by Layne Harper
I motion towards the bottle red-head at the last cube by the window. “Sandra, when your husband had the accident with the chainsaw, who made sure you had enough paid time off to be with him?”
She stands up and touches her heart. “You did, MK. Because of you I got to take care of my Leon.”
I turn to Michael. “I sent an email out asking if anyone was willing to donate their vacation days to her. I reminded them we’re a family, and sweet Sandra would do it for us.” My hands gesture at the ladies. “That’s what we do here. We take care of each other in this office, and the hundreds of people who we find jobs for every year. You wouldn’t realize that, Michael, because you’re too busy not working.” I point at him. “All I have to say is you treating me like this proves just how out-of-touch you are with your company, COO.”
Then, I walk to the middle of the cubes. My voice chokes as I say, “I love you, girls. Please keep in touch.” A huge smile parts my lips and excitement bubbles in my chest. “And just so you know, I’ve fallen in love with a rock star.”
There’s an audible gasp.
I turn around to Michael’s blank expression on his usually smug face. Removing the office key from my ring, I drop it in the middle of the floor. I grab my bag, adjust it on my shoulder, and walk to the door, grabbing the handle.
Pausing for just a second, I make sure there’s nothing left for me to say. Nope. My conscience is clear. I raise my fist in a victory pump.
From behind me, I hear, “Long live NoPinkCaddy!” It’s followed by a round of applause and cheers.
Turning, I blow them a kiss as the door shuts.
It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning, but this is New Orleans. Once I’m outside of the building, I pull out my phone to call Bella or Aaron. But then I remember the Latin words alis volat propriis. I don’t need someone to prop me up. I can do it myself.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
No more day job for me. As my co-workers yelled, “Long live NoPinkCaddy!” #Metamorphosis
The City of New Orleans is preparing for the holiday season. The air is filled with electricity. Lights are being hung on the trees that dot the business district. Store windows are being turned shades of reds and greens. I love this time of year. As soon as New Year’s is over, festival season begins. Then it’s Jazzfest and wine festivals. This is the greatest city ever. It’s like there’s a party every weekend.
My anger turns to excitement, and I pull out my phone to document the transformation for my fans. The rain has moved out, and sunshine makes the city glow. I head down to the waterfront, snapping pictures as I go. My pace is leisurely. Businesspeople in a hurry fly past me. Weary-looking workers drag past, looking as if they’re ready to fall over from exhaustion. I sit on a park bench outside a hotel and watch the people coming in and out of the revolving door. There’s a man dressed in a three-piece business suit who is draped around a woman in a red wrap dress. He looks professional. Her dress is a bit too risqué for work.
I make up a backstory for them. He’s one of the youngest CEOs in the country and is married with two young kids. The woman is his mistress. She travels with him while his wife stays home and takes care of the children. The wife knows about the mistress, but she’s not willing to do anything about it because when he is home he’s a good dad.
The mistress is single. She considers it her job to be a kept woman. She’s perfected the art of agreeing to anything and making sure her sugar daddies keep her in the life she’s become accustomed to.
They disappear into the lobby.
I’m sure my story isn’t correct considering I’m literally batting zero, but there’s a little piece of me which thinks maybe, just maybe, I was right this time.
Checking the time on my phone, I see it’s almost noon. I stand up and walk toward Jackson Square. When I get close, I place a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar of a gymnastics troupe and film their self-taught antics. They’re really amazing. These kids fly through the air. One kid misses his mark so the oldest has them stop and do it again. I compliment them on their skills and wish them luck.
The Square is just beginning to fill with artists, fortune tellers, and musicians. There’s actually a green space in the middle, which is kept beautifully landscaped, and a statue of Andrew Jackson riding his horse is in the center. It’s surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence separating the merchants and performers from the grass. At the back of the square is St. Louis Cathedral. I’ve attended many weddings there.
I walk around, admiring just how talented the artists are. One piece catches my eye. It’s a painting of a guitar leaning against a brick wall. It reminds me of Aaron.
