The Little Jewel of New Orleans

Welcome to Los Angeles, where Los Angeles is an hour drive to Los Angeles.  On these highways, motorcycles rev between gridlocked traffic lanes, tossing a downward hand of appreciation to the vehicles that treat them like ambulances and swerve way out of their way.  The surface streets are no better, typically finding heavy traffic as well, except with complicated intersections.  Drivers go steady through yellow lights leaving two or three left hand turners to go after the light has turned red.  The homeless mull around like zombies in the early hours and report to work on their highway ramp corners with astonishing dependability.  Young, attractive people live in ugly run-down complexes devoid of any architectural significance, where old elevators scrape up and down washed-out orange stucco facades, and rusted gates lift to exit the underground parking.  In most any other American city, these apartments would be economical, but in the neighborhoods of central LA, tenants pay more than a Midwesterners mortgage…by a lot. This city! Where fine restaurants are located in corner strip mall corners, with faded paint and vape stores for neighbors.  It’s simple economics really: expensive leases in short supply thin the budget.  There’s nothing left to make the necessary upgrades and basic outer beautifications.  Thus, we get a reverse façade of dumpy exteriors for quality locals.  Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of traditional facades here too.  Beautiful Rodeo drive with the litter and stench of the city creeping in just on the other side of the block springs to mind. The city is full of this incongruity.  Lines of tourists tread the piss-stained stars on the walk of fame.  Influencers, music industry, movies and television, all flock here, providing the contrast of beautiful people in trash littered sidewalks, exotic cars in fender bending highway grids, the production of outer space in a Hollywood basement (as the band sings).  But one thing LA is not short of, is characters.

“Do you wanna be sick of shrimp?”  “Do you like shrimp?” “You ever had blackened shrimp?”Yes, was my tentative answer to I don’t know which of his rapid-fire questions.The inspector pointed from the rooftop to a direction west of downtown by a few clicks and stated excitedly, “there!”

There was a periodic breeze from this height, and the city haze seemed mild. There would still be a few hours of sunlight.Is that dodger stadium on that hill I asked, turning my head over my right shoulder.A disinterested “yeah” as his arm guided my shoulder back to the view over Chinatown.  Somehow this familiar contact, while unorthodox from a stranger, seemed natural and unobtrusive, even somewhat humorous due to his obsessive focus.

“Do you like spicy food? Cajun foods?” his voice had the zoomies again; he must be hungry.  His eyes blazed wide open above heavy puffy bags that seemed to stretch the surrounding tissue tight and glossy.“Or maybe it’s there, do you have google”  he asked rhetorically pointing to what appeared to be the same location.

I felt like I was suddenly pacifying the insistent nagging of an aging parent.  I’ll try the cream for my rash, thank you, I’ll try it, I promise.

You know, what the hell.  “I’m game to try it right now.” 

The restaurant that is, not the cream.

My driver, the inspector, had access to these city buildings and rooftops.  Whether this was part of the normal operating procedure was a bygone conclusion.  We’d left the textbook back when the meter shut off as soon as I uttered the words “I have some time to kill.”  Quite dramatically, the inspector had slammed off the meter and said “so do I! Im dwiiindling, I’m receeeeding.”  Then forcefully, with a child’s face of seriousness and looking straight at me “I demand a break” An awkward giggle escaped me and I knew the sane choice was to get out of the cab then and there, and away from this apparent lunatic.   Was this a charismatic personality with a rotten core, or just a case of genuinely strange and uninhibited?  

The tanned leather face had turned to greet me in the back seat and the wrinkles of his gremlin skin stretched tight into a wide smile revealing moist tongue and sparce teeth.  “I’m a city inspector with access to Chinatown, believe me, it’s uplifting work”.   He delivered the news like a cheerful genie informing me that he’ll grant three wishes.  I didn’t know what that meant, nor what it would mean if I were to utter “sure”, as I did, but we are now taking in the city from the top of the LACER building, getting excited about shrimp po boys.

