When Gabrielle had emailed about the job, I was shocked she even remembered me. I always believed people would forget me—the moment I left a room, someone might ask,Was anybody here?In grad school I felt perpetually out of the loop, like there was a secret way to be that everyone else somehow knew. If I’d been as focused and studious as Gabrielle claimed, it was only because I had so little else going on. But now I wondered, all these years,feeling forever on the outside of something, uncertain of how to get in—had I already been inside?
We talked about a TV show that everyone was hate-watching. A restaurant, not far away, that had closed after the celebrity chef’s pastimes had been exposed. “Not just your regular white nonsense,” Desiree said. “Grand Dragon–level nonsense.” Eric joined us, told us about a new project his firm was working on. A housing complex for formerly homeless people in a neighborhood going through an intense wave of gentrification. The wealthy new residents had organized a campaign to stop the project, claiming it didn’t fit with the historical nature of the neighborhood. “What do they know about the history of the Seventh Ward? They’ve lived there six months.” We worked through another bottle and a second pizza.
Eventually, Claire said she needed to beg off and called a cab. Desiree walked her out. Gabrielle once more insisted she should drive me to the airport in the morning. I declined again but swore to be in touch if any questions came up after I got home. “About anything,” she said. “Don’t be shy.”
I tagged along with Tommy and we headed deeper into the French Quarter. Street after street of restaurants and bars, no signs of the night slowing down despite the late hour. Balconies ran along the second floors, revelers draped over the rails, smoking, shouting down to friends gathered below, drinking on corners.
“You can just walk around with alcohol?”
“Literally you get them to go.”
“What is this place? I feel like I’ve left America.”
A drag queen in thigh-high patent leather boots, towering above the crowd, overheard and turned. She raised her arms asif balancing the world itself above her head. “Darling, you have. Welcome!”
We laughed. “I hate to be one of those people who shits on Ohio,” I said. “It’s beautiful in its way, it really is. But wow—I did not realize what I’ve been missing.”
We arrived at a bar, rainbow flag whipping from the balcony, men everywhere.
“Tommy!”
A few of his friends were sharing a smoke out front. Tommy asked after his boyfriend, “Where’s Brian?” but didn’t wait for a reply. He grabbed the cigarette, took a small puff, and passed it back. “That’s it! I quit!”
“Brian’s inside,” one of the guys said.
Another said, “Tommy”—but looked at me as he spoke—“you’ve been holding out on us.”
I smiled. “I’m just in town for the night.”
“A lot can happen in a night,” Tommy said. “Join us for a drink.”
“You go ahead. I think I might walk a bit more.” Everyone protested, as if I were their best friend, shipping to sea the next day. “Tonight’s been great, really. But I’m spent.”
“Okay,” Tommy said. “I’ll allow it. But you had fun, yes?”
“I don’t know if this is sad to admit, but this is the best night I’ve had in a very long time.”
I wandered in no direction, letting myself get lost. It was warm out and humid. I liked it. The air clung to me, like it, too, was trying to convince me to stay. After an hour or so, exhaustion set in. It had been a very long day. I flagged a cab and gave the driver the address.
“My granddaughter graduated from there last year.”
“You must be proud.”
“She’s got a lot of opinions, and is not afraid to express them. But she’s got the brains to back it up. You’re visiting?”
“I am.”
“Did New Orleans treat you right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good, good. That’s what we like to hear.” He had the radio on low and the deejay announced the next track. “Ah, mind if I turn it up?”
“Please. Play me out.”
He raised the volume and sang along as he drove. He had a sweet voice, low rich timbres. I watched the city roll by, logging each street, each corner, each person we passed. I wanted to remember it all.
The next morning, Saturday, I reversed my trip, flying to Dallas to connect for Cleveland. I thought to work but decided I had earned some time off. I got a coffee and beignet at the airport and then, passing a newsstand, spotted a paperback propped on display. A gothic murder set in the South. It had been a huge deal when it came out. They’d made a movie and everything. Claire had said something about it the night before. “You haven’t read it?” she asked. “But it’s about psychopathic gays, exactly your thing.” I bought it. I read on the first flight, stared out the window. The second flight was delayed for hours, some kind of mechanical issue, and it was late afternoon by the time we left. When we finally boarded, I fell almost immediately into a deep sleep, before we even took off. I dreamt I was at my high school, but then in the dream I realized, it was not my high school at all. It was Cassie’s. The halls were empty. I had the sense that the school was on break. I couldn’t tell if it was winter or summer. The ceiling lights reflectedagainst the glossy linoleum tiles as I walked up and down each hallway, as if I were surveying the building. I had something to do, but couldn’t grasp what. I stopped at a wide set of double doors. Somehow I knew it was the cafeteria. I pushed the doors open. I stood outside in the bright afternoon light. Rows of tables on a kind of patio, thick green vines hanging from above. I heard a sound—not my name, but some other word that had to do with me. I turned to look. There at a table, smiling: Safie.
