Tag: Quarter Scene

Rhinestone Cowboy

Tennessee Williams is kind of responsible for my career, in a very indirect way. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it? But it’s true, even if he had been dead almost two decades.

When we first moved to New Orleans, Paul got a job working for the Grants Director of the Arts Council of New Orleans, and at that time, the Tennessee Williams New Orleans Literary Festival had an office in the Arts Council’s suite. Paul got to know the director, and he convinced me to volunteer with him at the 1997 Festival…which was my introduction to the world of the book/writing festival/conference. I had the best time. That first year I met so many authors, and they were so kind and lovely. I volunteered again the next year, after Paul was hired part time (he left the Arts Council), and that was the year I met the author who would offer to mentor me. Three years later, I had a book contract and had sold some short stories and there was no turning back for one Gregalicious at that point.

So, yes, Tennessee Williams had a hand in the establishment of my career as a professional writer. I began reading the plays again, and started using quotes from them as epigraphs for my books.

It was a no-brainer when John Copenhaver asked me to contribute to this anthology to write about Tennessee Williams, even if it wound up being kind of peripheral to the story itself. The anthology is up for preorders everywhere, or you can preorder from Bywater here.

There was a little brass plaque on the next to the table the host showed me to.

The plaque was below an enormous tinted picture window looking down Dauphine Street. Engraved on the face were the words “TENNESSEE’S TABLE.” The host offered me a menu as I sat in a chair facing the door, placing another down on the setting across from me. “Why Tennessee’s Table?” I asked. “Are there tables for Alabama and Mississippi, too?” 

I was joking, but in my two months in New Orleans thus far I’d found there were historic markers pretty much everywhere you looked. The others explained why the place was historic, but this one had no explanation, no words in smaller type below explaining why it was there.

This meant there was a story behind the plaque. I was also finding out the city had a story about almost everything.

His grin exposed a chipper incisor. “Tennessee is for Tennessee Williams, the playwright,” he explained, adding, “He loved the Quarter Scene and had lunch here every day he was in town. This was his favorite table, and he’d just call whenever he’d get in and let them know, so they’d reserve it for him. They put the plaque up after he died.” He winked. “We get a lot of Williams tourists who like to trace his steps—I guess to commune with his spirit, maybe? The plaque makes it easier for them.”

And less hassle for the staff, I added mentally.

I’d heard of Tennessee Williams. He’d also been out and proud when that could have been career and social suicide. The name brought up memories of chalk dust, a cold classroom in winter, and canned dry hot air. We must have studied him in high school. A Streetcar Named Desire and Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, I think the plays were? I’d slept with a Williams scholar once, on a vacation in Honolulu. I’d met him on the beach. He had a stack of non-fiction books piled up on his nightstand for a paper he was writing, pages marked by a forest of Post-It notes.

You see the peripheral connection in that excerpt, don’t you? That’s all Tennessee had to do with my story, other than a later mention.

That table and plaque did exist. The Quarter Scene closed and was replaced by Eat, but it now called the Quarter Scene again. I don’t know if the plaque is still up by his table or not, but I always sat there whenever I ate there.

Years ago, when we first moved here, I started working on two novels. One became Murder in the Rue Dauphine, the other was a kind of Tales of the City kind of thing about three young gay men who rented apartments around a courtyard in the Quarter, with an older gay man living in the main house and kind of being a mentor to them all. I called that one The World is Full of Ex-Lovers, and began putting it together by writing short stories. One of those stories was called “Tennessee’s Table,” and that was what I immediately thought of when casting about in my head to write a Tennessee Williams inspired kind of story. I dug it out of the files–it was dreadful–and threw everything out except the very opening with the main character arriving at the Quarter Scene to meet someone for lunch. I also realized that this story would actually work in a longer project I am also writing–a book set in 1994 New Orleans called Never Kiss a Stranger, and so I wrote that story with the idea that I could insert it into the novel manuscript.

I am kind of pleased with it, to tell you the truth. It’s called “The Rhinestone.”

And just look at this contributors’ list!

A pretty impressive table of contents!

Have you preordered your copy yet?

Sultans of Swing

No jury duty today! And I think I am finished with it all this time around. Trials, according to what the judge told us on Monday, rarely start this close to the weekend of the last push of Carnival, so if I don’t have to report today I shouldn’t have to report anymore. I was only there for an hour or so yesterday before we were released, which was great. I came to work–my testing in the clinic shifts were covered–and got some odds and ends and other things taken care of. I wasn’t feeling too hot by the end of the day–and getting home from work was a nightmare–but by the time I went to bed I was feeling terrible. I woke up to a fever this morning, a sore throat and some major coughing. I decided that it was wiser to use sick time rather than risk getting everyone at the office sick–which would thus spread exponentially, call me Typhoid Greg–and so called out. I can’t remember the last time I missed work because I was sick; probably when I had COVID? I should probably take a test today myself, shouldn’t I? Heavy heaving sigh. I’ll do that before I go lie down with my book.