The Little Jewel of New Orleans is a restaurant slash watering hole, in an industrial section of LA’s Chinatown.  We enter to order some sandwiches and drinks to a soundtrack of KC and the Sunshine bands hit give it up…The smell of nagchampa wafts over from the attached general store that is well stocked in obscure beer and hot sauces.  Plenty of indoor (or outdoor seating) in this joint, brightly colored, and heavily decorated in Louisiana themes.  Overhead the PA system is gargling orders like a broken signal from a distant water galaxy.  The music must be on extreme shuffle, as now, an old-timey woman is currently lulling us through the menu of fried oyster, catfish, soft shell crab, and seemingly endless other selections.  

Too many options, best to stick with what brought us here to begin with: the blackened shrimp po boy.

While the inspector orders, I look at my receipt to see the checkout guy’s name: “shaggy”

Ha, yeah that’s about right, he stands with long brown hair capped with a backwards black thrasher cap, mostly unkept, septum pierced with heavy stainless hardware common in the 90’s…completely amiable and fully present in his work.  His side profile reflects in the hallway mirror on the way to the bathroom.  The wall murals surround the aged mirror, with painted golden frills climbing up the side with a green jewel on the right side and the fleur-de-lis on the left.  Above, in red, arching cursive it reads “Hey! Good lookin’” with downward peering eyeballs and eyebrows drawn into the first set of “O’s”, eyeballs and feminine eyelashes in the adjacent set, and a pointing finger reminiscent of Uncle Sam’s down below.

We head to the window seat, black iron bars protecting the off hours, and a signed, hanging picture of Guy Fieri in the corner.  Apparently, this place has been charted at least once before, but this is my first go around.  Sometimes the novel is less important anyway, than remembering what has been forgotten.

The inspector is thumping his leg in excitement and sucking his deep south mint julip from a straw at a reckless pace.  He hasn’t forgotten shit.  His blinking smile between sips bears the smudge of green.

Green, in fact, is the predominant color of this place; the floor a rundown black and green checkered linoleum. 

The vision is temporarily blocked by a speeding black SUV with a golden retriever emerging from the back window to feel the wind in his hair.  I think that must be the contrasting image of happiness; a dogs head out the car window.

A private eye sax blares overhead, catching my attention as our food arrives.

There seem to be 5000 shrimps between this bread. I think I may hate shrimps come the last bite after all.  A few shrimps come squirting out of the inspector’s greedy mouth as he takes an ambitious bite and begins talking straight away.

There are framed posters of old Cajun movies, featuring various seductresses throughout the decades.  Now that the shrimp was here, the inspectors OCD had been triggered by the films.   He was asking me if a siren such as found in Gator Bait was a good or bad character.  I suppose, leaning on my knowledge of Greek sirens, they must be bad, though I had to admit, I often like the villain best.  

I searched for any reaction he may have to my wit.  He appeared to be all business as if working out some problem I had presented him with.

“Perhaps you are right but let me tell you how Hollywood gets it wrong” he was saying.  “Forget the starlet movies, villains, on a wholesale level, are too relatable, too principled, too antihero.” He watches a shrimp spill from his held sandwich.  “Equally bad; the hero is way to reactionary, dependent on stopping the evil guy with the plan.  Both have skills and virtues, just different aims, and all too often, the hero is just a Polo to the nemesis’ Marco.”

“So, you mean Batman is no more than a bellhop?” I prod, amused while he sinks in another aggressive bite.

“Batman is a fly swatter! an absolute drooling dog to the Pavlovian bell of Gotham’s criminals. So are the X-men, and so are most superhero’s really.  What are they doing positive beyond policing?”

An obscure dance song from the 80’s begins playing. 

He goes on. “Then look at the ambitions of the villain; the mission of Vader, of Voldemort, of Thanos.  They are trying to build, to achieve a new order.  The creative aspect resides with the villain which makes them lovable, admirable.  And here is the point.  True power is in creation.”

