Rotten Humans
Re: Who is with Taylor Sirard?
The last post (not including the one where I beg for money) left us in New Orleans. If you missed it, please click here for a bit of backstory on some spots mentioned below!
After enjoying a mind-blowing version of an Eggs Benedict at Slim Goodies Diner, I strolled down Magazine Street to find a coffee shop. A block ahead of me I noticed a golden curly mane atop a woman locking her bike up. The gorgeous hair was magnetic, and in a peculiar addition, it was familiar. As I approached, I saw a short dark curtain of hair on the girl behind her.
Not a chance in hell, I thought. Morgan and Amy. A pair of women I met in Michigan's Upper Peninsula was standing in front of me on the opposite coast of the country. In a city sixty-times the size, no less.
I slowed my pace and came to a halt before the dark-haired girl, Morgan. They were both occupied locking their bikes to one of the many wrought iron fences along New Orleans' streets. I directed a, "hey" at them in a tone of disbelief. Morgan turned and further opened her eyes to match the width of mine.
What followed was a bubbling exchange of exclamations, questions, and proclamations of surprise. Eventually, the three of us simmered enough for me to discover Morgan and Amy had moved to the city less than a week prior. They had come to Magazine Street to job search, so we made plans to meet up the next day. We parted ways, but not before they pointed me in the direction of Hey! Cafe.
Several blocks down I found the recommended coffee shop wedged between a dive bar and a large record store. The interior was filled with dark wood and a dense aroma of roasting coffee beans. At the register were stickers with the Hey! Cafe logo of an anthropomorphized mug, with teeth and a stuck-out tongue. (One of these stickers still available over on my Patreon!)
I studied the artwork on the walls as I waited for my order, noticing each label displayed the name of the artist along with New Orleans as their origin. A poster on the bulletin informed me I had missed the free music show they hosted the night before. I was smitten with yet another coffee shop.
It was unsurprising Morgan and Amy had already discovered one of the coolest cafes in the city just days after their arrival. Never have I met two people who fit the phrase "dynamic duo" more aptly.
Morgan is, in most aspects, as dark as her hair. Her eyes are sunken in, usually lined to accentuate this feature, and her voice is deeper than you would expect from her small frame. I met Morgan in January of 2017 in Marquette, Michigan. She came to my apartment (with a mutual friend) famished, sleep deprived, but enthusiastic for the Women's March we were about to attend. The march turned out to be less chaotic than she had hoped, and after nearly fainting from her lack of basic necessities, she was finally convinced to sit down and eat a meal.
That mutual friend became my roommate shortly after, and soon Morgan was a regular guest in my home. Sometimes, she would come over to write a long list of things to accomplish in the same night, including items such as:
On the occasion I visited her dorm room, I discovered she managed to (with permission) keep a pet bird there. That night we went to a party where she spent more time videotaping than in first-hand interactions.
Every time I was with Morgan she seemed absolutely consumed with making something, doing something, or being something. And each thing was done with a grandiose sincerity. The look often in Morgan's eyes I imagine similar to Amelia Earhart's the day she took flight.
I don't remember specifically when I met Amy, but I think that speaks to how much a part of Morgan she seems to be. The same could be said of Morgan being a part of Amy. Characters both complete, but undeniably fused.
Amy's waist-length curls give her the appearance of a mermaid. She often wears a tooth-bearing grin that radiates beyond the contours of her face, the waves in her hair appearing as physical evidence. I have spent much less time around Amy than Morgan, therefore have less to speak of her peculiarities. I have observed that Amy's laugh is always tinted with mischief, an indication not altogether false from the stories I've heard.
After starting a collaborative YouTube channel with Amy, dropping out of college, and scattering her belongings in no less than three houses, Morgan fled Marquette. The event of her leaving felt abrupt, but she had been making the decision since I had met her about a month prior. There were better things for her to do, including focusing on her health, creating art with Amy, and ceaselessly pursuing adventure.
Morgan returned to Marquette on a plane with a ticket purchased by a then-recent love interest. After visiting friends and collecting her things, she returned to Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she and Amy continued weaving dreams.
