10 GROUNDCOVER NEWS CREATIVE STEVEN Groundcover contributor How did we meet? How does anyone meet? Chance, fate, destiny, Divine Providence? Where did we meet? Broadly speaking: Earth, North America, United States, Louisiana, New Orleans, The French Quarter. It was on The Stairs. The Stairs are "the spot" for street kids to hang out, meet up, do whatever. It's a public access to the Mississippi River for tourists or whoever I guess. Tourists often see The Stairs inhabited with gutter-punks in all their gutteriness, and choose an alternate access. Old, torn, heavily modified blood-, mud-, food-encrusted clothes festooned with safety pins, spikes, the metal tops of lighters, patches, random zippers, parts of stuffed animals, bits of leather, shoelaces, unemployed buttons, pins for punk bands, pins with smiley faces, maybe a pin for an insurance company, really whatever pin of the one inch variety. Leather jackets seem obvious but often were the sign of a suburban poser. New clean, unaltered leather? Probably a poser. You really didn't want to be a poser at The Stairs. A loosely organized pack of angry, belligerent, hungry, drunk kids is not a group you want to be on the wrong side of. Bonus Biscuit: I don't have first hand knowledge of this but the hard rule spoken with heart attack sincerity in hushed furtive voices is “don't mess with the clowns.” Not the name of a gang or a euphemism but the busker clowns. The word was they were a very dangerous lot to mess with, second only to the cops. Was it bullshit? Who knows, I didn't test it. The few of them I saw were cool as shit. There was kind of a lot you might be concerned about in the Big Easy if you don't "act right" or "come correct." If you don't know what it means it's pretty standard, be polite (unless you shouldn't), respectful (unless disrespected), generally mind your own business. Dreamer and I were chillin’ on The Stairs, him on his ever-present, ongoing quest to get his hands on "magic mushrooms" as he called them. We all called them that back then. Me on my ever-present, ongoing quest to win life by out-partying it. It still cracks me up, Dreamer's Dream. Dreamer called himself Dreamer; lots of street people choose or are given handles. I knew his real name but always called him Dreamer or some derivative thereof. I can't remember his given name. Old boy was from the Pacific Northwest, Washington or Oregon. It was generally understood in the 90s, correctly or incorrectly, that psilocybin mushrooms (the magic fellows) grew in abundance throughout the Pacific Northwest. I'd heard stories of shrooms growing in the cracks of sidewalks after a rain — no shit. People swore to it. Dreamer, clueless to that, hitchhiked to New Orleans to find them ... No shit. He was a super sweet, loyal kid (we were both kids at 19) who killed at percussion. I wanted to call him Drummer but he wouldn't go for it. Not the hottest pot on the stove but a good road dog. Well not really but I enjoyed his company. We're chillin’ and this absolutely stunning blond girl about my age in an old, dirty, shiny green, crushed velvet dress appears beside me, puts her hand in mine then just sits there looking around like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I rolled with it. Held her hand. What could go wrong? Lots. Lots could go wrong. Lots of shitty scammy stuff. I had no inkling that might be the case, however. For one, I'd seen her around and definitely noticed she was hot. Dirty street urchin hot. Yellow blond hair, dirty, tangled, left to hang loose past her shoulders. Adorable — almost cherubic — round face filled in, maybe a little plump. Bright, twinkly, crystal blue eyes that smiled even when she was sad. “Filled in” describes her figure as well. Buxom and firm sweeping curves. Smooth pale neck, heavy breasts framed by shapely soft arms. Delicate porcelain hands flanking her womanly hips and big ol’ round booty, thighs and tiny slippered feet. With that initial meeting we became inseparable. Dreamer would bop off on his own side missions and we'd meet back up. The Girl and I didn't leave each others' side except for water closet breaks (sometimes) and the rare (one) shower at the shelter. We would hold hands but mostly she wanted to hold on to my shirt in a way like she was my girl. No conversation, no heart to heart just we were together now. It seemed her main motivations were feeling safe and covering her minimum needs. Basically food. She liked the affection I showed her but I think that was just a bonus to her. I made her feel safe and that made me love her. Love her as only a 19-year-old dumbass loves a girl he doesn't know. She did enjoy drinking and was a chill drunk with the occasional outpouring of crap she had been caused to hold in over the years. Mostly we were just fun, goofy, drunk teens. We had a blast. We both thought Dreamer was hysterical. She was on team Drummer but Dreamer wouldn't budge from his chosen moniker. He was constantly drumming in some way. His hands or sticks or plastic ware, constantly. It wasn't annoying either. He was good. It was entertaining. They were halcyon days and nights. We were living the dream. The Girl — she did tell me her name but I've forgotten, much to my chagrin and shame. It feels cheap to give her a bullshit name. Thinking of her as The Girl in the Shiny Green Dress canonizes her for me. I don't feel heartbreak or heartache for her; maybe we finished our story. It may be different for her. I know in my bones she remembers me. The Girl did tell me a bit of her story. I never asked or pressed for more. My making her feel safe was deeply profound for her. In her young life feeling safe was the exception not the rule. A far too common story of abuse by loved ones and no protection. So she split from there. Just left with only her fancy Green Dress and a beat up pair of flats. The Green Dress was a totem for her. I'm not sure why but it was special to her. She didn't even own underwear and didn't want to. Oh and a busted out pair of flats. Three things. You may be thinking, "Oh how sweet two young lovers in love," but we weren't lovers. We kissed casually with love as long-time partners might. As naturally as can be. We cuddled as if we might melt into one being never to be separated. We never got naked together. We never made out, just smooch and cuddle. If we left it at that, it might be MARCH 7, 2025 Travels with Dreamer: The girl in the shiny green dress easy to dismiss our affair, but the intimacy we felt was of a type I've never felt since and likely never will. Now, in what is called middle age, I've stories of love and marriage. Passionate crazy marathons of debauchery. Very close intimate friends. A loving family. None will ever feel the same as what The Girl and I had. It was profoundly special and unique to that time and place for us. We were our actual first loves, not unrequited crushing on each other. It was our first taste of real love. It would be fair of you to think, "All right, bullshit. A 19-year-old hormone-fueled drunk dude was satisfied and happy with this"? That’s fair. It’s true that at first I was trying clumsily and obtusely to make minor moves. When she told me her story — the way she told me her story — and I realized that I was the only person in the world who knew her story who wasn't a predator, a switch flipped. She became a fragile, unique flower blossom. She was a blossom the universe handpicked for me to protect. I can say without bluster or reservation I felt I had been knighted to protect and nurture this girl. Then I ditched her. I know I said we had finished our story, and I guess we did, but looking back all these years later I can say my dumb-ass teenage self shit the bed. I threw it away on a panicked impulse — a selfish, cowardly whim. I ran away home. More to come. "Unpublished diaries" by Tommy Spaghetti
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