As far as jury duty goes, this wasn’t too terrible, really. And I don’t mind doing it, either. I always serve whenever I am called; the only time I’ve tried getting out of it was when I was supposed to serve the week after the shoulder/arm surgery, which wasn’t possible. I find it interesting and a solemn responsibility; it’s part of our civic duty as citizens after all, and weighing the evidence and deciding someone’s fate is kind of a big deal. Plus I like seeing how the courts actually work in real life, as opposed to books and movies. (The judge also said on Monday that court isn’t like Law and Order, there’s a lot more they don’t show. It’s really funny the cultural impact those shows have had on the country; someone should do a study on that. I have some thoughts myself about it and other “copaganda” shows, as well as the books about cops/lawyers.)

The not feeling well definitely sucks, though. All of my joints ache, and my legs feel exhausted. I did have to park fairly far from the house, on Race between Camp and Magazine. I’ll try to get the car moved today, so it’s closer to the house. I am hoping this doesn’t last another day–I don’t want to take another sick day and if I do, I still need to go by the office and get my computer so I can work at home on Friday–and the COVID test is negative. If the COVID test isn’t negative, it won’t matter because I won’t be allowed back into the building until next week anyway. I don’t want to use all my sick time, but if I have COVID, there’s no choice.

Good news! The COVID test was negative. I am feeling a bit better, but still running a fever. I also have a tickle in my throat and it’s sore. It also looks like a beautiful day outside, and the weather should be lovely for the parades this weekend, if I am feeling up to it. I definitely want to do Iris and Muses, if I can, and maybe some Thoth on Sunday. Bacchus is too much of a madhouse, but I love Orpheus on Monday because the crowd starts clearing out early because people need to go home and get ready for Fat Tuesday. I just hope I’m feeling better by tomorrow so I can go in to work. I do not like being sick.

The good news is that I signed a short story contract yesterday. It’s been a hot minute, so I am very well pleased. (This is for a submission to an anthology call; the other one I signed was one I was asked to write, so it’s a bit different.) I’m not sure if I can talk about this anthology or talk about my story–which I am dying to tell you about–but I’ll have to be annoying and not say anything for now. One I can talk about is called “The Rhinestone,” since the contract is already signed and the book has been announced. I have to revise and edit the story with notes, but it’s kind of a done deal. “The Rhinestone” is a book excerpt, and what’s really funny about this particular book excerpt (besides the fact that the book itself isn’t finished; this is from Never Kiss a Stranger) is that it was the actual kernel the entire book idea grew from, too. Funny how that works sometimes, isn’t it? I’ve often had ideas that I thought were interesting, but didn’t know if it was a short story or a novel until I tried writing it one way or the other. I used to always be expanding short stories into novels (because I overwrite and always have more to say); it was around 2012 that I began thinking in terms of maybe your novel ideas can actually be written as short stories instead), but shortly after we moved here, Paul and I had lunch at a place called the Quarter Scene, which was either queer-owned or just extremely queer friendly. It was our first time eating there, and I don’t remember why we did in the first place or why we were in the Quarter. Regardless, the table we were seated at–in the big picture window–had a little plaque on the wall reading TENNESSEE’S TABLE with the note that whenever he was in town, Tennessee Williams always sat at that table for lunch. We both thought that was kind of cool, and I thought “Tennessee’s Table” was a great title for a short story. The original story in and of itself wasn’t anything–just two gay friends meeting for lunch and sharing stories. It was a melancholy little story, really, not much to it. But when I started working on Never Kiss a Stranger–I originally wrote it as a long novella, about 30k words–I decided to reuse that setting and write a scene between two of the main characters. When I was asked to write for this anthology–the theme was the story had to be inspired by a queer icon–Tennessee Williams, who has had an enormous impact on both Paul’s and my life, was a no brainer. And then I thought, hey, that scene is set at Tennessee’s Table, why not adapt that back into a short story? So I pulled the chapter and reworked it a bit. I also have notes to make it stronger as a short story, so looking forward to revising that.

As for the country and the world, well, it kind of speaks for itself with no need for comment from me, does it?

And on THAT sad note, I am heading into the spice mines. Have a lovely day, Constant Reader, and I’ll check in with you again tomorrow.