Big Deal on Prytania Street

In the early seventies, I received a full academic scholarship to H. Sophie Newcomb Memorial College, the coordinate women’s school of Tulane University in New Orleans. It was founded in 1886 by Josephine Newcomb in memory of her daughter and the current powers- that-were thought I’d do that memory proud.

They really wanted me, and to that end, the school promised to pay for everything- tuition, room, board, the whole muffaletta.  I gladly accepted the scholarship but turned down their offer of free university housing.

I had already been married and divorced (See September 30 post “July 13, 1969″) and didn’t think I’d fit in with the rest of the giggling sophomores.  And I had a Yorkshire terrier and the family miniature poodle bunking with me.  Dorm life was definitely out.

So an old friend of mine, already down there in medical school, did some apartment-scouting, and that led me to a gracious, white-columned antebellum house on Prytania in the Garden district.  It had been divided up postbellum, and in July, shortly before school started, Beau, (Poodle) Bogie, (Yorkie) and I (Yankee) moved in to a ground floor apartment.

I was one block away from the fabled St. Charles streetcar line (a dime) and I soon found my way to legendary spots like the Camellia Grill (hamburger dressed and a coffee freeze) Mother’s, and The Central Grocery.

I got to experience a little of the local color- the heat, the languor, the patois, even the way they spoke was long, drawn-out, easy-going. (My phone number had a lot of nines in it.  I learned to pronouce them as “niiii-yunnn” or the operator wouldn’t understand me.)  A pay phone call was a nickel and the palmetto bugs were as big as Bogie.

It was summertime and the livin’ was easy.  All I had to do was eat, listen to Tapestry, and wait for school to start.  And wait, too, for a new gentleman caller to make his appearance.

(Sidebar: I had met him in Chicago the preceding May.  My parents had dragged an unwilling me to a Friday night business convention for my father’s industry.  “But why do I have to go?”I protested.  “Who knows?  Maybe you’ll meet somebody,” my mother countered.  And sure enough, I did.  Our eyes locked as we passed each other in the lobby of the Conrad Hilton.  There were thousands of people there, but before the evening was over, I had a date for Saturday night.  And because he was from Baltimore- Charm City- he had already promised to visit me in the Crescent one.)

He showed up in an orange Corvette right on schedule.  And armed with the Collin’s New Orleans Underground Gourmet, we feasted at Antoine’s, Ruby Red’s, LeRuth’s, Mosca’s, Galatoire’s and Morning Call.  He liked hitting antique shops, too.  And by ten p.m. on his last Sunday night in my new home town, his wallet was Tap City.

As we walked up to my building’s front door, two men jumped out of the shrubbery and grabbed both of us.  Each one had a gun and each one was holding it to our respective heads.

“Take us to the other side of town,” the boss commanded.

“Here’s my wallet and my car keys.  Take anything you want.  Just leave the girl alone,” said my now-boyfriend calmly.

“Hell, no. If I leave her here, she’ll just call the po-lice.  Y’awl is going to drive us where we want to go.”

Still with the guns to our heads, my boyfriend reasonably pointed something out.  “The car only has two seats.  We can’t all fit in it.  Leave her here.”

Clearly this highjacking was not going as planned.  The head thug was baffled and pissed. And both were high on something.  They were wild-eyed, sweating, and the guns they held never stopped shaking.

“Tell you what,” the boss creep countered.  “Us three will go in the car and we’ll meet up with my buddy around the corner.  We’ll drop the girl off there and then you take us where we want to go.”  Plan B.

So Unsmooth Criminal number two skulked off down the block, and the three of us crammed into the ‘Vette.  I sat on the gearshift box in the middle with Thug One’s hand around my throat, the gun still to my temple.  When my boyfriend reached over to reassuringly pat my hand, the boss cocked the gun.

You never forget that sound.

We drove to the appointed rendezvous spot, and before the s.o.b. got out to let me out, my boyfriend spoke up.  “Is it okay to say good-bye to the girl?”

Our kidnapper assented, opened the door, stood up, trained the gun on me and waited.

My beau casually leaned over to give me a kiss and whispered, “When I hit the gas, you hit the floor.”

I didn’t even have time to nod.  He floored it, I ducked, and we took off.  Both guys immediately emptied their guns into the car.

Praise the Lord for Corvettes.

We drove until we spotted a New Orleans police car on St. Charles Avenue parked at a Burger King.  As we jumped out of the car and started running toward it, I felt my knees buckle but nevertheless, we ran up and excitedly(!) told the cop what had just transpired.

His response was laconic.  “Y’awl should have just gone around the block again and run them mother-fuckers over,” he drawled.  “Now I got to go to all the trouble of filling out the paperwork.  You was right not to go with ’em, though,” he added.  “We just killed some Black Panthers tonight and I guess they thought they’d grab two white folks in retaliation.”

Now that the shock had worn off, I was speechless with admiration for my cool-headed beau.  I had become paralysed at the mere sight of a gun, but not he.  His quick thinking had, without doubt, saved my life.

“Oh, I’ve been shooting all my life,” he blithely explained when I expressed my awe and gratitude.  “And I saw the guns were only twenty-twos and those can’t kill you- unless they get lucky.  “But I can promise you,” he added, more serious now. “I was never going any place with them.  If that guy didn’t get out I was going to put the car into a telephone pole or a trolley.  I wasn’t going to let them take us anywhere.”

Then we took our first good look at the car.  The windshield was completely gone.  There were bullet holes by the gas tank, and one firmly lodged on my side of the dashboard.

It had been a narrow escape, and with the adrenalin pounding, and our two hearts beating as one, over the next week- as he extended his stay to wait for the windshield replacement glass- my hero and I fell into something that felt like love.

Say hello to husband number two, y’awl.