of supporting his fine-dining, daiquiri-loving ass and the humiliation of being the main squeeze of the Crescent City Cadger was bruising my pride. One brisk fall morning, I left a wad of cash on the bedside table, packed my gym bag and went back to my carriage house. My bed was empty but at least I could shower without fear of fungus and my elderly Blanche du Bois neighbor was ready to medicate me with Gin Ramos Fizzes. My broken heart was quickly healed by visiting Australian boys who two-stepped through the warehouse district with me.

My Davis lay dormant through until the holiday season. On a fine December evening I wandered home from caroling on the bayou and there he was straddling my barstool, drinking my WhoDat Champagne and eating my crab bisque while drumming a riff with my antique candlesticks. Rather than just dropping my cash in the Salvation Army's red bell ringer bucket, I pledged my hard-earned dollars to the Davis Christmas Fund. We traipsed through the holidays attending parties, picking mistletoe and burning the yule log on the levees. Twelfth Night rolled around and he pinched a tuxedo from his dad's closet so we laissez bon temps rouler through the Carnival Season. We would party all night and I would get up go to work and my Davis would spend the day drinking black tar coffee and littering my home with greasy Mother's wax paper and Hubig's pineapple pie wrappers. I knew what I had to give up for the Lenten Season.

My Davis left on Ash Wednesday, along with all of my loose change and several pieces of jewelry and silver. It took a lot of time to wash Davis outta my hair and out of all the other crevices that he had slipped and dipped into. Once cleansed, I left New Orleans to start an advertising agency.

On the Gulf Coast, work became my life. I ate, slept, drank and pub-crawled with my agency. My Mac was my best boyfriend. The briny air carried the scent of me earning money all the way to my Davis. He hot-wired his brother's car and drove east until he found me. Suddenly my cute little beach-side duplex was given the air of the 70s, thanks to my Davis' bong. He claimed this time he would earn his keep. He planned on giving drum lessons and illustrating books, needless to say all he did was drink my ovaltine and eat my boca burgers. In a moment of desperation, I called his mother to come get him. SHE TOLD ME TO KEEP HIM! Somehow I managed to evict him but through a rather unclear series of events, he ended up living across the street in the home of an elderly man. He would stand on the curb, drumming on the wrought iron fence serenading my wallet and wine rack. So I moved - again.

Minnesota was too far to hitchhike and I don't think my Davis could get his hands on a heavy coat. However upon my return to the South, there he was waiting for me on Magazine Street, sniffing my hair and asking me to buy him a cocktail. He was drumming again and living uptown. Katrina had come and left her black kiss on the city but he was still standing waiting to cadge his next good bottle of Shiraz.