“How much?” I ask the artist.
“Six hundred,” he replies.
Considering I just quit my job, there’s no way I can afford to purchase it, but I take the artist’s card. Once I’m back on my feet, I’ll buy it for Aaron.
I’m beginning to get thirsty, and I want to celebrate the ending of my old life and the ushering in of the new. I stop by a to-go bar called Stanley’s and ask for a Brandy Alexander. When I was sixteen, Tripp made me my first version of the drink. His mom liked them, and he’d watched her make one one night. The next weekend, his parents were out of town, and Bella and I hung out at his house. I thought it was the best thing I had ever tasted. Who knew combining Cognac, Crème de Cocoa and fresh cream could create something so tasty?
Instead of a fancy glass, the bartender pours it into a plastic cup with a lid. I feel like one of my nieces with a sippy cup. I post a picture of my drink on Twitter.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
Doing a little day drinking. #SitesOfNOLA
My drink makes me miss Tripp. I’m feeling generous enough today to send him a text. Hi! I hope you’re having a good day. I know you’re mad. Call when you’re ready to talk.
I don’t receive a response, but I didn’t expect to.
Walking over, I sit down on the steps of the church. Across from me is a jazz band. The singer has a tambourine. Her soulful voice combined with the horns gets my feet tapping, my hips wiggling, and my pulse racing. How have I made it thirty years without owning a tambourine?
There’s a young couple sitting near me who look like tourists.
“Hey! Would you mind videoing me?” I ask.
The lady smiles and takes my phone. Moments later, I join the tambourine player, dancing to the music. The band loves my participation and increases the tempo just a bit. As I turn, my purple skirt becomes full swishing around me. The music flows, and I feel nothing but pure joy. It’s a gorgeous day and I should be inside behind my computer; instead, I’m free. My wings are no longer clipped. I can dance and sing any time I wish. I can enjoy the sunny weather without feeling like I should be making money for my ex-boyfriend and his father.
When the song is over, I bow as applause rings through the square. Giving each member of the band a hug, I scurry over to the couple to retrieve my phone. I post the unedited video to my Twitter account with the hashtag SitesOfNOLA.
I’m soaring. I’ve had a great morning that turned crummy, and now a fantastic afternoon. I walk through an alley and down a street. Bars and knickknack gift shops line the sidewalks while apartments begin on the second floor. If I find something beautiful or interesting or even disturbing, I snap a photo.
A guy sits behind an old typewriter. He calls out, “Gorgeous, ten dollars and I’ll write you a poem.”
Smiling, I reply, “Thank you, but not today.”
I visit one of my favorite art galleries. The work is eclectic and fun. One of the artists is working on a piece. Asking if I can snap his picture for my blog, he is thrilled for the exposure. He shows me his favorite pieces, and I take pictures of those.
Creativity is the lifeblood of New Orleans. I bet there’s not another city in the world that is filled with such talented artists, musicians, chefs, writers, and performers. William Faulkner left his home in Mississippi and joined the literary scene here in th
e 1920s. This is where the famous author was inspired enough to write his first novel as he looked out his bedroom window and onto the church grounds of St. Louis Cathedral. It’s the birthplace of jazz born from voodoo rhythms, African slaves’ drums, and European horns. And, of course, the world can thank New Orleans for twerking.
Soon enough, my drink is empty and so is my stomach. I check street signs at the next corner and realize I’m not far from one of my favorite hole-in-the-wall soul food restaurants. Heading south, I walk about a mile.
When I was kid, my mom would bring Bethany and I to this restaurant to eat lunch the day before school started. Our housekeeper’s daughter worked here, and I always thought it was so fun to visit her. She was about ten years older than me, and I just assumed we were family because every time we went shopping, my mom would pick up new clothes for her also. We went to her high school graduation, and I remember crying when her mom quit when she graduated from college. It was the first time I’d realized that the people who worked in our home were employees and not members of our family.
My mom keeps in touch with both our former housekeeper and her daughter. She has a husband and children of her own. I always hope to run into her when I come to this restaurant.
