B.B. St. Roman’s house on Burgundy St. in the French Quarter of New Orleans was just as I’d left it last winter, and her welcome just as warm. But I was running late. Some months past, an audio documentary company called “Everything Is Stories” had contacted me for an interview and it was ultimately decided we’d meet here. I’d told Mike that, with B.B.’s fascinating history and the fact that she’s now the city’s surrogate Mother Teresa, he might also wanna grab an interview with her while in town. Upon hearing my description of this eccentric woman he’d readily agreed.
Tomorrow the interviewing process would begin.
The following morning it was at house rented for three days that we met Mike’s crew. Although I’d expected a more Mickey Mouse outfit of possibly young dudes with cell phone video that did YouTube stuff, these guys were not like that at all. They’d rented the house in advance then flown in from New York and Mississippi with a butt-load of nice equipment. And although they do audio, a lot of footage and photos were also shot in a nearby park. It was fun few days of working with them.
Here are both links:
Scooter Tramp Scotty: eisradio.org/item/012/.
Last year I’d promised to return and re-roof B.B.’s leaky house. Since then she’d acquired the funds and so I was back. Still, with so much of my bike’s fiberglass still busted and duct taped from the recent accident in Colorado, I hoped to attend that first. Since B.B. was in no hurry, the decision was made.
It had been while here in N.O. last year I’d met a local man at a Christmas toy run. Evan rides an older bagger like my own and in hopes of possibly selling me some used parts I’d been invited to his place. A chronic garage junkie, Evan built his free standing backyard garage with his own hands and this shop is a veritable candy store for gear-head guys. Since I fit this description our friendship had come naturally. Evan has a regular job elsewhere and his whole garage junkie thing has never been about monetary profit. It exists only in the name of passion and pleasure, and in this capacity he and many friends share great wealth here. Because Evan’s a mechanic, welder, fabricator, builder of race cars, motorcycles, monster trucks, minibikes, and an X body shop employee, I’d call weeks ago, and he’d agreed to help with my broken fiberglass.
Evan lives in a nearby suburb with his wife Gwen. As was common, he’d be off for a three day weekend so I arrived Thursday evening and made camp in the garage.
It felt way to early in that dark shop when Evan woke me with a cup of coffee. In a while Gwen made breakfast. After that the work began; me to start pulling my old bike apart while Evan attended his latest project.
Not long ago it was the expense and pressure of auto racing that prompted Evan to sell his car and leave the circuit. But of course projects of every conceivable description continue and the latest was the building rusted out rat-rods. The car at hand, their second, belonged to Evan’s best friend Ralph. This thing would start life as only raw metal that would then be cut, bent, and welded into an automobile frame. There’s a lot of eyeball work goes on here and seldom does anything come out perfect—nor is it meant to. I was amazed that things can be built in such a fashion and still function so well.
This place is not only a well equipped garage, it’s also something of a gear-head saloon where men of like mind come to socialize and drink beer. By mid afternoon the riffraff began to arrive. Some of these guys are serious heavy hitters and their knowledge and abilities were so far beyond my own I often felt like the kid who gets to hang with the big boys. But the comically charged air was always fun while Evan and Ralph made me feel like a long lost brother.
After pulling and cleaning my saddlebag and tour pack, both Evan, and even Ralph, began sanding my wasted parts before Evan would ultimately get into the fiberglass work. Knowing nothing of such things, I stood back and left them at it. Because of the time required for fiberglass epoxy to set up, this job would continue into the following day.
That evening we went to a local bar. And as would continue in the weeks to come, we’d occasionally frequent all manner of bike nights and other events. I’d soon experience what it’s like to ride in real rat-rod.
The following day Ralph’s uncle Joe stood among the small Saturday afternoon garage crowd. Obviously interested in my gypsy motorcycle lifestyle, Joe looked closely at the fiberglass work. There was one small and very weak area of material missing where a tour pack latch attaches. Talk went around of how best to fix this and it was Joe who said he could. He messed with it into the evening but, because of epoxy drying time, was unable to finish the job today. Joe said he’d take the tour pack to his work place, a trucking terminal, and finish it there—if I was okay with that. I was. Next old Joe asked about paint and I said the parts would get a rattle can job. “I’ve got professional paint guns,” he replied, obviously not to keen on the spray paint idea. “Let’s do it right. You can come stay over and help if you want.”I accepted his offer. Little did I suspect that this would become an adventure worthy of a spot in my personal history book.
