Cinderella, Pt. 1

I’ve been to New Orleans a good couple of times now. Every time I go, I think of something else to add to this story. Grab yourself a Four Roses and Coke for this little Southern Gothic tale I call…

Cinderella

It’s not like I have any reason to go into the Palm/Tarot Reader’s tent: you just do things like that when you’re at the carnival. And I love me some Carnival, or Fair, depending on where you’re from, I guess. Amusements. You know. Corn Dogs. Ferris Wheels…

I’m eating here. I’m eating really bad here. I spend stupid amounts of money for the rides but I rarely play any games. Mostly because I can’t walk around with a giant stuffed Disney knockoff for an hour. Unless I’m with a girl. That doesn’t happen real often, though..

And, you know, like anyone ever wins anything anyway..

That Tarot Card reader, though. That’s the kind of thing the old traveling shows used to do, like Freak and Geek Shows. Not that I ever actually saw them. Not that old. I’ve read things, though…

You gotta realize that New Orleans is chock full o’ Tarot Readers but when you see them every single night coming home from work, well… I don’t hold a lot of stock in either the authenticity or the novelty in such a thing. Not that I really am a huge believer in oracles or magic anyway. Not so much in my line of work. That type of thing might actually scare the hell out of me as a mortician. Or Funeral Director, depending on where you’re from. We don’t mince words down here. You know, in California, they don’t even like ’funeral’ director. They’re calling themselves ‘Grief Counselors’.

Grief Counselors? Just stop all that..

Maybe, I’m thinking, it was the reader herself that got me in there. Young, dark, pretty girl. Tattoos circling around limbs, running in and out of her clothes. You know: Exotic. And I’m not really a sucker for pretty girls. I like them, of course, but that’s not what got me in there. I wasn’t looking for a date or even to flirt a little. No, I’d say she got me in because she was a least attempting to be the Genuine Article.

All those Fat, White Women (and their Bearded Men counterparts) out in back of Jackson Square just don’t click, you know? Might as well advertise on late night TV with a phone number to call.

And yeah, maybe that’s not fair. Okay, I’m biased when it comes to my Fortune Tellers. Who cares? It’s not like I require a stereotype in my doctor or landlord. Just my Carneys, thank you..

She looked like a gypsy, with her tattoos and patched up dress trimmed with tiny gold coins. I could see her through the open flap of her caravan tent. She was sitting there, smoking, actually looking at cards spread out on the table. How cool is that? Actually doing mystical gypsy stuff, not watching TV or flipping through some paperback. Not eating Chinese Take-Out. No, she was at least acting like she was into her work..

I step in and say, “Hi, can I get a reading?’ Just like that.

“Oh, sure,” she says, no trace of a Jamaican accent. She sounded like Brooklyn. Or Hoboken. More accurately, we sound like New Orleans.

“You local?” I ask, sitting down.

“I am,” she says, gathering her cards and starting to shuffle, “A lot of us are. Any festival or carnival that comes to town always drops a notice when they’re in town.”

“Nice. What do you do in between?”

“Work at a grocery store.”

“Never seen you before,” I say staring at her inkwork.

“You, uh, been to all the grocery stores in New Orleans?” She smiles so sweetly. It’s too bad her teeth are not so great. Kinda gray. Adds to it.

“I suppose not,” I say, returning the smile.

She leans into me like a child telling a secret.

“You want the tarot or palm reading?” She looks at my hands when she says ‘palm’.

I shrug, “What’s the difference?”

“What,” she says, “You not from here, or..”

“No, I am but it’s not like I know a lot of gypsies or anything.”

Is ‘gypsy’ a bad word? I can’t remember.

She doesn’t react. I’ll be careful about saying it again, though.

“Tell me,” she says, slowly, “what you do.”

“Mortician.”

Her face goes dark. She takes a breath and now it looks like she’s relived, “I’m glad you’re here,” she says, “I’m going to do the cards. The palm’ll just tell you personality traits you already know anyway.”