I didn't keep in touch personally but discovered some details of their existence through mutual friends and the internet. Between starting a web store, traveling across the country, and dating suspect-looking bikers, their activities never ceased to be inspiring (or, at least, awe-inspiring.) Their activities and creations can be found all over the internet under the name "Rotten Human Beans." Bellow is a sample of their wonder-inducing Instagram content.
So, when I ran into Morgan and Amy in New Orleans it made sense they had moved to the city with more passion than planning and an absolute confidence to find their way.
The following day, I met them again on Magazine Street at a vegan superfood bar. Morgan and Amy scanned the menu together and planned their meal respectively. Immediately after ordering Morgan pulled out her camera to capture the event for their vlog. Unfortunately, the footage hasn't surfaced on the internet as of yet.
Over lunch, we discussed what had transpired in our lives since we all had left Michigan. They had already made friends in the city, and Amy was texting one while we ate. His responses indicated complete infatuation. They were planning a meeting with him while trying to draw "not a date" boundaries. He was offering them free tickets to a large music event the coming weekend. I felt a familiar astonishment with a paradoxical predictability.
The meeting was planned at a tea house across town. "Some witch place," Morgan informed me. They invited me along, possibly as a buffer to any romantic advances. Running late, I offered to drive us there in my RV.
Morgan and Amy would be the first passengers in Bernadette's debut as a taxi cab. I don't remember how many times I heard "this is so cool" repeated on that drive.
"I know, right?!" I continued to respond between answering their logistical questions about living in the small, mobile space. Morgan periodically interrupted our conversation with directions from the maps application on her phone, and we arrived at the tea house in less than ten minutes.
Their friend never showed, but the magic we encountered at the tea house is a whole story on its own and will be reserved for another post. ;)
The last post (not including the one where I beg for money) left us in New Orleans. If you missed it, please click here for a bit of backstory on some spots mentioned below!
---
After enjoying a mind-blowing version of an Eggs Benedict at Slim Goodies Diner, I strolled down Magazine Street to find a coffee shop. A block ahead of me I noticed a golden curly mane atop a woman locking her bike up. The gorgeous hair was magnetic, and in a peculiar addition, it was familiar. As I approached, I saw a short dark curtain of hair on the girl behind her.
Not a chance in hell, I thought. Morgan and Amy. A pair of women I met in Michigan's Upper Peninsula was standing in front of me on the opposite coast of the country. In a city sixty-times the size, no less.
I slowed my pace and came to a halt before the dark-haired girl, Morgan. They were both occupied locking their bikes to one of the many wrought iron fences along New Orleans' streets. I directed a, "hey" at them in a tone of disbelief. Morgan turned and further opened her eyes to match the width of mine.
What followed was a bubbling exchange of exclamations, questions, and proclamations of surprise. Eventually, the three of us simmered enough for me to discover Morgan and Amy had moved to the city less than a week prior. They had come to Magazine Street to job search, so we made plans to meet up the next day. We parted ways, but not before they pointed me in the direction of Hey! Cafe.
Several blocks down I found the recommended coffee shop wedged between a dive bar and a large record store. The interior was filled with dark wood and a dense aroma of roasting coffee beans. At the register were stickers with the Hey! Cafe logo of an anthropomorphized mug, with teeth and a stuck-out tongue. (One of these stickers still available over on my Patreon!)
I studied the artwork on the walls as I waited for my order, noticing each label displayed the name of the artist along with New Orleans as their origin. A poster on the bulletin informed me I had missed the free music show they hosted the night before. I was smitten with yet another coffee shop.
It was unsurprising Morgan and Amy had already discovered one of the coolest cafes in the city just days after their arrival. Never have I met two people who fit the phrase "dynamic duo" more aptly.
Morgan is, in most aspects, as dark as her hair. Her eyes are sunken in, usually lined to accentuate this feature, and her voice is deeper than you would expect from her small frame. I met Morgan in January of 2017 in Marquette, Michigan. She came to my apartment (with a mutual friend) famished, sleep deprived, but enthusiastic for the Women's March we were about to attend. The march turned out to be less chaotic than she had hoped, and after nearly fainting from her lack of basic necessities, she was finally convinced to sit down and eat a meal.
