TulaneLSU's Top 10 St. Charles Avenue signs, lakeside

Dear Friends,

There is no job more important in the civilized world than that of the streetcar conductor. We see this is especially true in a time of corona, when multiple RTA conductors served the city unto death. May God rest these beautiful servants of our beautiful city, and give rest to their families. Please thank these heroes who serve all who come to their doors.

After finishing my first year of college at Tulane I was quite satisfied with the trajectory of my life. My pre-med classes were relatively easy, and I finished with a 4.0. My chemistry professor, who told me to call him Brent, said I already knew more chemistry than many of his graduate students. I was recruited by the Tulane EMS, which was generally believed to be a free ticket to Tulane Med.

Life was on track. Then several things happened that changed forever the trajectory of my life. First, Ms. Mae died that summer, ending a mentorship and friendship on which I still draw wisdom and courage. Her last words to me were, “TulaneLSU, life is like a streetcar.” She never finished the sentence, or perhaps, that was the entire thought. She then breathed her last with a smile on her lips. Those words are tattooed on my heart. A few weeks later, father got a big promotion and further distanced himself from me. It was always his idea that I become a physician, but for the first time, with more distance, I questioned if that was my calling.

Finally, while riding the streetcar home one evening from choir practice, a bird flew into the window. It perched on the wood seat next to me and began singing a beautiful song. I joined it. No sooner was the older couple across joining, and then the cook down the aisle started whistling. A homeless man began banging on the walls to give a drumbeat. Each of our songs was unique yet beautiful and in harmony with one another. This episode of complete strangers sharing an experience that was unique and meaningful and beautiful is always on the verge in New Orleans. The true magnificence of New Orleans is not its food or architecture or history. It is the possibility of a moment like this, transcendent and transient, bringing complete strangers together in a wondrous communion. The streetcar was the conductor every bit as much as a Leonard Bernstein or Mahler.

As I exited the streetcar, I saw the world anew. I skipped home, humming my song. I reached the front door, and exclaimed, “Yes, a conductor, a streetcar conductor!” I knew my new calling.

When I informed my parents later that evening at the weekly family meal, which was a tradition even after the divorce, father was livid and disowned me. “No son of mine will be a streetcar conductor. Get out!” Mother simply said nothing. I retreated to my bedroom, where I immersed myself in Plato and The Eclectic Gourmet Guide to New Orleans.

A few days later I found on my bed a beautifully wrapped box from Meyer the Hatter. The attached note simply read, “As your grandfather always says, ‘Death rides the highway, but you are safe in the trolley car’. Love, Mother.” I opened it. It was a conductor’s hat. That conductor’s hat was one of my most treasured possessions. Its desecration and theft, which I may share with you later, is one of the most tragic incidents in my life.

Training for being a conductor was exciting and challenging. A kind teacher, Mr. Myron, taught me the ropes in a few days. During my training period, he taught, “Above all else is the safety of your riders. You are the captain of this ship. You must protect the passengers and the ship at all costs to your own safety.” I took those solemn words to heart and vowed to guide my service to the city by those words.

Driving the streetcar is not as simple as you probably assume. Speed is controlled by the controller, the metal hinge system you see us manipulating with our left hands. The controller has eight points, which function as gears. The higher the point, the faster the car moves. When it’s not raining and not cold, nothing is quite as exhilarating as speeding down St. Charles with the driver’s window open. You are Captain of the Avenue, an honor higher than captain or king of any Mardi Gras krewe.

For those born right handed, operating a streetcar for a few months will give you both the dexterity and strength to be as capable as a natural southpaw. It will also give you lots of blisters. I learned this the hard way, as my palms, naive to the rigors of physical labor, save that summer with Captain Mike in Bucktown, soon were bloodied by the controller. The lever operating the passenger door also requires use with the left hand. You should get a good pair of driver gloves at Rubenstein’s, next door to Meyer the Hatter, before beginning this profession. Gloves are as essential for a conductor as a stethoscope is for a physician.

Within the controller is a removable key, which no driver should ever give up. It is the nuclear launch code of the streetcar. It allows the driver to put the car in gear, as well as reverse it. The brakes use a pressurized air system. A brake handle or key is inserted to the brake screw. The faster you turn the handle left, the more air pressure is exerted on the wheelset, and the more rapid, and potentially dangerous, the deceleration.

The friendly bell you occasionally hear if you are jogging on the tracks or your car is blocking our routes is likewise easy to operate. It is a small coin sized and shaped device installed to the floor that conductors have the honor of ringing with a simple tap of the right foot. Children in their parents’ cars paralleling our tracks often grabbed my attention by forming an L with their arm and yanking that L downward. I waved to them. Several months later, a rider informed me that this was the universal sign for truck drivers to blow their horn. With that revelation, I stopped waving and I certainly did not ring the bell. We are streetcar conductors, not big rig drivers.

As those of you who have taken a full ride know there are no loops on the streetcar route. At the last stop each way, we have to get out and alternate the electrical connectors. On my journey to the back of the car now turned to the front of the car, I gently flipped each seat to face the opposite direction. I also used the occasions to ensure the interior remained immaculate and free of detritus. Wearing my suit from Goldberg’s, I tied garbage bags around the knees to preserve the suit. On bended knee, I made the cleaning a prayerful experience.

I remember one time not too long before Hurricane Katrina hit, there was a very sad looking young man, probably in his early 20s. But he had lived a rough life and had the skin and wrinkles of a man thirty years older. He appeared to be under the influence of a mind altering substance and was going from one poor decision to the next.

He stumbled onto the streetcar, nearly ripping the one green corduroy pants leg that was not already ripped. What appeared to be dried vomit or bodily fluids or the previous night’s meal or a mixture of all three stained his white t-shirt.

Tipping my Meyer the Hatter conductor’s hat, I said, “Sir, you do not look well. May I help you?”

He ignored me and angrily shoved an Andrew Jackson into the fare box as two one dollar bills fell to the ground. He picked them up as he mumbled something to me about falling in love with a New Orleans girl and getting a big breakfast at the Columns Hotel.

We were not allowed to give change, but I still felt bad for the poor sap and reached into my wallet to give him some money. No sooner was this poorly influenced lush urinating on one of my wood seats two rows back.

“Sir, please stop urinating,” I politely requested. I stopped the car. He smiled and zipped up his pants.