City as Art

It’s Mardi Gras in New Orleans! Dancers with painted gold skin, whirling and flipping; a saxophonist, dark hands clasping his liquid-gold horn. The music of the city vibrates. But any busker will remind you, these performances are not free. If you enjoy the show, toss in a buck. It’s all an act; tip the actors. The bums are artists here; perhaps this is why the city revels in its suffering. This is the city that invented soul music.
I cross the white train tracks and walk up the grassy levee. Tourists wander about aimlessly. There are a couple of men, older, weathered: they are shining shoes.
One comes up to me. His hair is shot with white, skin rough as asphalt, voice gravelly, with a deep New Orleans drawl;“Thos’ sum fine shoes you got” he says, pointing to my worn sneakers. “If I kin guess ‘zactly whe’ you got dos shoes, will you lemme shine ‘em?
It was obviously a trick. “You can guess, but I won’t let you shine my shoes.” He holds out a large, rough hand.
“Guess, but you can’t shine them” I say, then accept his hand.
He looks triumphant. “ I say I tell you whe’ you got tho’ shoes an ya got ‘em on yo feet!” He crouches and smears Vaseline from a soda cap on my toe.
“Wait, no…!” I pull my foot back. The man’s face darkens.
“You shook,” he says and pats his knee.
“No, that was a trick, you will not shine my shoes.” I say.
Rage begins to twist his face.Yellow teeth flash and his eyes turn red. I am suddenly afraid; my vision tunnels onto his face, ears ring.
“You ever heard of the murder capital of the world?” he asks softly.The iris of his eyes leaks into the surrounding whiteness.
“You think mebbe you can take me cause I’m old, but I’ll take y’all out befo’ you know wha’ happened”.
People stream by, he would be insane to attack me but he is insane; an arm and a half away, if I break eye contact- blink- he will pounce like a rabid dog. I cannot speak. His face shifts again.
“It’s because I’m black!” he shouts.
“No…!”
Abruptly, he grins mirthlessly. “Man, I can’ believe ya cheat a shoeshiner outta his money. Thas’ low, man. Cheat an hones’ man out a coupla bucks. Thas fuckin low!”
He stares one long moment then his hand flash out so fast I don’t flinch. It brushes the side of my head. He laughs.“I’m jes kiddin’! Man, the look on yo face! Can’ believe y’all gonna stan’ up a fuckin’ shoeshiner like tha. Fuckin’ low! He stands, shakes his head and walks away, leaving me dazed. What a show, I think.
It’s all an act; tip the actors.