1.

The last hundred miles were rough. My eyes ached and every highway marker ignited like a firework as it caught in the headlights. But I pushed south through the night towards Louisiana with newfound enthusiasm; the Miata’s engine blaring at four thousand revs per minute helping me stay awake. A sign read: ‘Welcome to Louisiana; Bienvenue en Louisiane’.

I took the first exit, soon reaching a back road with farmland running alongside, and pulled over. A silhouetted countryside drew itself in the rear-vision mirror as the day woke. In front, the sky was still dark and starry. I turned the car off, reclined the seat and closed my eyes. As the engine cooled, the time between its ticks and clicks increased until there was only silence. For a moment, I was almost certain it was the beating of my heart.

I drove through piercing morning sun, already beginning to sweat. Rural Louisiana was beautiful, except it stank. I decided driving towards the lush horizon would be worthwhile even without the letters. I pulled into a gas station, the attendant looking me up and down as he handed me the bathroom key. I washed a mixture of exhaust soot and sweat off my face. I looked like I’d aged; contours and lines I’d never seen before framed my face. My eyes stared back at me, but even they seemed older.

Someone beat on the door. ‘Come on! Shit and get out!’ yelled a man. I dried my beard and face with my shirt and apologised to the truckie as I passed him on the way out. ‘Fucking crackhead,’ he said. I stopped and turned back. He postured upwards and sunk his thumbs into the front of his jeans, sucking on his gums. I got in the Miata and carried on.

Light skipped along Lake Pontchartrain’s glassy surface as I crossed its lonely bridge. The tree line behind receded until water was all that could be seen in every direction. New Orleans materialised ahead. I drove in straight as an arrow with no target.

I got a room in Mid-City. My shirts looked no different after spending four dollars in a laundromat down the street. The attendant didn’t look at me as I told her through security mesh that their machine wasn’t working. She offered a clipboard through a slit and blew a bubble with her gum. ‘How Were We? (In 25 Words Or Less)’ headed the small, yellowed feedback sheet. I pushed the board back through and left, washing my clothes in the motel bathroom with hand soap instead. Rivulets the colour of dishwater dripped from them and stained the bathtub.

Late morning drunks teetered down Canal Street as I wandered to the French Quarter. I washed down fried chicken and biscuits with bad coffee in a diner and began walking. A group of old men sitting on milk crates on a corner rolled into ‘Champagne and Reefer’ by Muddy Waters. I kept my distance, leaning against a street sign. The bassist noticed, reaching behind him and sliding a spare crate towards me. He winked and resumed his riff, the others seeming not to notice his absence. I took a seat and listened.

Soon, my foot was tapping in time. The music and lyrics weren’t complex, but they didn’t need to be – the arrangement was less important than how it made you feel. I thought about how easily music creates emotions – shapeless and fluid like water in their essence. Words seemed so rigid and unforgiving in comparison, like coarse stone, yet still we push them down mountains expecting them to flow like rivers. I found myself with an involuntary morsel of respect for my father being able to craft anything with these blunt instruments. The band finished. I smiled, pushed the crate back towards the bassist and began to walk away.

‘Spare a dollar, sir?’ he asked.

‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ I said, rummaging through my pocket and handing him a fiver.

‘I don’t have any change for this.’

The others bobbed in time in a slow, silent fit of laughter.

‘That’s alright, keep it.’

‘Where you from, sir? That sure is an interesting accent.’

‘Melbourne, Australia.’

‘Well, you have yourself a nice day in New Orleans.’

I moved down the street, turning back after a few steps.

‘Changed your mind about the fiver, sir?’ he asked, extracting it from his pocket.

‘No, no. I was wondering if you might be able to help me find something: a house with yellow walls and a terracotta roof. It’s got a, uh, blue door with a porch out the front.’

‘Oh, you not gonna have any trouble with that one.’

‘Really? You know a house like that?’ I asked with a rush of excitement.

‘Sure, there’s one just like that on damn near every street. You ain’t gonna have any trouble finding a house like it ’round here.’

The band bobbed and the bassist counted into their next song as I walked away. I stood on the next corner of the empty street.