As I turn the corner, a bright red car catches my eye.
How did he find me?
Leaning against a lamppost is my guy. He’s dressed in jeans, but the sweater he had on this morning has been replaced by a long-sleeved T-shirt that reads Put Up or Shut Up. Instead of a fedora, he wears a trucker-style baseball hat.
“Stalker.” I walk to him and kiss his pouty smile.
“Escape artist.” He kisses me back and gives my behind a squeeze.
“I assume you’re joining me for a late lunch?” I ask, still reeling from the fact that he’s standing in front of me. It’s not that I necessarily mind him being here. My heart is still doing funny flip-flops that he’s surprised me. But I didn’t invite him. How in the world did he find me?
“If I’m invited. I feel a bit like I’m crashing a party.” He doesn’t move from the lamppost.
I grab his hand and give it a tug. “Always invited.”
We walk into the restaurant and wait in line for counter service. I hand him a menu and begin pointing out the things I like. “Their po boys are to die for. They also make their own sausage, and it’s very good. I’ll order us some red beans and rice and we can split it.” I pause for a second. “I’m not actually sure what kind of food you like. You know what? I bet you can read the menu and choose something awesome for yourself.” Tucking my menu behind his, I give him another peck on the lips.
“Excuse me,” a high-pitched voice squeals.
Aaron and I look up from the now shared menu. There’s a girl bouncing up and down behind us who looks to be around my age. She’s pretty and dressed in a business suit.
“Are you Johnny Knite? Oh my God. Of course you are. I heard you were in town and I was hoping to see you, but I never thought it would be here. You are so gorgeous. I have all of your music and I’ve seen you in concert like three times. And oh my God, you’re so gorgeous.” It’s like one long run-on sentence. She digs in her purse and pulls out a Sharpie. “Will you sign the menu?”
Who carries a Sharpie in their purse?
“Absolutely,” Aaron says, and he takes the thick paper from her hands. He scratches Johnny Knite across it.
The line moves up, so we all take a couple of steps forward.
The girl snatches the menu back, clutching it to her chest. “My name is Suzanne, and I have the Twitter handle JohnnyKniteIsMine. How are you doing after rehab and all? I mean, I was so worried about you. I prayed that you would get better. Oh my God, that was probably inappropriate to say. Don’t mean to be. Sometime I just gush. Is she your girlfriend? I thought you didn’t date anyone. By the way, I think you are like the coolest dad. I wish my dad was as cool as you. I mean, I just love you and think you’re awesome.”
Aaron looks at me with the V between his eyes. I take his hand giving it a little squeeze, letting him know not to worry about me.
He breaks our contact and turns to the girl. His whole demeanor changes. Instead of the casual Aaron I know, he shifts into this cool guy named Johnny. His thumbs go into his jean pockets and he puts all his weight on one leg while the other bends. Even his shoulders change. They round back, and his chin dips as if he’s posing for a magazine cover. Johnny flashes her a sexy little half-smile. “What’s your favorite song?”
The line moves up again so we’re next to order.
Her face is flushed and her eyes bright. “Oh my God, there are just so many. I like some of your less popular songs that you don’t play in concert like ‘Fish in the Sea,’ ‘Behind Doors’ and ‘See Me.’ And I love that one song which made you famous yet you won’t play it in concert anymore. Why not? Me and my girlfriends want to know.” You can tell this girl is really a fan. I feel a bit guilty that I’m the one sleeping with him. I’m sure she would agree that life is unfair. She’s not a two percenter, like me. She’s bought his music and paid to see him live.
She reminds me that Aaron is also Johnny. I’ve only had the opportunity to spend time with Aaron but I’m going to have to see Johnny’s life.
He licks his lips before replying, “I don’t play ‘Angel Eyes’ in concert anymore because the girl who I wrote it for asked me not to.” Even his voice is different. It’s smoother, less raspy, and even deeper.
“Oh my God! Are you that girl?” Her green eyes swing in my direction.
