Otha

I knew a guy who couldn't stop smiling. Seriously. He couldn't not smile. It's like his lips were permanently twisted upward in this sort-a-grin. It made everyone think that he was laughing about something, or just being nice. Everyone liked him because, well, how could you not like someone who was smiling all the time? There was something wrong with him.

His name was Otha and we met for the first time at the Foxhead. I'd just finished playing a show at the Mill and wandered over with W and Z. They started playing a game of pool and then this guy in slacks and a button-up, black shirt walked over to me saying that he'd seen the show and liked it.

"So, you're Pete Doherty," he said.

"I'm not that Pete Doherty," I snapped. Fuck that guy.

"I didn't think you were," he said. That's when I noticed he was smiling. He probably was smiling before I noticed, too, but I didn't notice. So, maybe he wasn't. I'll never know, just like pretty much everything else.

"I'm Otha."

"What the hell kind of name is Otha?"

"It's my name."

Then I smiled. "Catch-22," I said and didn't expect him to get the joke, but maybe he did because, well, he was still smiling. Then S walked up to me.

"I didn't know you were in town?" S said. He was wearing his tattered old brown leather jacket and looked ill.

"You never know I'm in town!" I said. And it's true, he never does.

"Because you're never in town," he muttered.

"If you just checked the damn website..."

"Or you could just fucking call me."

"Should I call you every time?" S is needy. He misses people. I sometimes think that he doesn't realize the world works without him.

"It'd be nice and infrequent. You're never in town. Did you just play a show?"

"Yeah, at the Mill."

"What's your band's name now?"

"Johnnie Licking Omar."

"You're serious?" Then he noticed Otha. I chuckled when he took a step back. "Oh, hi," he said.

S invited us back to the house around the corner. There was a party, he said, and it would be fun. So, after the drink, we all walked over, across the street, through Dirty John's parking lot and to the house on the corner. Otha followed. I wasn't surprised and, since S didn't object, didn't mind.

"So, what do you do?" Otha asked S.

"What do I do?" S asked, looking at him strangely. He was always doing that, looking at people strangely. "I breathe? I walk? I'm a student. I don't do much. What do you do?"

"I'm a traveler."

"A traveler?"

"I'm a travel writer."

That got S's attention. "A travel writer. What are you doing in Iowa City?" he asked.

"You repeat people a lot. And I'm just passing through."

"That's why everyone's in Iowa," S muttered. "But, seriously."

"I'm crashing with a friend. This is supposed to be a great party school and I wanted to see it."

The party was a gathering of about ten of S's friends. There was pizza baking in the oven and we walked in just as Waking Life was winding down. I knew some of the people there, they were acquaintances, people that I would talk to on the street. The place looked like every Iowa City apartment I had ever seen: old, off-white plaster, filled with character and scars from previous student crashers.

After the movie finished we all got drinks from the kitchen, PBR, and went out to the iron fire escape to smoke. All ten of us. S wondered what would happen if it fell and I asked him what would happen? Two of S's friends were conversing in French. They were majoring and had just returned from a year abroad. Otha joined in the conversation and I lost them for a while.

A few minutes later, one of the French majors switched over to English. "What's that phrase in French for the desire to jump off a cliff when you're standing at the edge?"

"L'appel du vide," said the other. "I love that they have a phrase for that."

"The French are all drama queens," Otha said.

The first French major turned to him, "Oh, you're English is excellent."

"Well, I'm glad," he said. "because that's my first language."

"But, you're French," said the second.

"No, I'm American."

"You're fucking with us," said the second. "You just talked about going to school in Lyon."

"I did. But I'm American."

"You're accent is great," continued the second, "but you don't have to pretend."

"No, seriously, I'm American. Look, I have a driver's license."

They argued for about ten minutes until finally the two French majors agreed that he must be American. The party lasted for hours after that. We talked about music and hipsters, all of them agreeing that, no, they couldn't be hipsters.

At the end of the night, as everyone was leaving, Otha and I walked down the stairs together. "Hey," he said over his shoulder, "you need a keyboardist?"

"What?" I said.

"For Johnnie Licking Omar?"

"Yeah, sure. But aren't you leaving town, like, tomorrow?"

"Nah, I'm staying for a bit."

He was still smiling like he was just remembering a joke. "So," I said. "Are you really American?"

"No. And I'm not French either." He waved and walked off. And that's how Otha joined the band.

Bring It, Mardi Gras

The other day, driving home from work in the shadow of raised I-10, we were talking about Mardi Gras. It's surprising how rarely Carnival has come up in conversation outside of work where it's simply a useful excuse to ask for money. Whenever someone  does mention it, Mardi Gras, there is something ominous about the words. There's weight to it. Like throwing two stones into the waters of a conversation. Mardi Gras.

So, we were talking about It. My roommate, J, neighbor, A, and Mr. J who has lived for several years in New Orleans since the Storm. J said, "You know, I've heard a lot about Mardi Gras. But I just have this feeling that I have no idea what I'm getting myself into."

"That's good," Mr. J said, his soft no-nonsense voice graving. "Because you don't."

