I'm Doomed. How Are You?

According to Mrs. Luc, I am doomed.

And Mrs. Luc knows what she’s talking about. In addition to being my 86-year-old neighbor here in New Orleans, she was a New Orleans tour guide for over 40 years. She’s done all the tours -- plantation tours, seaport tours, downtown tours, city tours. “You can’t be a tour guide if you don’t like people,” Mrs. Luc told me. I guess I’ll never be a tour guide. (Only joking. I do like you, at least.)

Mrs. Luc has seen thousands of Hawaiian shirts, I bet. Hundreds of straw hats and fanny packs. She has also seen a lot of change. I’m using both definitions: “change” as in “foreign and domestic coins,” and “transformation.”

It’s this latter definition of “change” that means trouble for me.

You see, dear, New Orleans isn’t what it used to be. When Mrs. Luc was my age, she could leave her door unlocked at night. The next morning, she might find a plate of brownies on her kitchen ledge -- made from scratch, of course, none of this Betty Crocker hocus pocus.

Also, she felt perfectly safe walking alone at night in our neighborhood. Mrs. Luc still walks several miles each day, but she’s careful to avoid certain streets. You can probably guess the pigmentation of people who live on these streets, sure as you can measure the meringue on the lemon pie Mrs. Luc delivered to my apartment.

“Keep your doors locked at all times,” Mrs. Luc directed. “And have some pie.”

Mrs. Luc does not eat pie (or drink), because she’s watching her figure. “You’ll gain weight living here,” she explained. “My grandson gained five pounds just visiting.”

If I get chunky, I’ll stand even less chance of finding a husband in this town. Things have definitely changed since Mrs. Luc was a 20-something. Women are waiting longer to get married. Or they think they’re waiting to get married. Really, they’re waiting for a long, lonely spinsterhood. “It’s getting late for you,” Mrs. Luc smiled. “Pretty soon you’ll be left with nothing but gays and mama’s boys.” Pass the pie.

Whether I’ll die fat and alone, at the mercy of non-white burglars, remains to be seen. At the moment, I can only report short-term tragedies: the sudden collapse of my iPod and subsequent loss of a 1,200-song index; the intermittent power failures wracking my little 2/br, 1/ba; and the death of Connick, my more cheerful hermit crab. Evidence suggests Connick died in his sleep, not in a street gang tussle. But I’m locking the aquarium, just to be safe.