The nearby trucking terminal sat on a large square piece of land. At one side was a huge metal building elevated just enough for semi trucks to back against the numerous loading bays that lined its two sides. Inside was a warehouse with multiple forklifts used for the loading of semis. In the building’s front area was an internal structure that held the offices, kitchen, and even a shower. In a far back warehouse corner I set my home/tent.
From what I gathered, Joe had owned this business at one time and, although retired, still showed up almost daily to putter around the place. This was also Ralph’s place of employment and an establishment at which his friends (especially Evan) sometimes hung out. In fact, this was where Evan kept his, 26 horsepower, alcohol burning, wheelie bar equipped, mini bikes (I rode one. It was totally ridiculous—which is how Evan wants it), and a monster truck project too. Here the atmosphere was just as loose as at Evan’s and I felt right at home. For a personal ride, my bike waited outside. And although minus it’s tour pack and saddlebag, the thing still ran fine.
My new home.
Joe showed up every morning and we took to sanding, puttying, and otherwise readied my parts for paint. For it’s always the prep work that eats up time.
We talked a lot. Joe hales from a generation before my own and I’ve often found it interesting to learn from older men what the world was like before I got here. Joe cussed a lot. His attitude was brazen and often hard headed. A serious gear-head, he’d once been involved in drag racing, hydrofoil boats, etc. But old Joe was good to me and as our friendship tightened it became a pleasure. We went to lunch, and sometimes dinner, every day and not once did he allow me to pay.
Months later Uncle Joe would pass away and I’d be truly glad for the time we’d spent. In fact it was the best part of my stay in the trucking terminal.
As the job stretched toward a week I grew tired of confinement to this metal building. While Joe wanted these Harley parts perfect, my attitude became, Screw it Joe. That’s good enough. So we went back and forth. Him with pride in his work, and me to bring up the ragged condition of the bike on which these parts would hang anyway. In the end we met half way. Still, the job came out beautifully and, once mounted, I think everyone was pleased.
I returned to the French Quarter.
Next came the roofing job. Built from bricks and wood, B.B.’s house was constructed in 1810. And although still pretty solid, a lot of it, as with most structures in the French Quarter, was falling apart. Local building codes allowed me to change almost nothing aesthetically, while also demanding the place be re-roofed using slate shingles and copper metal. Very expensive! Even with my extensive roofing experience, this job would be a serious challenge; especially for a drifter who owned no pickup or even a hammer. Fortunately I knew a local man with a truck, and was also welcome to barrow any tools Evan had.
The job’s details are really unimportant except to say it was necessary to hire out the removal of B.B.’s existing asbestos roof. Next came a lot of wood, and thoroughly wasted brick, work. Fortunately however, B.B.’s grandson-in-law (she’s a widow) Jessie is a talented carpenter and brick worker. He’s also a very serious voodoo priest. This seemed an interesting combination. But Jessie, with his constantly light, happy, and comical persona, was always a pleasure to work with and we got along like peas and carrots. Good thing too, because I couldn’t have done this job without him. However, because Jessie knew nothing of roofing, that part was left to me alone. And although I’ve done a lot of sheet metal work in my day, this ridiculously expensive copper stuff was kinda like cutting up hundred dollar bills and trying avoid wrong cuts and wasted material really stressed me out. For B.B. is by no means wealthy and her payments on the loan for this job would last years. I wanted it done as economically as possible. Though I’d originally expected only two weeks, in the end this job lasted six. When finished it was a thing of rare beauty and B.B. was ecstatic. And although it still cost less than the original contractor’s bid, when payday came she presented me with an exceptional wage. In fact, considering the money I already had, there’d really be no need to work at all the following year.
It was a happy day.
The bike was again fine and my wallet filled. For now the work was done and it was time to turn attention toward other things. As the cool air waned steadily into winter my sights turned south.
Mexico…
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