Before American Idol

I first met Harry Connick in the seventies. He and his wife, Anita were lawyers around the corner from my office. We both were neophyte lawyers, struggling to pay our bills and taking whatever case walked in the door. Harry and I both supported a man for governor, Gillis Long, and when Harry ran for the first time for DA, he picked up considerable political support from those people who supported Gillis and they became the mainstays of his future political team. He had a son, we all called Boomer, because a friend gave him a set of drums and he banged on them every time I was at Harry's home. Fortunately, one day he got a piano.

Algiers

      I felt this hand shaking me. Back and forth; back and forth, until I opened my eyes. Peering through my sleep-filled globes I recognized the offender immediately. I also recognized the voice when she said, “Get up; right now! You’ve got to get a haircut.”

      “Why?  I don’t need a haircut. I just got one last month.” Any objection voiced to this woman was a losing battle; and I knew it. When my mother wanted me to do something, it was a fait accompli. Either you did it, and did it quickly, or you suffered the unpleasant consequences that stemmed from even the slightest misdemeanor. Those unpleasant consequences were generally linked to a beating with a wooden hairbrush, causing my super-sensitive rear end to redden, like a turkey’s wattle.

     “I’m only going to say this once, boy. Get up, get dressed, and go get a haircut. You’re making your conformation tomorrow morning and Bishop Jones will be there to perform the ceremony.” The bishop’s name was said with such reverence, that I thought we could have been in a receiving line at Buckingham Palace, and as we neared the Queen, her minion announced us, “Ma’am; may I present Ilda Agnes Boylan Abadie of Pelican Avenue in Algiers.” My mother would have bowed as low as she could, which was not very low given the fact she always wore a steel-banded corset about her lower body, impeding her every movement.
     Then the Queen’s snooty minion would have looked at me and with a caustic sneer on his lips, said to the Monarch, “Ma’am, this retched thing trailing behind her is her son, Little Buddy.”

     Well, it was Little Buddy who hustled around the corner to Perkel’s Barber Shop, where a Mister Perkel and Mister Daigle plied their trade, trimming the hair of all legitimate males in our small community of Algiers. There was one other barber shop in town, but only those less fortunate went there and generally came out looking like they had just attended a private screening of A Clockwork Orange.

     As was always the case when I would arrive at Perkel’s Barber Shop, it was crowded. Inside of Perkel’s, a picture window overlooking a green park on one side of the street and the Holy Name of Mary Catholic Church stood mightily opposite the park. My mother never allowed us to enter the church or the church yard, because for some insane reason, she hated all things Catholic. The one exception to her inviolate rule was made for my father; a devout Catholic. A man who went to church every morning of lent and never missed a Sunday, even though an archaic rule in the church forbade him from taking communion because he married out of the church and to a non-Catholic. Still, my mother grudgingly cooked his fish on Fridays, made the pilgrimage on the Algiers ferry to his mother’s house (my grandmother) on alternate weekends, and only rolled her eyes up into her head when a Catholic politician, actor, or priest, said something in my father’s presence. Otherwise she would have uttered a snide comment to whoever was closest to her.

      Immediately across the street from Perkel’s, was Rosenthal’s Drug Store. Now old man Rosenthal was a rare creature himself. He had a hawk-like face with glaring yellow teeth when he smiled, which was not often enough for my taste. He could have played the part of Fagin if only we had an Algiers repertory theatre. There was a long counter in the store where Mr. Rosenthal would serve sodas, malts, and soft drinks, to wash down the over-sweet cinnamon rolls he sold and everyone seemed to enjoy. I had a minor spat with the man when I requested he put another scoop of ice cream in my soda. “Ya only gets one scoop; my boy,” Mr. Rosenthal said. When I insisted on a second scoop, I was banned from the store for a few weeks.

     Once, my father got sick and I was instructed to go around the corner and ask him for some medicine. He gave me a bottle of pink liquid, from which my father took one giant swig and vomited it back into his bed. I’m pretty sure it was the last time we bought any medicine from Mr. Rosenthal.

    On the corner across the park from Perkel’s was another drug store; Calderara’s Pharmacy. I never saw anyone go in or out of there. Presumably they had a few customers, but they must have entered under the cover of darkness. He probably sold a bunch of that pink stuff, like Mr. Rosenthal gave to my father, and that severely hindered his bottom line.

