Someone larger than life who is comfortable in his or her own skin. Fascinating. Interesting. Memorable. You preface stories about them with a "you can't make this up" disclaimer, though it still seems unreal. One walks away from an encounter with a character much richer from the experience.
I've been on a road trip with my friend Michael and we've been collecting characters. Random people who are changing my life one conversation at a time. What follows is the story of O.C. and Quentin, straight from the pages of my journal.
Last Saturday, Michael and I started walking back to the car after a wonderful day at Audubon Park in New Orleans. Suddenly, the sound of tuba caught my ear, drifting across the grass and the parking lot and down to the river where we walked. Then drums kicked in. Followed by trumpets. And trombones. Yep, it was the unmistakable sound of a brass band randomly marching through the park with a hundred or so people clustered around them marching and dancing. Did I mention I LOVE this place? I recorded a video and started snapping pictures to try to capture the energy when two gentleman sitting on the back of a pickup asked what I was taking pictures of. I answered something to the effect of, "Life and the city I love." I half-jokingly offered to take their picture. The taller one said no, but I got a shot of his shorter friend. We made introductions. The tall one's name was Quentin. And his friend, O.C. And then the conversation began.
We talked for ages about what an amazing place NOLA is. The guys hailed from Jefferson Parish, born and raised, and were only gone from the city for a couple weeks after Katrina (a rarity down there). Quentin grabbed some cups and ice and O.C. poured Michael and I each a brimming cup of the Wild Irish Rose wine they'd been working on. Southern hospitality goes beyond etiquette. It stems from a genuine love of people, which ran deep in Quentin and O.C.
They were probably in their fifties, though they didn't let the age difference get in the way of our new friendship. Quentin has a son my age. Both men were so close to their families--the kind of familial ties that brings a relative to share an opportunity with the rest of the family. Quentin's cousin worked as a stagehand for the Superdome, so he got to be backstage for the Broncos/49ers Superbowl. He also saw the Rolling Stones and met Mick Jagger without knowing who the Stones were.
We started talking life and how to make a difference in kids' lives, whether being a temporary positive influence can make a true difference. They asked me how I got to be so broad minded, a phrase I'd never heard but liked a lot. We talked about dreams and following them. When Quentin retires, he's going to school to study psychology or hospitality (perfect for a people person like him). O.C. dreams about his weekends. Family and work fill his week, but Saturday, he can call up the friends he's known his whole life and something as simple as a bottle of wine and the park means everything.
It got dark and the cops were coming around. I was swept up in their kindness and generosity and didn't want it to go unknown how much our time with them meant. My wine-loosened tongue thanked them and I told them they were good people. O.C.'s eyes got serious, but with a gentle smile he corrected me. "I know you don't mean anything by it, but there is still a lot of racism down here. Someone could take it the wrong way. Next time, all you gotta say is, "You've been good to us."" I apologized because O.C. was right. Words like "people" have been tainted by bigotry. I told them they had been GREAT to us.
O.C. and Quentin, to me, ARE New Orleans. Cities are made up of people. And people reflect the collective personality of a place. Some go beyond reflection--They are the human embodiment. That's what those two gentleman meant to me. And I know whatever its problems, I will love New Orleans, O.C., Quentin, and all the other characters (Eric, Will, Sydney, Al, Patrick, Byron, Carol Carrington, ad infinitum) unconditionally.
