Harold

I'm in a town called New Orleans. It's having a party next week. It's called Fat Tuesday.
I left the city that never sleeps whilst it was having a power nap. Six thirty am I was on the bus to the airport, as I've said.

I flew away from Newark and looked at Manhattan getting smaller. I thought about those now tiny people that I met. The girl from the bar, lying in her bed somewhere, all warm and cosy. She was a doll. The crazy dutch guy, probably shivering outside the hostel, chewing his face off. Noah's cousin at Columbia, having studious dreams. All staying there. All getting smaller. 

I looked towards the sun and my tiny body chased it across the horizon. In a winged bus. I thought about where I was going, but was unable to comprehend it at all, so I went to sleep. 

I landed in town 5pm after changing at Atlanta. I stepped off the plane and it was warm. It smelt like France in August. I lit a cigarette and went in search of booze. I had a chicken sandwich and skulled a couple of beers. I set myself at the taxi rank and waited.

I got picked up by a man called Harold. We drove out of the airport as the sky went violet. There were lots of people talking to me from large wooden boards on the side of the road. A woman called Pamela Shoon invited me to gamble at a hotel, though immediately underneath her message she asked me if I had a gambling problem, and if I did to ring a long number I don't recognise. A scantily clad young girl asked me if I wanted to go to a barely legal party on Bourbon, I thought about it, but I had no answer for her. A vicar with white teeth propositioned me to praise with him every Sunday at a baptist church, I declined his offer telepathically.

A man drove past us with trees in his truck, he was driving fast, the trees were swaying as if they were planted in the ground. We caught the tree man up on Claiborne as the traffic severely bottle necked.

Harold taught me about New Orleans, the history of it. He was extremely passionate about his heritage. He told me about conquistadors and Marco Polo. He told me about trade from London and the beginning of the new world. He said he has written a book about it. It is called 'Automania', it's his history class, told through the eyes of a cabbie. I told him he should publish it. I told him about England and my excitement to be here.

Harold said I was too wise to be twenty one years old.

I called Harold a sage and asked why he was driving cabs. 

Harold chuckled and said "Cos I meet people like you son" That made me feel warm inside.

He took me on a long detour and let me grasp the geography of the town. We carried on talking. I believe I felt the same way as I would meeting God. Or Morgan Freeman in a (Bruce/Evan) Almighty film at least.

I stepped out the cab and we man hugged. 

"Goodbye Harold"

"Goodbye my son. You stay safe and keep God in your heart you hear me?"

I smiled and told him I will try.

Im in my hostel now, it is colourful and warm. I am sleeping in a hut outside, right next to the pool. Yes, it has a pool. The staff are very nonchalant and I like that. There are rugs on the floor and a warm fire crackling. There is a large tub of condoms in the bathroom, reminding everyone to 'stay safe'. Maybe Harold put them there. Incense burns and there is a pond outside. I like it here. 

It is in a quiet neighbourhood, where a young man plays the trumpet on the sidewalk. I like that a lot. There don't seem to be any restaurants nearby, so this is my next port of call. After that, beer. I suppose.