That mutual friend became my roommate shortly after, and soon Morgan was a regular guest in my home. Sometimes, she would come over to write a long list of things to accomplish in the same night, including items such as:
- dye my hair
- have a threesome
- dance under the moon
On the occasion I visited her dorm room, I discovered she managed to (with permission) keep a pet bird there. That night we went to a party where she spent more time videotaping than in first-hand interactions.
Every time I was with Morgan she seemed absolutely consumed with making something, doing something, or being something. And each thing was done with a grandiose sincerity. The look often in Morgan's eyes I imagine similar to Amelia Earhart's the day she took flight.
I don't remember specifically when I met Amy, but I think that speaks to how much a part of Morgan she seems to be. The same could be said of Morgan being a part of Amy. Characters both complete, but undeniably fused.
Amy's waist-length curls give her the appearance of a mermaid. She often wears a tooth-bearing grin that radiates beyond the contours of her face, the waves in her hair appearing as physical evidence. I have spent much less time around Amy than Morgan, therefore have less to speak of her peculiarities. I have observed that Amy's laugh is always tinted with mischief, an indication not altogether false from the stories I've heard.
---
Morgan returned to Marquette on a plane with a ticket purchased by a then-recent love interest. After visiting friends and collecting her things, she returned to Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she and Amy continued weaving dreams.
I didn't keep in touch personally but discovered some details of their existence through mutual friends and the internet. Between starting a web store, traveling across the country, and dating suspect-looking bikers, their activities never ceased to be inspiring (or, at least, awe-inspiring.) Their activities and creations can be found all over the internet under the name "Rotten Human Beans." Bellow is a sample of their wonder-inducing Instagram content.
 |
| [Image: Two people stand in a stone-walled structure. On the left is Amy with a patchwork jacket draped on one arm. She wears purple bottoms and a nude bralette for a top. A horizontal band of makeup is painted across her face from her eyebrows to the middle of her nose. She is licking a sucker and looking into the camera. Amy's arm is propped up on the person to the right, Morgan. She is wearing a similar patchwork jacket and fingerless driving gloves. She wears dark, smoky eye makeup and stares soullessly into the camera.] |
So, when I ran into Morgan and Amy in New Orleans it made sense they had moved to the city with more passion than planning and an absolute confidence to find their way.
---
The following day, I met them again on Magazine Street at a vegan superfood bar. Morgan and Amy scanned the menu together and planned their meal respectively. Immediately after ordering Morgan pulled out her camera to capture the event for their vlog. Unfortunately, the footage hasn't surfaced on the internet as of yet.
Over lunch, we discussed what had transpired in our lives since we all had left Michigan. They had already made friends in the city, and Amy was texting one while we ate. His responses indicated complete infatuation. They were planning a meeting with him while trying to draw "not a date" boundaries. He was offering them free tickets to a large music event the coming weekend. I felt a familiar astonishment with a paradoxical predictability.
The meeting was planned at a tea house across town. "Some witch place," Morgan informed me. They invited me along, possibly as a buffer to any romantic advances. Running late, I offered to drive us there in my RV.
Morgan and Amy would be the first passengers in Bernadette's debut as a taxi cab. I don't remember how many times I heard "this is so cool" repeated on that drive.
"I know, right?!" I continued to respond between answering their logistical questions about living in the small, mobile space. Morgan periodically interrupted our conversation with directions from the maps application on her phone, and we arrived at the tea house in less than ten minutes.
Their friend never showed, but the magic we encountered at the tea house is a whole story on its own and will be reserved for another post. ;)
---
Feeling full of food, tea, and wonder we filed back into Bernadette. Our destination, this time, was Morgan and Amy's apartment on St. Charles Avenue, a wide road divided by a streetcar track. There, the streetcar glided up the center, like a zipper interlocking the oak branches arcing over from both sides.
We ducked under the canopy and into the driveway of a tall brick building. Thick ivy covered the street-facing wall from the sidewalk to the roof, only parting where windows were placed. Inside, the lobby floor was made from black and white checkered tiles.
