This is an excerpt from my first book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy. The first section is available for free. If you haven’t read a sample from my book yet, I’d recommend starting with chapter one. The book is also available on Amazon.

 

Chapter 7. I Need a Wife or a Chef

 

With the smell of marijuana lingering overhead, I eavesdropped on a conversation between two women walking behind me.

“I’ve smoked weed in public before,” one said.

“Me too,” the other replied.

“I haven’t,” I said to myself.

And as their slurred voices trailed off, I wished I’d done a little more living. I wished I had more stories and adventures in my backlog.

Kingfish offered low-price liquor and appetizers until seven o’clock. At the entrance I noticed a short Asian gal, smiling and holding an armful of menus. For reasons I can’t logically explain, she terrified me. My social anxiety—a disorder I’ve suffered from since the age of twelve—still has the capacity to control my behavior; the disorder often manifests at random and absurd moments when no real threat exists.

The bar wrapped around the corner onto the next block. I stopped to regain my composure. Peering through a window, I noted Kingfish had a comfortable but casual atmosphere, featuring an elegant liquor display, brick walls, and soft lighting.

I reversed course. The 22-year-old woman who’d intimidated me moments earlier was an amiable host. She promptly mentioned it was happy hour for another forty-five minutes and showed me to the bar, where a young female bartender took my order. Although the half-price beer was an enticing option, I decided to try something different, something that would hopefully offset, to some degree, my lack of style and sophistication.

“The Sazerac,” I said, pronouncing the drink name slowly. “Is that how you say it?”

“Yes, it is,” the bartender said.

“Just like it sounds. I’ll try that one.” The Sazerac is a signature New Orleans cocktail containing rye whiskey (or cognac), Herbsaint, and bitters.

I sipped on my classy red drink, with its decorative lemon peel floating at the surface, and reviewed Kingfish’s menu. As a clueless bachelor, I had little to no interest in fine dining. If the bartender had shoved a salty and preservative-dense Hungry Man meal in front of me, I would have been perfectly satisfied.

A friend of mine scrutinized my poor diet once. Then he issued this stern warning to me: “That shit’s going to catch up with you someday.”

I peeled open my favorite frozen dinner of all time, the Stouffer’s Lasagna with Meat and Sauce, and agreed with him. “You’re right,” I said. “I need a wife or a chef.”

No wonder I’ve been single for most of my adult life.

Over the preceding week, I’d tried a few classic New Orleans dishes, including the Jambalaya, a rice, veggie, and meat entrée, but I hadn’t exactly taken a comprehensive culinary tour of the city. On this evening I wasn’t in the mood for any sweet or spicy or slow-cooked dishes. Rather, I was in the mood for something . . . cheap.

“I’ll start with the gumbo,” I told the bartender.

In the kitchen, they kept the happy-hour favorite ready, hot, and available on-demand. I devoured my hearty bowl within a matter of minutes. It was the first meal I’d eaten that day. I was still hungry and ready for more budget-friendly cuisine, so I ordered another round of gumbo, plus a second cocktail.

When my food arrived, the attractive black woman sitting next to me commented, “First time ordering gumbo?”

She wore a revealing black dress and spoke with a neutralized Louisiana accent.

“Yeah,” I responded, shocked that she’d acknowledged my existence. “Does that surprise you?”

She shook her head kindly but unconvincingly. “You should try it with hot sauce.”

“I’m not into hot stuff.” After I silently scolded myself for that half-witted remark, I continued, “But I’ll give it a try.” I removed the Tabasco Sauce from the condiment tray in front of me.

“Just a couple drops, then stir.”

I followed her instructions. “It’s good. Thanks for the tip.”

I should have bought her a drink. But then my inner voice interrupted our conversation and delivered this monologue: She’s like twenty-seven or twenty-eight, I said to myself. That’s almost too young. I don’t even have a fucking job. Why would she be interested? Attractive black women only date confident, rich, or ripped white guys like Robert DeNiro and Jason Momoa. Is Jason Momoa part black? Is anybody watching us or judging me right now? It almost certainly won’t go anywhere. I’m leaving in two days. Maybe that’s enough time though. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I look like a slob. Why didn’t I dress better for this? I really should save my money. . . .

I swear, on some nights my subconscious mind is the worst wingman ever, there to distract and disorient me at every turn.

She rotated her barstool away from me and toward her friend. I was disappointed in myself but also relieved. At least I could say goodnight to my obnoxious wingman.

Moments later a middle-aged gentleman wearing a vintage Seattle Mariners cap strolled through the front door and took a seat next to me. I welcomed the influx of testosterone.