“How does that help?”

She shakes her head with a nice smile, “Won’t. It’s cheaper and so people go for it. When I tell them things they already know, they sometimes want to go in on the cards.”

“Gotcha.” This is so cool. Even if it is a trick. Who cares? That’s kind of what I came in for, right? “So why am I the lucky one who doesn’t get the business end of this deal?”

“This is gonna sound all mystic and shit but,” she looked sad for the first time, “I think I’ve been waiting for you.”

Okay, now we’re off into the movie fortune tellers’ way of doing the deal. Or she was telling the truth. Either way, Money Well Spent.

“Let’s do the cards, then, since you’ve been waiting here for a handsome mortician and everything.”

“Aren’t we all,” she winked.

Okay.

I give her my name and my birthday. She loves my birthday and gives me all kinds of reasons that I should too. Her name is Cindy.

Cindy?

“That’s the first thing about you that doesn’t, you know, scream ‘fortune teller’,” I say.

Cindy laughs, “Short for ‘Cinderella’. Like that?”

“Yeah, that’s good. That for real?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Nice.”

Cindy-rella has me shuffle for a bit. The cards are regular size so I can do all my one-handed, slight of hand shuffles. She likes that.

“You do magic,” she says.

“Nope. Just the shuffles.”

“Cool,” she says, taking the cards back and beginning to turn them over.

“You use regular playing cards,” I say, watching her.

“Gypsies do. We don’t fuck with the Ryder or Cat People decks. That’s for those people out by Pirate’s Alley.”

“The one’s reading Anne Rice books,” I nod, “I seen ‘em.”

“You’re funny. I’m glad.”

I look up, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Why wouldn’t it be?” She pauses to look at the cards, then turns over a few more and says, “Everyone likes a good sense of humor. And just imagine the seriousness that comes in here sometimes,” Cindy rolls her eyes, “And the assholes. Why come in here if you’re just going to nay-say everything I do? I feel like they just pay to abuse me.”

I sit back and light a cigarette, “You know they do,” I say.

“Yeah..”

She finishes the spread and looks at it as she lights a cigarette. Then she starts telling me things.

Things about me, things that lead up to me, things that influence me, especially the things that I don’t know are doing all the influencing. She tells me how all this will come out in the next few weeks and how I can recognize them when they happen. Got it. Cool.

“These cards here,” she says, blowing a steam of smoke upwards, “are important because I already know what these are about. I‘ve seen them in spreads I‘ve done for myself.”

“Oh, right,” I say brightly, “You said you knew I was coming..”

“Yeah,” she starts, “You’re to be part of something kind of frightening…”

She looks up to see how close I’m listening, “It’s a revenge, actually, and it involves this,” she’s pointing at a card she had previously identified as my job.

Now I’m just not dumb. I doesn’t take any kind of genius.

“Are you in trouble?” I ask, just out with it, “Is someone going to kill you?”

“Yeah..”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s kinda my fault. Or will be..”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “I’m just sorry you have to know that. Really.”

She’s quiet. I let her be. I learned that on the job.

See, Funeral Directors hate that silence and they comfort themselves by getting on with the business of selling you souvenirs. Those Grief Counselors probably give a ‘there-there’ and maybe a hug. I’m neither of those things. I’m a Mortician. I sit in silence with them and talk when they’re ready. Oh, it’s definitely bitten me in the ass before: I had this one lady go quiet. I went quiet with her and suddenly she blurts out, “Well, fucking say something! That’s your god-dammed job!”

That’s not my job, though. My job is to let you scream at me if that’s what makes you feel better right then. It’s okay. It’s your dollar, you know?

“Yeah, so,” says Cindy as she’s collecting up her cards, “You’ll be seeing me again.”

Now I’m quiet. Next time I see her, I’ll be embalming her. This is new.
“Is there anything you can do?” I ask.