The grand entrance to the apartment building contrasted the modest accommodations of their shared studio. We entered to the squawking of Morgan's bird from behind the closed bathroom door. Two small mattress pads were placed in the corners of opposite walls. The entire space was less than that of a standard hotel room, kitchen included.
Morgan went to greet her bird as Amy plopped in the center of her mattress pad to search the contents of the floor around her. She fished out a small container and proffered a cigarette. I declined, in preference of the pack I had of my own.
"You're going to say no to Amy's hand-crafted herbal cigarette?!" Morgan spat around the edge of the bathroom door frame. I stated I wasn't aware of their artisinally blended qualities and happily reached for one.
The pair informed me they would be inviting their neighbor (another fast-friend), Dan, to join us. Morgan left to fetch him, and Amy led me to the balcony. The sky was dark then, and we were high enough to see the streetlights spanning New Orlean's residential Garden District. I relished in the aerial view of the Crescent City I never expected the opportunity to see.
Proceeded by a crescendo of giggles from the hallway, Morgan opened the door and Dan shuffled out behind her. He was wearing an Eagles hoodie, flannel pajama bottoms and superman slippers that had split open on the right toe, revealing his sock.
"I love the slipper," I complimented in jest.
He responded in a laugh, which was echoed by the rest of us when Morgan commented, "Dan, you're such a stoner."
We each smoked one of Amy's herbal offerings and chatted casually about nothing important: the apartment building, weed, the fact it was international pizza day, and the Eagles' Superbowl win.
I found out Dan had a fish tank with a count of fifty snails, according to him, and at least two-hundred by Morgan and Amy's count. "I've been looking for a road pet," I joked.
"Please, take one. Take ten!" Dan was eager to get rid of them.
With a Google search on snail-care logistics, my joke became an enthusiastic and serious sentiment. When I resolved to adopt one, Amy went inside to clean out a jar for my new companion. Dan and I followed shortly after. Morgan had gone inside to play with her bird several minutes prior.
I stabbed holes in the jar lid with my pocket knife and we filled back into the hallway. On the opposite side, three doors down was Dan's apartment. By the time we opened the door, it was collectively decided one snail would not be enough. That snail would probably be lonely by Amy's reasoning. Dan agreed, if not just to encourage more free space for his crowded fish tank.
It appeared to me the snail count was somewhere between Dan's and the girls' estimates. Morgan and I purposefully scanned the tank for the perfect snails. We picked out three. I studied each for defining characteristics and deliberated fitting names with the others. The three anonymous snails became Vanessa, Caroll, and Demitri.
Once back in Morgan and Amy's apartment we all had a ceremonious carrot (a small shaving for the snails) to celebrate the adoption. As the excitement waned, Morgan crawled under her covers and I found a seat between Dan and Amy on the open mattress pad.
We brainstormed a photo series starring Vanessa, Caroll, and Demitri chronicling our travels in Bernadette. As we mused my eyes scanned the contents of the floor: pens, markers, fabric, drawings, sketchbooks, and a sewing machine.
I returned Morgan and Amy's enthusiasm for my similarily small living space with a genuine, "This is so cool." I felt a recognition of kindred passion-filled sacrifice. I knew they understood how it feels to be unsure and surrounded by unfamiliarity. It was comforting to connect with people who know how to make lunch into a film, a snail infested fish tank into an adoption ceremony, strangers into friends, a small space into a home, and life into art. The day was an antidote of the isolation that is so naturally a part of solo travel.
I took that thought, and my new companions, back to Bernie to find a spot to park for the night. It was a cold evening. When I woke, I put the jar in the sun in hopes of warming them up, but I think I knew then the snails didn't make it through the night. Though our time together was short, the snails' part of my journey will not soon be forgotten. I suppose the same could be said for those Rotten Human Beans.
We ducked under the canopy and into the driveway of a tall brick building. Thick ivy covered the street-facing wall from the sidewalk to the roof, only parting where windows were placed. Inside, the lobby floor was made from black and white checkered tiles.