    Once I made it inside Perkel’s hair emporium, the chairs racked up beneath the picture window were filled with middle aged men waiting their turn for one of Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle’s superb coiffures. Before I had a chance to sit down, I noticed something was different. For the first time ever, the third barber chair in the shop had a young man standing behind it, attired in a white shirt and trousers, with scissors poised at the ready. The only problem was, this youthful fellow didn’t have anyone in his chair to clip, and furthermore, he had this faraway look in his eyes, that reminded one of a man in Algiers who used to bay at the moon all night. I remember waking one night to hear this strident scream emanating from in front of my house. For weeks, I didn’t sleep a wink. Finally, I told my mother about the experience, fully expecting her to explain about the horrid murder that happened on our street, but instead, she casually said, “Oh, that was just the Moon Man.” Everyone in this ridiculous village completely ignored this insane man, who nightly howled at the moon like a deranged werewolf.

       As I stood in Perkel’s, I wondered why no one was in the third barber chair for I knew at least five men were waiting for their ritual cut. Glancing around at the other men in the shop, I could see them giggling among themselves, but I didn’t think anything about it. “They are probably saying things to each other about what the older boys talk about doing to the girls in our school. I can’t imagine anyone doing that with a girl.” I must have thought that at the time.

      Finally one of the giggling men said to me, “Little Buddy, why don’t you jump up in the third chair. Mister Perkel’s son will take care of you.”

     Well I knew my mother’s instructions to me were, “Tell Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle you have your confirmation tomorrow and Bishop Gerault M. Jones (a fervent bow of her head) will be there to confirm you.” She didn’t say anything about Mister Perkel’s son doing the cutting. “Cuz if she wanted me to see Mister Perkel’s son, she would have said so,” I thought silently. Paucity of words was not one of the woman’s shortcomings; she told you what she meant and you had better listen, or else.

     “Go on son,” the Greek chorus sang from the chairs. “He don’t bite.”

      My indecision was obvious, but I was afraid to say anything to either Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle; so poor Little Buddy sauntered up to the barber chair, like Marie Antoinette climbing the steps of the guillotine, and plopped down to the elevated giggles of the men seated by the window.

      Before I knew it, Mister Perkel’s son was whipping those scissors around my scalp so fast, for a minute there, I thought he was Edward Scissorhands on one of his outings. When he finished with the scissors, he ran that buzzing thing all around my head, powdered my neck (he spilled great quantities of the powder down my back in the process), took my money and said “good bye” in the kindest fashion.

      On my way out of the shop, I glanced over at the older guys still in the chairs, and their former giggles had morphed into gales of laughter. I couldn’t imagine what was so funny.
    It didn’t take long to find out, because when I arrived home, my mother took one look at Mister Perkel’s son’s masterpiece, and she shouted, “Who did this to you? It couldn’t have been Mister Perkel or Mister Daigle; who was it?”

    “No ma’am, it wasn’t them. It was Mister Perkel’s son. The men made me get in his chair. I couldn’t talk to either of the other barbers before he called me.”

     My mother pulled me by the ear into her bedroom and stood me before a full length mirror. With the hand that wasn’t abusing my ear, she took a mirror and placed it behind my head. Immediately, I saw this checkerboard looking back of my head that had a mixture of small tufts of hair interspaced between great gaps of gouged, naked scalp.

     I was horrified. I knew I couldn’t go before Bishop Gerault M. Jones (head bowed) with my hair looking the way it did. 

     “You go back there right now and tell Mister Perkel to fix what his son did; and I don’t care what he has to do.”

     Back to the barber shop I go, my head was hanging all the way to my chest. I stopped at Rosenthal’s for a quick soda in order not to have to go into to the barber shop while the other men were still getting their haircuts. Finally I crossed the street and entered the shop with the back of my head looking like it was wacked with a meat cleaver. I pleaded my first law case with Mister Perkel and he did what any father would do to straighten out the damage his prodigal son hath wrought. Even after the expert rendering by the maestro, the back of my head still looked like a killing field in the Civil War.

     The next day, my mother was up early to inspect what an overnight elixir had done to my rear scalp as she had generously applied one of Mr. Rosenthal’s ointments to it before I was allowed to get into bed. By her tone, I assumed the ointment hadn’t performed up to its advertised high standard when I heard her say, “It looks worse than it did before. Look at all these scabs.” It appeared, once again, Mr. Rosenthal had let the Abadie clan down.

