Crescent City Connection

people let her keep her seat awhile longer.
    But finally, she went out to the street and simply stood, grabbing any lone male or two males she saw. Her approach was simple and straightforward: “Hey, I’m looking for a ride to New Orleans. You wouldn’t want to go, would you?”
    They all wanted to go. But, alas, they all had previous engagements.
    She had about given up and was blinking back tears, trying to think up a new plan, when a blond man spoke to her, one she’d barely noticed, he looked so conventional. “Well, hey, pretty thing, why’re you so sad?”
    Make it good, she thought to herself.
    Instead she blurted, “I want to go home,” which wasn’t even true, and started to sob. The man opened his arms, gathered her against his polo shirt. She felt the sturdiness of him, the thickness of his chest, and it was comforting.
    “It’s okay. That’s right. Cry now, baby. Go ahead and cry.” He was like some great male mom.
    What a weird thing
, she thought.
I
must be really fucked up—there are no male moms. You call them fathers, right?
    She realized she was starting to calm down.
    “Now tell Sam about it. You tell ol’ Sammy all about it. Let’s just sit on that bench over there and we’ll have a little talk.”
    “I can’t. I mean—do you mind if we walk?” The bench faced the street, and the last thing she wanted was to be conspicuous to cars driving by. What she really wanted was to go inside someplace, but she didn’t want to ask for anything—not yet.
    “We’ll just do any little thing you want.” He put an arm around her waist and started to walk.
    She knew it wasn’t right. It was way too familiar—taking advantage, at this point, rather than offering sympathy. But two things about it—it felt good, and Sam was all she had right now. He might be dicey, he might even be dangerous, but she sensed he had a heart.
    He had a baby face, one of those more or less Irish visages with a smallish pink nose, chubby cheeks, blue eyes, usually a dimple (Sam’s was in his chin), and a curl of blond hair dripping down a broad brow.
    He was a little shorter than Lovelace, but he had heft. Lots of comforting heft. Maybe he worked out, maybe his ancestors had been built like barrels, or maybe it was a combination, but the result was plenty of beef inside his now-damp Ralph Lauren pullover. The shirt was faded purple and he’d tucked it into faded jeans, which in turn topped a pair of running shoes. He might have been twenty-five or he could have been a little older—at any rate, she got the feeling he was a little old for the neighborhood.
    She had the vague feeling he didn’t smell quite right, but it was sufficiently vague that she dismissed it.
    “First of all, we should probably meet don’t you think? I’m Sam Marshall.”
    “I’m Michelle Jackson,” she said, thinking she probably wasn’t fooling him, but at least she hadn’t said “Smith.”
    “Ms. Jackson from Jackson,” he said, and she wondered if he was mocking her.
    She couldn’t be bothered worrying about it. “No, I’m not from here. That is—I was going to move here, but things didn’t work out. Oh, God, I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid!”
    “Easy now. Just take your time.”
    “I came to visit my boyfriend and we had a fight.”
    “Umm-hmm.”
    “And he said he was sorry he’d ever spent a penny on me and I wasn’t worth a penny and he was taking his own back. And he took all my money out of my purse and stuffed it in his pocket and threw my purse out the window. And then …” she thought fast, trying to make it believable that there was no going back “… he leaned over and smacked me across the mouth.”
    “You’ve got to be kiddin’.”
    “And he stopped the car and said, ‘Get out, whore.’ And I just sat there stunned, and he gave me a shove, and I landed on my butt in the street, and he peeled off with my suitcase.”
    “Well, no wonder you’re so shook up.”
    She turned her face and looked into his, about six inches away.
Oh, God, I hope he doesn’t try to kiss me.
    Instead, he said, “Where you from, Ms. Jackson?”
    “New Orleans.”
    “Well, I’ll take you home.”
    “You will?” Finally.
    “Hell, yeah. Been wantin’ to go there myself. Just got to take care of a little business. You wait for me?”
    She nodded, feeling numb. What else was she going to do?
    “Back in ten.”
    She went back in the coffeehouse and found the bathroom. One glance in the mirror