Nikko yanked the handle, rolling the soft case over the curb in a hurry to reach the Treme Street exit gates before they were locked down at dark. The beat of music surprised him when he entered the lighted wrought iron archway to Louis Armstrong Park. He had forgotten this is the first week of Thursday’s Jazz in the Park series. Ignoring the festival activity in the park, he watched his own dejected footsteps, schlepping his instrument along the meandering path to the lagoon.
His shoulders slumped, his head drooped, burdened by the ineffectual hours spent caressing Gertrude. Maybe I’ll try you with gut strings. Perfecting the slap and pull method from the forties might get me recognized. Gertrude, I wish, I wish I could master you. He carried on many one-sided conversations with the bass fiddle, confident he had christened her with a name befitting the large, low-pitched bowed string instrument.
Since his eyes were focused on the ground, the scuffed toes of laced white Victorian boots caught his attention before he looked up to see a slender woman of indeterminate age with caramel skin planted in front of him. He stepped sideways to bypass her. She mimicked his move, blocking his path.
He shook his mop of curly hair, peeved that his shortcut might turn into a long trek back to N. Rampart Street. With a flick of his hand as if shooing a fly, Nikko motioned for her to get out of his way. “Jeez. Find a tourist why don’t you?”
He wasn’t in a mood to humor the fortune teller. Or was she supposed to be a pirate? Black flounce skirt over striped leggings and a scarf with bangles said gypsy. The sequined eye patch implied buccaneer. She treaded the edges of weird, even for the pageant of New Orleans’ every day streets.
She clapped her hands and stomped her right foot pivoting herself in a circular motion. The bangles jingled when she jerked her head. Dance complete, her good eye stared at him with little emotion. “Bad wishing makes bad getting,” she said.
Unsure which startled him more - her knowing that he was wishing or her voice – like honey on a bruise, he pulled Gertrude upright beside him, waiting to hear what else the gypsy would say. Nothing. Her eye strayed from him down and to the right where a dented gallon paint can sat, seeded with money. He dug into his jean pocket with an audible sigh, begrudging the coins she expected as a tip.
Was his desire to be a celebrated bass player a wasted wish? Hard to imagine what he could get better than that.
Bad wishing stuck in his head. He dwelled on it, twiddling the phrase during his walk home. Nikko’s grandma had named him after one of her flowers, the Nikko Blue. One summer when he was nine, she lamented how her prized hydrangeas were pink instead of blue like Aunt Beryl’s – something about the soil. When she had observed, in front of his friends, how his mop of light ginger curls deepened in color as the seasons progressed, similar to her mophead blooms, he railed out, “What kind of name is Nikko? I wish I was called anything but that.” His friends answered with a tease, calling him Mophead. The nickname stuck.
New lyrics danced unbidden into his head.
The next morning he resolved to be careful about cruising down the alleyway of wishing.
###
A week later he lugged Gertrude through the park. Street performers vied with each other for attention and tips. Nikko smiled at the memory of the gypsy, wondering if she would be working the crowd again. Usually deserted at this time, the park teemed with locals and tourists attending the weekly music series. The city would keep the gates open later tonight, so he lingered at the brass band sculpture, contemplating a more wonderful life. Wouldn’t it be amazing to play in Alicia Keys’ backup group or get booked for a six day run at the Blue Note in Manhattan?