     As I dressed for the my conformation ceremony, which was to culminate with my taking communion for the first time at the alter in Mount Olivet Episcopal Church on Pelican Avenue in Algiers, my mother slammed this winter knitted cap down onto my head. It reached my eyebrows in front and the nape of my neck in the rear. It was the most ghastly-looking thing I had ever seen. “I’m not wearing this,” I wept and dragged the offending object from my head.

     “You’re wearing it or I’ll take the hairbrush to you and your back side will look worse than your head does.”

      Needless-to-say I wore the wool hat. I felt such a fool crossing the street to the church. Standing in line with the other confirmees, only the girls and I had on caps. All the boys were teasing me, calling me a girl and things like that, but I sort of rose above them, affecting an attitude of ‘I don’t care what you think.’

     Then a hush came over the parishioners as the back doors to the church opened and there in the frame stood Gerault McArthur Jones, The Exalted Bishop of the State of Louisiana Episcopal Church. He was dressed in a splendid purple robe with several red sashes ringing his massive girth. He carried a long golden staff in his right hand, and he looked capable of parting the Red Sea with it; or in our case the Mississippi River.

     I now understood why my mother lionized this impressive and august man. He smiled at the confirmees and walked among us, much like Jesus did with the lepers, as his golden staff clanged against the stone floor with each step. When he got to me he uttered a sound as if he had finally found the elusive lepers, and in his basso-profundo voice bellowed out, “Take that cap off, boy. In our Episcopal Church, men are not allowed to wear a head covering. You will not approach Christ’s alter wearing that abomination.” With one of his magnificent hands he swept the cap from my head, revealing the scarred scalp for all to see.

     However, as soon as the bishop began his rant, my mother left her prescribed pew and ran down the aisle, like a jilted bride bolting the church and snatched the cap from the hand of the bishop. She plunked the cap back down on my head, practically blinding me, and looked the bishop straight in the eye. She said in a loud voice, “Bishop, let me tell you one thing; he’s wearing this God-damned hat and that’s all there is to it.” 

     Bishop Jones’ name was never again mentioned by anyone in my house. My father must still be laughing; wherever he is.

My Own Week of Mardi Gras Madness

Since the last week and a half I have been unable to exit my street from sunup to midnight because outside, insane people flock to see equally insane groups of individuals riding on these garish portables called floats by most of the cognoscenti, and hurling outlandishly colored beads made in third world countries at those lining the streets. Over these past days, the same usually sane people lining the parade route would murder or seriously maim anyone who attempted to snatch a coveted necklace from their clutches, and think nothing of it. So I am captive on an deserted island with little to do but wait for Wednesday when this foolishness is over.

 As most of you already know I've been elevated to a status where I am only called "Chef" or "Chef Pierre" by those both near to me and those whose names I hardly remember. I've already catalogued my first cooking experience to you and am now giving you the second of my sojourns at the kiln. For those of you who haven't seen my stovetop, I will briefly explain it. It is littered with everything that will not fit anywhere else in the kitchen. To use the word 'kitchen' in my apartment is like equating a Model A Ford to a Maserati. Should I gain five or ten pounds, I will be unable to turn around without either stepping on something or knocking something over. However, one must soldier on and that's precisely what I intended to do. So, as an alternative to Mardi Gras, it's the kitchen for me as I cook another sumptuous meal. This time it was reheating some red beans and rice. Not a very formidable task one might say, but as you will see, it does take a certain amount of cunning to achieve this in my miniature cooking area. The first step in any reheating process is gather your ingredients together in one pot, push all of the accumulated flotsam on the stovetop to the rear of the stove, and turn the knob on this electric marvel to the high position. After placing the beans on the front burner, I suddenly realized that nature's call was overwhelming me and I abandoned my cooking duties to repair to my even smaller bathroom for a welcomed relief. While in the bathroom, this aggressive odor began wafting past my nose which caused me some concern since the beans and rice smelled alright when I removed them from the refrigerator; even though they were a little old. I hastily washed my hands and returned to the kitchen to see that I had inadvertently turned on the rear burner instead of the front one and all of my vitamins were now cooked to a coagulated mush. Even my Zocar (cholesterol medication) were all welded together in a separate vial. If in the next week you do not hear from me, it's because my cholesterol has shot up like a thermometer in scalding water and I am lying on my sofa with the television riveted to the king and queen of Comus bowing and scraping to the king and queen of Rex while the orchestra blasts "If Ever I Cease to Love."