“No,” she sighs, “And I’ve already written my wishes out and sealed them up in an envelope. My family’ll have it. What you do with it is up to you.”

I can’t go killing people. I can’t even go hurling bricks through people’s windows for this girl. If I even say what do you want me to do, there will be some kind of understanding that I’ll help her.

I look at Cindy and she looks so down. I understand and everything but I just can’t leave like this. What, pay her, say thanks and I’ll be seeing you? That’s fucked up. Okay..

“Hey, Cindy?” I say, getting up, “Can I get you some coffee or a pack of smokes or something?”

Wow. Brightened her right up, “Yeah,” she says, smiling, “I could really use a chicory coffee and a pack of Camels. Straights.” She doesn’t really want me to leave either.

I give her a quick point-and-nod before ducking out of the tent and back into the surreal-ness of the carnival. I feel good about running her errand and, of course, horrible about everything else. I’m really hoping I don’t believe any of this. I bet she’s saying the same thing and that thought makes me feel really depressed. Wouldn’t you be? You fucking should..

I leave the park thinking about the closest place to get coffee. Figure what the hell and catch the street car running down Canal. Coffee should still be hot when I get back but it’s really the thought here. Since I’m going to the French Market anyway, might as well get the beignets.
I think about details all the way down to the river. What a cool girl. All the more depressing. I’m thinking more about her situation than my own. The revenge plot and everything.

The cafe is busy, as usual. The best way to get take out is to get a table because you’ve got all those servers just hanging out by the door, next to the cigarette machine, out of which I get Cindy’s Camels. It’s really just coffee and donuts, so I should be right out of here.

Order taken, I light up.

Nice night for tourists. What I mean is, the tourists are nice tonight. There’s a couple sitting here by me who are so excited about their trip, they’re looking through the Picayune trying to gage rent expenses. They’re talking about what kinds of jobs they could get. It’s cool that they like it so much. Hope they like hot, sticky weather, though.

Some of the locals hate the tourists. I think most are pretty harmless and a some are even interesting. All of them make the Quarter what it is. Them and the street performers. Even the tarot ladies over there. Anyone else wandering the quarter are bigger phonies than the tourists as far as I’m concerned.

Coffee and beignets are brought out and I hurry to the streetcar. Yeah, I don’t actually have a car apart from the company ones: a van and hearse.

I jump off across from the park and weave through to the carnival. A shudder runs through me, I don’t know why. I get to thinking: Is this all part of it? Is she dead already? I’m going to see her and her killer and will be forced to murder him. Fuck. She got me.

But no, I see her, standing out in front of her tent, smoking, looking for me. I’m too close to this thing.

Let me take a second to get something clear, though: I’m not falling in love with this girl. Yeah, she’s cute and interesting and everything but I’m not falling for her. She’s like the cat you see in the alley behind your apartment. You might leave food down there for her but you can’t take her in right now. You want to show you care even if she can’t come to live with you. Kinda like that.

Cindy smiles and hugs herself when she sees me, “Did you go all the way to the water for that? Thank you.”
I hand her coffee, smokes and donuts. She stares at the bag and starts to look serious.

“Don’t…” she starts quietly. There’s an uncomfortable pause, then she shakes her head and clears her throat, “I actually was kind of struggling with the temptation to get funnel cakes.”

Don’t? Don’t what?

Could have been Don’t feel sorry for me. Or Don’t fall for me. Whatever. It’s donuts, you know?

We’re eating and smoking. She’s got a sign up out there that says she’s not in but anyone could look and see we’re right there.

I talk about movies and a book I’m reading. Told her some funny stories. She talks about a trip she took to Savannah. I’m all the while making up my mind that I should leave when we’re done with our coffee. Anything longer makes me look like I’m scared for her, which I am, but she doesn’t need that.

Finally, we part ways with a cheery, but simple, good-bye.