Now that he had started in on this, he was winning my attention.  I allowed my eyes to survey the place while my mind thus wandered.  The Jewel had its walls plastered with adornment.  A great Tv hung mute on the side wall with black block closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen.  On either side tilted metal likenesses of jars of mayonnaise, and other placards of Louisiana pantry items, all backed by emerald, green fence boards used to make the partition.  There was a weird charm to it in a strong divey way, only it was lit like a cafeteria.

“You know even real life ‘villains’ are at the outset innovators; your Zuckerbergs, your Bezos, your Musks” I quipped, taking a break from my sandwich for a moment and leaning back in my chair.

But the inspector wasn’t having it.  “I don’t care about that” he chided.

“We are talking about Hollywood here…and of arts interchange on reality…it is a dissertation for some other time afterand if we iron out the nonbinary hero structure.”

“Ok, Ok,” I say, mostly following him while opening my Dragons Milk and pouring it into a glass, wondering now why I chose a stout…I must have been grocery shopping with an empty belly. Or perhaps the label won me over.

 “So when do they get it right? If villain’s are often too admirable, what is the hallmark of an actual, true villain?” I asked.

“This is easy.  It is easy to be a villain.  Everyone has access to becoming a villain, no matter the motivation.  It is a power achieved through ruin, and it is easy to ruin something.  The kid smashing the sandcastle is a villain, the gossip is a villain, the vandal is a villain.”  

“It is as much a critique on the hero” he continues.  “The hero must build something, or be some way, resisting the base urge to spoil it themselves in order to feel powerful.  The despicable villain then, is trying to tear that down.  The true power is in creation.”

The beer has a sharp bite to it, unsuspectingly sharp.  A glance at the bottle shows an ABV of 11%.  Oh shit, that will do it I think.

“Ok, Cinderella?” I fire at him.

He doesn’t miss a beat with his response.  “True hero: keeping a good attitude and perspective, a belief in happy endings and hard working through injustice.  Her stepmother and step sisters: villain’s, trying to block her flourishing and tear her spirit down.  Good example” he finishes coyly. 

“Hmmm” interesting I say. ”so I suppose Robin Hood…” 

“Another hero with appropriate villain’s, same as Peter Pan, or rather Captain Hook really”

A rambling surfer guitar accompanies our musing.

“Indiana Jones” I challenge him, impressed how quickly he can process his evaluations.

“Now it gets messy” he pauses.  “The villains are bad yes, but bad is relative, and they are creating.  Perhaps Jones is destroying what they are creating, thankfully.”

“So Indiana Jones is a good villain?  Sounds like an interesting podcast subject.” 

He had returned to his drink and sounds off his last slurp of Julip with his emptying straw and sets it down, standing up “Come on, let’s get moving.”

“Wait! Is James Bond also a good villain?”

“Absolutely! A role model of power through ruin” 

I suppose it’s all a matter of perspective.

Crossing the street, the day is careening towards darkness.  “Come on, I’ll show you my favorite rooftop parking lot in the flower district, then let’s call it a day huh?”  

I look at him hesitantly, wondering if the ratio of booze in his drink mirrored at all the heavy pours you find on the actual Bourbon Street.  Seems like every story that originates in that French quarter ends with an early fade to black transition.

“Plus, you can see my cars auto drive feature.” 

I’d come this far and still had a spare half hour.  I nod and duck into the back of the cab.

“Can you drop me off at Crypto.com arena after?”

“Of course, the modern day coliseum! It’s close by”  

It was strange to be going the speed limit with clear traffic.  In Los Angeles, the roads are like the lawless seas of old Caribbean, where pirates disregard the limits of proper society.  One could travel at 60mph in a 40 zone and be passed by a F250 going 90.  If traffic is clear, every surface street and highway become the autobon, unless of course you were under the guidance of drivers assist. 