“I’m from Washington,” I said. “And a long-suffering Mariners fan.”

“Me too,” the man said. “What are the odds?”

He introduced himself as Andrew and ordered an old-fashioned. After no more than five minutes of introductory chatter, we established a bond and became friends—at least for the night. Andrew was an executive at the Aspen Foundation, a non-profit organization that endeavors, per its website, to address the world’s biggest and most complex problems. He was in town to oversee a community development project.

When he inquired about the reason for my visit, I told him the full story. He interjected with questions and anecdotes of his own as I described our journey and the events that preceded it.

“Have you ever seen the movie Chef?” Andrew asked.

I hadn’t. He said our story reminded him of the film, which chronicles a father’s cross-country road trip with his son.

Recently I saw the movie. There were parallels between the fictional chef’s trip and ours. They stopped in New Orleans and so did we. One of the chef’s specialties was brisket, and we ate brisket at a barbecue joint in San Antonio.

There were stark differences too. The chef, played by Jon Favreau, was an accomplished professional who’d previously worked at a prestigious Los Angeles restaurant. I was a flunky security guard for the worst security company in the state of Washington, if not the entire country. He was a hardcore, to-the-bone foodie. As I said earlier, I’m a guy who’d be content eating frozen dinners forever. And you recall the title of this chapter, right?

But Andrew was ultimately correct. The fundamental themes of both stories were the same—family, the pursuit of happiness, and redemption.

The bartender asked me if I wanted another drink. “Sure,” I said, intoxicated. “I think I’ll try an IPA this time.”

“That one’s on me,” Andrew said.

“No, you don’t have to do that,” I objected.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

On television—just a few weeks prior to Kobe Bryant’s premature and tragic death in a helicopter crash—LeBron James and the Los Angeles Lakers faced off against Brad Stevens’s Boston Celtics. With roots in both New England and the Puget Sound area, Andrew supported Seattle’s Mariners and Seahawks but remained a fervent Celtics fan. I don’t follow the NBA, but I knew enough about the league to maintain a basketball discussion without sounding like an idiot. Good thing, too.

The customer sitting next to Andrew was Scott Cacciola, a sports columnist for The New York Times. He and Andrew debated Boston’s playoff prospects and reviewed some other noteworthy happenings around the league. I made one respectable contribution to the conversation, referencing Seattle’s dear departed Supersonics. Scott was in town to cover the NBA debut of Zion Williamson, the number-one pick of the 2019 draft and newest addition to the New Orleans Pelicans. He’d appear in his first game the following night.

In the third quarter, Andrew announced he’d be leaving soon to catch a show at The Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street. He described the venue as “the place in New Orleans to see jazz tonight.” Dominic Grillo, a white but not “too white” saxophonist, would be the featured performer.

Andrew encouraged us both to attend the concert. Scott politely declined, saying he had research to do back at his hotel. I have a limited tolerance for fun and people. And by now, I was fast approaching my max socialization threshold for the year. I passed as well.

Before he paid his tab, Andrew handed his card to both Scott and me. We didn’t need Scott’s card. “I’ll find ya online,” I said. And then the three of us went our separate ways, forever most likely, into the arms of the brisk and wide-open New Orleans night.

I’d posted a social media update earlier that day. On my bus ride back to the RV park, I received a message from Cassie, a nurse and one of my former co-workers. “I’m glad you are having such a wonderful journey,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m shitfaced on a shuttle after another day of heavy drinking in the French Quarter and in the midst of a midlife crisis, but it’s all good.”

“Why are you having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m 35 with no career, no wife, no kids, no career, and no prospects.” I said career twice, probably because I was drunk—or maybe it was a Freudian slip of sorts.

“I’m 29 and have two kids with two deadbeats. It could always be worse.” She added an “lol” at the end of her message.

We hit a pothole. As I favored my injured shoulder and moaned quietly, I realized I’d been living my life under a flawed supposition, commonly held by drunks and depressives, that my pain was special or unique somehow.

I didn’t text Cassie back until around midnight, after making a stop at the RV park’s bar. “Yeah, I don’t know who has it worse,” I said. “But you deserve better and at least you have cool kids! Hopefully I can sleep this off. Talk to you later.”

 

* * *

 

In March of 2020, at the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, I wrote a thirteen-thousand-word blog post chronicling my Big Easy benders and experience. For this book I condensed that blog post down to seven thousand words.

Up next, in part two, I’ll introduce you to heroic medical professionals, a motley crew of meth heads and certifiable lunatics, and other characters who changed the trajectory of my life and travels. My search, for the purposes of this book, began in New Orleans and continued all through the plague era. But my story begins in Washington State.