The Annual Gumbo Memorial

Life is a series of writing prompts. Every day, one after the other, if I keep quiet, keep my eyes open and know where to look, something will appear to get my mind reeling.

I used to do a mental exercise. I'd sit somewhere like an outdoor bar or cafe, or on the subway, and try and make up stories about people as long as they were in my field of vision. A businesswoman would walk past and I'd think "mid-thirties, unmarried, career more important, has a touch of kink." or "Animal lover, widower, doesn't see his grandkids often enough."

This proved to be an unsatisfactory exercise, for several reasons. For one thing, I was projecting something on to that person, rather than letting my observances dictate a more authentic story.

Another reason is more esoteric. Writers will understand. Others won't. In order to craft a good story, you need a few components. A plot, a narrative, an arc, and characters who or at once plausible and unique.

I'll use my novel, New Roman Times as an example. The protagonist, Braxton Alexander, gets his legs blown off in Iraq. This is plausible if not sadly probable. The uniqueness comes from his response to the situation, and every situation presented to him in the rest of the novel. His character learns so much, and his inward change is so profound, and no less violent in some ways than his outward change.

Characters like this are complex. Multi-faceted. Unpredictable. And thorough. Trying to make up interesting stories about strangers in short amounts of time isn't as effective as I'd love it to be. For an obvious reason, we don't all look interesting when we're in a familiar context, like say, going to work during rush hour, or grocery shopping. People are more or less anonymous. Even the ones who stick out for various reasons (dyed hair, piercings, different clothing, a ranting junkie) are still familiar tropes, at least from a writing perspective. And a final reason is because there is no "story," in these moments. Action, yes. Going to work. Making a turn. Checking a mobile phone. There's simply not enough to make something of routine action.

The best prompts occur when there is a self-contained story. Something rare to witness. This morning I got to see one. And while I don’t know if anything will ever come of it, it's filed away.

On my usual morning walk around the beach and marina, I came upon an older man wearing what looked like a maroon velvet suit, striding toward the marina, holding a bouquet of flowers. He reached the railing and threw the bouquet into the water without pausing.

In that moment, I saw a story unfolding. This had to have been some memorializing taking place. The anniversary of his wife's death, perhaps. Or a son or daughter. This was clear, even if the reason wasn't. I stopped at a discreet distance to watch him looking out over the water. No tears fell from his face. He was just standing there, dapper and dignified.

I watched the flowers float along, turned to continue my walk and saw the VW bug above. It stood out for its immaculateness. A classic car, in pristine condition. Not that unusual for a Sunday in Southern California when the vintage cars come out. But the license plate sure was different.

Da Gumbo. A New Orleans reference for sure. What was it doing out here? It's not like there are many Cajun restaurants in Los Angeles, or Mardi Gras bands. In the span of two minutes I saw two unique things. It came as no surprise when the man in the maroon suit drove past me in that car a few moments later, connecting them both.

I want to believe he does this at the same time every year. A fitting tribute to someone. Perhaps he's a Dixieland Jazz performer, honoring a trumpet player. I didn't study his face out of decorum, but he was easily in his 50's if not early 60's. I could picture him as a younger man in some sweaty bayou bar, banging on the piano. Perhaps he was a small-time hood, or knew big time ones, and moved out of town when the heat got too much. Then again maybe not.

There might be other explanations, different avenues for rumination. L.A. being L.A., perhaps he was a director of exploitation films and made one down in Louisiana that was met with modest success and still introduces himself as the director of Gator Blues, even though the film's last theater run was in 1988. That last bit adds gravitas, doesn't it?

I recently spent a lunch hour watching a lawyer who represented Rodney King get hammered and whine to his mixed-race girlfriend how he didn't want to go out at night and couldn't keep up with her. He told everyone in the bar about it, including people who weren't even born then like his girlfriend. One of my friends who works there told me he was legit. Apparently he spends his afternoons going to different restaurants in the beach cities, getting hammered and talking about what I can only assume was his heyday when he represented Rodney King. What really stuck out about him wasn't his features or choice in women more than half his age. It was the lou way he spoke the more frustrated he grew.Miffed that the younger generation didn't appreciate the significance of his vocation during that particular  turbulant time.

One person's heyday is another person's blank stare. Has-been lawyers aside, I prefer to think of the man in the maroon suit from this morning as a man of quiet dignity who honors an absent friend, rather than a cautionary L.A. hubris tale.

It can be whatever I want to to be. It's my writing prompt, after all.