There are telltale signs all around the city, but there have been all year. If you walk through any park and look up at oak boughs, you'll see hundreds of beads hanging there, the Bones from Carnivals past. I think that people resign themselves to Mardi Gras, rather than anticipate it.

Last night we all went to Tipitina's to see Papa Grow's Funk, Glenn David Andrews, and the Funky Meter. We started out at Balcony Bar, but M insisted that we move. "The lead guitarist for this band is great!" M said. "Haven't you ever heard James Brown say 'Take it away!' This is the guy he was telling to take it away."

So we went. The music was phenomenal and everyone danced, even me, which was odd. I lost my voice somewhere around 11:30, hunching over the bar, competing with and losing to the music. Around that time, M sauntered up to me.

M shouted, "Are you having a good time?"

I thought about it for a moment, mustered my vocal chords and said, "Yeah. I am."

M grinned. "That's my favorite thing in the world. Seeing people experience New Orleans. And you're just about to see the best of it. It's Mardi Gras."

Yesterday, a friend of mine who has lived in New Orleans for several years offered me this advice: "Write your address on your arm in sharpie. Maybe a friends' phone number, too. You never know what may happen. This guy I know ended up without his wallet and phone and too drunk to find his way home, but he'd written his address on his arm, so somebody threw him in a cab and he made it back safely."

This evening it's Krewe du Vieux, one of the first parades of the season. I am going into the Marigny to attend the parade with a friend's house as home base. I do not know what to expect and I'm content with that. I go to this Carnival without expectations or anticipation. I invite the Most Unique City in America to entertain me, Goethe's Faust-style.

So, New Orleans, I'll agree to this wager.  Nur rastlos betätigt sich der Man. Satisfy me. I dare you.

So, You're the Grant Writer

My landlord introduces me to everyone saying, "This is Sam, my housemate.  The grant writer."  At first, I found this flattering, but lately it's becoming a little unnerving.  My identity, it seems, is inseparable from my duty as an Americorps member.

The past week has been a Harrowing trial of orientation and job training.  My colleagues are all, predictably, very well educated, adventurous individuals with some pretty impressive stories.  Whenever we have to introduce ourselves, we do so going around the room, rattling off some personal details and stories and then fading in with the rest of the exceptional lot.  This has not been the case for me.  It seems every time I say my name, one of my superiors looks at me with an intrigued, hungry look and says, "So, you're the grant writer."

When I worked for the Iowa State Seed Lab a few winters ago I remember being introduced to all the researchers and staff.  All of them were middle aged professionals in white coats.  The HR woman then pointed into a corner office where a young woman in a blue bandana and grungy clothes sat slouched over her computer wearing gigantic headphones.  "And that's our grant writer," said the HR woman.  The grant writer waved without looking up.

That's what I feel like I'm supposed to be.  Some harried goblin, squirreled away in the corner who has worked out an understanding, a pact with the world around him.  Leave me the fuck alone and I will bring you Money.

My week has felt much like I imagine life must be for a priest at Notre Dame.  Called to a position of peace and contemplation and surprised to find Americans at every turn.  Unable to find Solace anywhere else, I've mostly locked myself in my room with A Dance With Dragons, my notebook and trying to avoid listening to Simon and Garfunkle's "I Am a Rock."

But, I have a Desk.  And I've found coffee shops, bananas, bars, and Bourbon Street.  Mostly I'm very happy to have a desk for the first time in my life, one where I shall conduct Work and Business.  Furthermore, it is not as hot here as I thought it would be.  I mentioned this to one of my colleagues, the PR woman.

"Yeah, it's a cultural thing, really.   Everyone loves to complain about the heat even though it's the same heat every year," she said.

These are my very muddled thoughts right now.  I have sequestered myself in the Who Dat Cafe and have spent the afternoon writing and reading.  A good day by any measure.  Still, this is a poor excuse for a post.  Please forgive me.

I have faith that in a few weeks I will get my barring and suddenly everything will become clear.  But last night my landlord told me, laughing, "You're in New Orleans now!" as if to negate all further discussion on subject of clarity.  He added, "One thing I will say about this city is that it's a great place to grow.  To find yourself.  It's a free place.  As far as the nightlife goes, alternative lifestyles, music, sex, drinks, all that stuff."  Now I have a mental association between being young in New Orleans and an erection.

A few minutes later, the musician who moved in next door, also my landlord's tenant, texted him.  The guy hasn't been paying rent.  The landlord is prepared to change the locks.  My landlord stared at the phone, baffled and angry, and then looked at me saying, "Do you know what he did today?  When I asked him for rent, he gave me a poem!"

This evening I shall go out and sing karaoke.  I only hope they have the Gin Blossoms, Oasis, and Counting Crows.

Waiting for Pete Doherty

When Peter Doherty (no relation to the Libertine's drunken, reckless front man) came back to Iowa it was the end of Autumn.  He didn't tell anyone and so I was shocked when I saw him at the corner of Washington and Linn, on his way to Record Collector.  He saw me first and shouted "Sam!"  I didn't recognize him immediately because he was wearing slacks and a baby-blue dress shirt.  His hair was cut and he was wearing glasses.  I didn't know he could exist without a Ragstock shell of tattered jeans and second-hand leather.