We gazed from the rooftop garage parking lot between 7^th and 8^th, Maple and Wall st., overlooking Skid Row, Downtown, and South Park.  This is the heart of the flower district.  Giant freight elevators serviced this open-air space, horizontal bi parting doors revealing customers wheeling large amounts of fresh flowers to their delivery vans.  Any given afternoon in central Los Angeles, Mexicans, some quite geriatric, would be at every major intersection with fresh bouquets, selling for $10 a pop to drivers at the red light.  This network of street flowers most assuredly originates from one of these fresh flower warehouses, each packing in scores of vendors.  I wonder if it is an organized coop of the street workers, or they are being used as a low-cost fleet for a few on the top.  A depressing or entrepreneurial thought depending on your perspective, but someone is creating capital.  

“You watch sports?” I ask the inspector.

“The Olympics, you know, they have a way of sucking you in.  I’m a Rams fan too, of course.”

“Of course” I parrot.  “Well, I root against their rival; the 49ers, you’ll be happy to know.  Mainly cause I had a boss who was an avid niners fan.”  I don’t actually care about either team, but it’s like voodoo to me when they lose, I picture him butt hurt on the couch in his stupid jersey and crest fallen face.

This elicited a laugh from him.  “Ok dude, enemy of my enemy is friend in my book.  Whelp, let’s get you to your Baston game.”

Everyone butchers the Boston accent, as if it doesn’t have enough problems on its own.

The map showed an 8 minute drive.  The route was orange, so it could have been worse.

“Incidentally, this is why in sports movies, the proper villain is the one who cheats and breaks the rules that create the game; simple.” 

“I suppose the defense would be categorized as villains to the offense, or maybe just shitty hero’s.” I spewed from the back seat.  

“Keep your day job” he said with a wink in the mirror.

I will be watching hockey this evening with new eyes, that’s for sure. 

My evening with the inspector ended street side, but not before receiving one of his official city business cards, offered diagonally between two extended fingers.  He had had trouble fishing it out of his shirt pocket, but I didn’t mind waiting for him.  He scratched his cell number on it in sharpie.  “Don’t send anything crude to my business email…” he said over his reading glasses “but let me know when this is done, and if you need another ride.”  

“Thanks” looking down at the card…”Raoul”  I was at a loss as to what I would ever need to email him, but the precaution bespoke of some past incident, a tale I didn’t have time for right now.

His smile still had a fading greenish hue.

“You know Disney uses green as the color of smoke or accentuation around many of its villain’s?” I asked him as I exited and began shutting the door.  I didn’t catch his response as he talked through the descending passenger window, but he looked excited.

He began slowly rolling forward and leaned his neck back towards me.

“Hey! what’s a prime Disney villain for the road?” He was testing me, to see if I had been paying attention.  I stall to build suspense, though I’ve already thought of an answer.

“Easy, Scar…lets everything go to shit doesn’t he?”  I’m practically yelling to overcome the ambient noise, but the people walking by are unfazed.  I don’t even register on the weird displays of any given LA sidewalk.

“True.” He yells back, his glassy eyes seemed contented. 

Laughing, I tell the inspector “Don’t be Maleficent” with a single wave, and he in turn points at me and hollers “Beware Skynet” before peeling away and leaving me to my next destination. 

That was strange. I gulp a deep breath of night air.  In a “I’m living life to its fullest” sort of way.  I wonder what inspections were like with Raoul. Under his name read “Safety Engineer – Elevators”.  “Uplifting work” I chuckle. 

My walk comes to an abrupt halt.  I should have bought another drink before the arena prices I am about to be slapped in the face with.  

Would it be villainous of me to stop by CVS first? To ruin the economic monopoly of booze of Crypto.com arena by consuming a few shooters?   I decide that sometimes one must embrace their heinous shadow self.  My phone gives me seventeen minutes till puck drop.  To run is the hero’s game.  I pull my hood up as I follow maps waypoint to the pregame pharmacy, and walk, to the hum of the Imperial March.  

Where to go: the little jewel

What to eat: good luck, too many options on this menu, but Shaggy says the most popular is the breaded shrimp po boy

What to drink: try a beer you’ve never had before from the side store, or a house specialty “to-go” cocktail

What to do: keep a sharp eye out for Raoul