“I . . . I . . .” My head swivels toward Aaron, looking for guidance. I mean, it’s obviously not me. We just met, but I’m not sure how he wants me to reply. And, just for the record, I’d also like to know who that girl is. He told me he has never had a girlfriend. Hmmm . . .
With a sexy smirk, he says, “I’ll never reveal her identity.”
Mercifully, it’s our turn to order, and the woman behind the counter couldn’t care less that Johnny Knite is going to be eating the restaurant’s food. She looks haggard and as if she just wants to make it through the lunch rush.
“Order for me,” he says, handing me the menus.
The counter is high—like almost to my chin. I raise up on my tiptoes to speak. “We’d like a side of red beans and rice, cabbage, a soft-shell crab po boy to split, and a bread pudding.”
“Drinks?” she asks as she writes up our ticket.
I look at Aaron. He says, “I’ll have an iced tea.”
“I’d like a bloody Mary.”
The V forms between his brows again.
“What? They’re like known for them.” Plus, I’m celebrating my new life.
The woman hands me a number and I walk away to grab a table—preferably one in the back corner. Aaron pauses, giving the fangirl a hug before joining me.
As soon we’re out of ear shot, he says, “So why did I have to stalk you to find you?”
“What? I want to talk about the fangirl.” I have so many questions I want to ask.
We sit down at a table for four, but he’s next to me. His demeanor has shifted back to into that of the Aaron I’m familiar with. His voice is not as deep, and it’s raspier again. He’s no longer the model or the bad boy rock star. Aaron is back to being Aaron, still cool but much more real.
He gives her general direction a dismissive wave of his hand. “That just is what it is. You said you couldn’t have lunch with me. You said you were working all day. I dropped you off at your building. The next thing I know you’re wandering all over the city by yourself.”
My teeth grind together. “How do you know all of that?” I ask as I tilt my head to the side.
This time he gives me the dismissive hand gesture which just makes my body hot with anger. I reach under the table and flick his crotch.
His eyes grow wide with surprise. “Ouch. Don’t do that again,” he says, leaning away from me.
“Then don’t dismiss me when I ask you a question.”
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br /> “Okay . . . okay . . .” he replies as he grabs his phone and unlocks it. “I set up Find My Friends on your phone.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I shake my head. “Stalker. And for the record, I haven’t quite made peace with the idea that you were a fan of NoPinkCaddy and arranged to bump into me. Creepy. Not to mention that you funded Bethany’s charity. It’s all a little much, Aaron.”
He ignores my accusations. “It notified me when you left your office. I thought you were coming back to my house, but when you didn’t I had to find you to make sure you were okay.”
I grab his face and turn it so he looks into my eyes. “Quit ignoring me. I’m not okay with being stalked.”
He seems to deflate and grow very serious as he rests his phone on the table. “What I did was no different than what that girl just did to me. Fans think they know you and seek you out.” He pauses and takes my hand, squeezing it as if he’s trying to prevent me from leaving him. “Let’s be real, MK. You put your life on social media. Did you expect not to have fans?”
Thinking for a moment, I reply, “Sure. Yeah. I guess. I just didn’t think I would ever be stalked by them.” I emphasize the word stalk.
His jaw looks uncomfortably tight. “And that’s why I worry about your safety constantly. If it was so easy for me to meet you, what about all the fucking lunatics out there? You’re beautiful and smart and just about the ideal girl in any fucking creep’s eyes. And you live your life like some kind of free spirit, a vagabond. I’ve watched you walk down the street. You’re not checking over your shoulder and aware of your surroundings—you’re too busy dancing with homeless men and picking goddamn flowers.”
I think Aaron just admitted he followed me home Sunday morning. Wow. I didn’t notice. Maybe I am the free spirit, the vagabond he’s accusing me of being. But I’m not conceding on this point. I can’t be followed. “Aaron, I’ve survived thirty years on this planet without someone watching over me. It’s not your job to be my guardian angel.”
He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “And it’s a good goddamn thing you did, because you were waiting for me to ensure I could keep you alive for at least another sixty.”