How to be an easy target in the Big Easy

I’m going down New Orleans
I’ve got to see Dr. John
Got my mojo working
Everything will be fine
– Van Morrison

My HOKAs were shined in NOLA.

That’s not a euphemism for something dirty, so get your mind out of the gutter.

Technically, I was in a gutter in the French Quarter when the aforementioned event unfolded, sitting on a curb with my wife near the intersection of St. Peter and Chartres, watching fortune tellers at card tables and a jazz band busking along Jackson Square. Trumpets, saxophones, and trombones flashed like lightning with mercy in the Louisiana sunshine, followed by bass drum thunder, the crack of snares, and the rhythmic burps of a tuba.

By “shined” I mean a real, honest-to-goodness shoeshine.

By “HOKAs” I mean my HOKA Clifton 9 brand running shoes. Not patent leather dress shoes, mind you, but, instead, canvas SNEAKERS.

A sneaker shoeshine was not on the to-do list when charting our first Big Easy encounter. A visit to Café Du Monde, yes. A WWOZ walk-thru, yes. Seeing Kermit Ruffins and Irvin Mayfield perform at Kermit’s Tremé Mother In Law Lounge on a Tuesday night, yes. But a shoeshine, no, especially not for tennis shoes.

I guess I had the right to decline the shine, but I’m of Hoosier ilk – I avoid hurting people’s feelings despite knowing that I’m nothing but a Midwestern mark to them, a turnip wagon refugee on vacation.

As soon as our butts parked on the curb for a brief rest, an older man in a red T-shirt descended like a hungry grackle homing in on beignet crumbs. He kneeled before me, as if proposing marriage, then gripped my bony kneecap, his palm three times the size of my knee.

“Where did you get your shoes?”

What a relief, I thought. He was simply complimenting my HOKAs. I was flattered. Before I could answer, he leaned in closer, and his fingers crept up my leg toward the wallet lump of my front pocket. I was being played like a piano. His spider fingers possessed the adeptness of Professor Longhair rattling the ivories. I bent forward to block the alleged pickpocket’s progression.

He straightened, glanced at my wife. “You have a fine woman. Yes, sir. Where you from?”

“Indiana,” my wife said, before I could lie about living in New Orleans and possibly save our asses.

“Indiana,” he repeated, our state’s name sticking to his tongue like a favorite chorus mired in molasses. It took him 20 seconds to sound out those four syllables. His grin was wolfish. That’s when I knew that he knew that he had us.

“Yes, sir, you have a fine woman.”

“She’s a dandy,” I said.

“I will be your bodyguard,” he proposed and chuckled.

The man leaned in again. His head eclipsed Jackson Square. He pulled a ratty, red rag from his pants pocket, gave it an exaggerated shake as if evicting fleas.

“Those are fine shoes.”

“Tennis shoes.”

“I’m going to shine them shoes.”

“They’re tennis shoes.”

“They still need shine.”

His left hand found my right ankle, gave it an anaconda squeeze. The man was a human bear trap. My lack of protest was interpreted as consent. I was destined for a shoeshine.

He wasn’t the first street denizen to prey upon us. Earlier, a robed, bald guy with sandals and a fistful of beads said “peace” and slid three bracelets up my left wrist, an act that I assumed was a New Orleans custom reserved for new arrivals, similar to lei greeters ceremoniously putting flowers around the necks of arriving tourists in Hawaii. “Thank you,” I said, appreciating the monk-like man’s Crescent City welcome.

“You pay me now?”

I told him the God’s honest truth, “I don’t have cash.”

Undeterred, he snapped his fingers near my face. “Cha-ching,” he said with a sheepish smile.

“No cha-ching.”

“Yes cha-ching,” he persisted, albeit weaker.

“Credit card?” I offered.

Recognizing an impasse had befallen on the robed and the rube, Mr. Peace Train’s smile disappeared, along with my trio of bracelets. Head down, he drifted down Decatur Street like post-hurricane flotsam, muttering something indecipherable. My peace offering was voided. Hell hath no fury like a mock monk scorned.

But back to Jackson Square.

“I’ll shine your tennis shoes. Make your fine woman proud to be with you.”

The shoeshine man held up a small tube. He twisted the cap, squeezed out white cream. For all I knew, it was toothpaste. His rag made circular motions on the tops, sides, and bottoms of my SNEAKERS.

“Finished,” he said, releasing my ankle. “Just look at the shine.”

“You do great work,” I said, even though my sneakers didn’t look any different. The shoeshine shyster stood. I handed him a $20 bill. The earlier bracelet incident had resulted in a visit to an ATM in anticipation of future monk encounters. Our body guard walked away.

Apparently, the only thing easy in the Big Easy was me.

My wife and I rose from the curb, our perch of vulnerability. Stepping from the gutter, the burps of the tuba revived our enthusiasm for Crawfish Town, as did the Jazzmen who sang, “While you stroll in New Orleans, you ought to go see the Mardi Gras. If you go to New Orleans, you ought to go see the Mardi Gras …” Though $20 lighter, we continued to indulge in the sights, sounds, and food, knowing there was no other city for which we could care more.

Scott’s new humor collection, Quietly Making Noise, is available on Amazon. Contact him to be a guest speaker at one of your gatherings. Contact: scottsaalman@gmail.com.