The grand entrance to the apartment building contrasted the modest accommodations of their shared studio. We entered to the squawking of Morgan's bird from behind the closed bathroom door. Two small mattress pads were placed in the corners of opposite walls. The entire space was less than that of a standard hotel room, kitchen included.
Morgan went to greet her bird as Amy plopped in the center of her mattress pad to search the contents of the floor around her. She fished out a small container and proffered a cigarette. I declined, in preference of the pack I had of my own.
"You're going to say no to Amy's hand-crafted herbal cigarette?!" Morgan spat around the edge of the bathroom door frame. I stated I wasn't aware of their artisinally blended qualities and happily reached for one.
The pair informed me they would be inviting their neighbor (another fast-friend), Dan, to join us. Morgan left to fetch him, and Amy led me to the balcony. The sky was dark then, and we were high enough to see the streetlights spanning New Orlean's residential Garden District. I relished in the aerial view of the Crescent City I never expected the opportunity to see.
Proceeded by a crescendo of giggles from the hallway, Morgan opened the door and Dan shuffled out behind her. He was wearing an Eagles hoodie, flannel pajama bottoms and superman slippers that had split open on the right toe, revealing his sock.
"I love the slipper," I complimented in jest.
He responded in a laugh, which was echoed by the rest of us when Morgan commented, "Dan, you're such a stoner."
We each smoked one of Amy's herbal offerings and chatted casually about nothing important: the apartment building, weed, the fact it was international pizza day, and the Eagles' Superbowl win.
I found out Dan had a fish tank with a count of fifty snails, according to him, and at least two-hundred by Morgan and Amy's count. "I've been looking for a road pet," I joked.
"Please, take one. Take ten!" Dan was eager to get rid of them.
With a Google search on snail-care logistics, my joke became an enthusiastic and serious sentiment. When I resolved to adopt one, Amy went inside to clean out a jar for my new companion. Dan and I followed shortly after. Morgan had gone inside to play with her bird several minutes prior.
I stabbed holes in the jar lid with my pocket knife and we filled back into the hallway. On the opposite side, three doors down was Dan's apartment. By the time we opened the door, it was collectively decided one snail would not be enough. That snail would probably be lonely by Amy's reasoning. Dan agreed, if not just to encourage more free space for his crowded fish tank.
It appeared to me the snail count was somewhere between Dan's and the girls' estimates. Morgan and I purposefully scanned the tank for the perfect snails. We picked out three. I studied each for defining characteristics and deliberated fitting names with the others. The three anonymous snails became Vanessa, Caroll, and Demitri.
Once back in Morgan and Amy's apartment we all had a ceremonious carrot (a small shaving for the snails) to celebrate the adoption. As the excitement waned, Morgan crawled under her covers and I found a seat between Dan and Amy on the open mattress pad.
We brainstormed a photo series starring Vanessa, Caroll, and Demitri chronicling our travels in Bernadette. As we mused my eyes scanned the contents of the floor: pens, markers, fabric, drawings, sketchbooks, and a sewing machine.
I returned Morgan and Amy's enthusiasm for my similarily small living space with a genuine, "This is so cool." I felt a recognition of kindred passion-filled sacrifice. I knew they understood how it feels to be unsure and surrounded by unfamiliarity. It was comforting to connect with people who know how to make lunch into a film, a snail infested fish tank into an adoption ceremony, strangers into friends, a small space into a home, and life into art. The day was an antidote of the isolation that is so naturally a part of solo travel.
I took that thought, and my new companions, back to Bernie to find a spot to park for the night. It was a cold evening. When I woke, I put the jar in the sun in hopes of warming them up, but I think I knew then the snails didn't make it through the night. Though our time together was short, the snails' part of my journey will not soon be forgotten. I suppose the same could be said for those Rotten Human Beans.
---
One more NOLA post before the travels continue. Find out what happened in that tea shop next month! I super missed writing for y'all and I appreciate you sticking around. Thanks for reading, and stay tuned! Special shout out to Bradford, JP, Collin, Isabella, Ashley, and Joe for supporting WITS. Click here to become a patron, receive exclusive content, and keep these blog posts coming!
Comments
Post a Comment