Call me naive, but I had no idea that New Orleans’ newly arrived population of migrant workers was so thoroughly industrious.
Sure, sights like the one above have become commonplace now: gas stations teeming with groups of men, all waiting for work. Contractors come by in dualies and Suburbans, select a couple of go-getters, and drive them off to parts unknown.
(Side note: growing up, I received daily assurances from an uncommonly paranoid mother that I would be dismembered, shoved in Mason jars, and found under the footbridge at the municipal park if I were ever so foolhardy as to accept a ride from a stranger, so to me, this fly-by-night system of employment seems eerily unsafe. Sketchy at best. But then, I’ve got a 9-to-5 job and a roof over my head, so who am I to criticize anyone else’s methods of getting work? And hey, compared to Anna Nicole Smith’s shameless forays into self-promotion, these folks are pretty harmless.)
Today, however, as I was filling up my tank, one of these guys took a different approach. Instead of the usual, “You looking for help?” and such, this man–and he was, in fact, a man of at least middle age–asked, “You working today?” I nodded and smiled and looked back down at the gas pump, trying to bring the conversation to an abrupt conclusion. Then the guy dropped his voice a bit and asked, “You want to relax?” I looked up and found him sporting the single-most lecherous grin I’ve ever seen on a human being–and believe me, I’ve seen some lecherous looks. Despite the sizeable language barrier that separated us, the dude’s intention was perfectly clear: he wanted to go back to my place, or a deserted alley, or a Port-O-Let, and exchange a little boot-knocking for cold, hard cash.
I passed.
The guy who drove up 15 seconds later, however, didn’t. Before he had even switched off his car, my new friend dumped me like a bad check, sidled over to the new arrival, and boom: done deal. Here’s a shot of them getting into the guy’s Mercedes:
All of which makes things even more vexing and complicated for my poor lil’ ol’ peabrain. Like, in addition to being treated like dirt by hordes of shifty contractors, now these guys have to worry about Jeffrey Dahmer types, too?
Of course, the Sebastian Venables of New Orleans aren’t entirely safe, either….
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