He walked across the street and shook my hand.  "It's me, Pete," he said, accustomed to reminding everyone who he was.  After the Apologies, we promised to get together for coffee, or a drink, or whatever.

Months passed, as these things usually go, and we didn't see or hear from each other until close to a year later, last week.  On a whim, I went for a walk up to the Hilltop Lounge on a warm night.  An ex-roommate of mine said that a writer in Glimmer Train had mentioned it as an Inspiration for some story.  He saw, on the men's bathroom wall, "Rick is back in town," and a story was born.  Pretty tenuous, if you ask me.  But, in Iowa City, there probably isn't a bar that doesn't have the distinction of being an inspiration for some story or another, even Brothers.

Anyway, Pete Doherty was there.  He was playing pool, sleeves of his Blood Red shirt rolled up, with some older guy who looked a little like and talked a little like Charles Bukowski.  I only heard him mutter incoherently and punctuate everything with "Fuck."

"Said we'd get together," Pete said when the game was done.

We walked over to a table with our pint glasses and sat down.  It was surprising nothing broke from mere proximity to the man.  The Hilltop Lounge is a Grungy bar that is far bigger on the inside than it appears outside.  I've never seen more than a dozen people there though.  Thirty year old Budweiser posters or girls in bikinis perpetually smile at the patrons, though I find this association somehow Hysterically perverse.

Something you should know about Pete Doherty: in high school we used to work together at a pizza lounge in Ames and he was That Coworker, the guy who comes in ten minutes late every day because of some other adventure and no one wants to get rid of him because he's not bad at his job and life would be infinitely less interesting without him.  I Loathed him.  His Life was Easy and he could get away with anything.  He was a musician, he drank, he smoked, he hung out with college kids, he had a new girlfriend every week (which seemed mathematically impossible, considering the size of my school) and he had that laid-back the-world-is-ending-and-I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude.  But, I was This Guy to That Coworker, because I kind of worshipped him.

It wasn't until college that we hung out outside of work and I discovered what kind of world he lived in.  He was everything I imagined him to be, which was awful for him because people assumed he was Someone he wasn't.  We accidentally ended up at the same parties and while he sat in the corner playing his guitar sometimes I'd hear the opening lines of some Punk-ish song of his own design and sometimes I'd hear him shout at whatever girl, "I'm not Pete-fucking-Doherty!  I'm from Chicago!"  The more our paths crossed, the more often I heard him screaming the Denials and Differences.  We probably had half a dozen brief conversations in all that time and still, somehow, he remembered me.

Yes, I was surreal sitting with him at the Hilltop Lounge because I think both of us realized at the same time we didn't really have anything to talk about.  That didn't stop us from Trying, though.

"So, what are you doing in town?" I asked.

"Working for ACT, actually," he said.  "I fact-check.  It's more interesting than it sounds."

I got the feeling he didn't want to explain so I didn't ask.  Instead I said, "Do you still play music?"

"Of course," he said.  "I have a band.  We're playing at Gabe's this Saturday.  You should come out."

"I work.  Sorry."

We talked for a long time about Inanities and Shit I'm certain neither one of us really cared about.  It was just a way of passing the time.  Suddenly another round appeared and I'm not sure who bought it, only that we were still drinking and desperately trying to Make conversation.

Finally I asked him, "Why did you come back here?"

He responded almost immediately.  "Because I found a job."

"You were just looking for a job?"  This pragmatic explanation coming from the lips of Pete Doherty was both absurd and disappointing to me.

"Weren't you?"

I shrugged.

He said, "You write, you read, you serve coffee, you sell books.  What's wrong with that?"

And that was a palpable hit.  I heard myself repeating, "What's wrong with that…?"

"Yes," he said.  "It's not all that hard to get what you want."

"You want to live in Iowa City, fact-checking ACT questions?"

"So what if I do?" he demanded.  "I'll be busy for life," he said, as if staying busy were Everything.

It was strange to ask Pete Doherty, "Is staying busy all you care about?"

"Of course not," he said.  "No."

Suddenly, on the radio, we heard The Indelicates moaning, "Waiting for Pete Dogherty to Die."  I didn't say anything out of respect for Pete Doherty's quiet wrath.  When the song ended he said, "Christ, I hate that guy."

"People still ask you if you're the real Pete Doherty?" I joked.

He gave me a cold look.  "People still ask you if you're the real Sam Ferree?"

"No," I laughed and thought about it a little more.  "No.  No one ever has, actually."

We had another round and then walked back through the Iowa City graveyard, stumbling over the freshly green grass and navigating around head stones. When we were almost through, he fell on his back in his business casual out fit and said, "I'm an Ares.  What about you?"

"I'm an Ares, too," I said.

"Doesn't suit you."

"Doesn't suit you either."

He laughed.  "Let's make up new constellations."

So we lay on our backs, tracing out new designs in the stars from the graveyard.  We thought about new, wacky, worthless, and wrong horoscopes until dawn.  Before we left, he stopped by the Black Angel to kiss her on the lips.  "They say I'll die seven days later," he mumbled, grinning.

It's been seven days.  I'm waiting on the call.