A Ghost of a Chance

They say there are blessings from Katrina. Mine was I lost my job.

I gaze around at the lush breakfast area of The Monteleone Hotel in New Orleans, enjoying eggs Benedict, crisp bacon, and the creamiest grits I’ve had in years, and force myself not to laugh. Life is looking up, despite my lack of job security. All I have to do is get on a plane, make my assignment and my life will resemble this from now on.

“More coffee, ma’am?” I glance up from the newspaper I wasn’t reading and a red-headed man is wearing a uniform more typical of the 1920s standing beside my table.

And he isn’t carrying a coffee pot.

Startled, I shake my head. I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day, promising my doctor I would stop at two cups in the morning. Of course, I never promised anything about afternoons.

After all, I am a journalist.

“Very good ma’am.” He bows and quietly saunters out the cafe door. I’d say float but that’s absurd.

“Who was that?” I ask the waitress when she arrives to refill my cup. Despite my promises, I let her.

“Who was what, dawlin?”

After months in Cajun Country, it feels great to hear a New Orleans accent again, people we label “Yats” because they usually begin a greeting with “Where y’at?” It’s more Brooklyn than Southern, slower, and more friendly. Not the Hollywood, Tennessee Williams drawl most people assume to find here sprouting from residents dressed in seersucker and white bucks.

The Yat sends me a puzzled grin with a hand on her hip, the kind siblings bestow on one another. This is New Orleans. We’re all related so why not just act like family?

“Are you all doing a costume brunch now?” I ask, adding, “I’m writing a story on the hotel.”

Dolores — it was written on her name tag right above “Ask About Our Rebirth Specials” — isn’t impressed with my assignment. She grabs one of her purple and gold hoop earrings and pulls, her snide expression unfaltering.

“Did Margaret put you up to this?”

“Who’s Margaret?”

Dolores huffs and walks away, leaving me to ponder what the hell that was all about.

I check my watch. Two hours. I’m meeting Mary Jo, my old roommate from college who is now the PR director of The Monteleone, and then I’m on my way. She’s late, as always, but this will be one of those times I’m not going to hang around, even though she set up my complimentary night at the historic hotel in the hopes I would write a glowing story to help attract tourists back to New Orleans; it’s been months since Katrina and many people still think we’re underwater. But today my first press trip as a travel writer awaits and I have a plane to catch.

Finally, Mary Jo appears, wearing her usual navy blue A-skirt and matching button-up sweater, topped by a discreet strand of pearls and cream-colored headband. I almost laugh because she could have walked out of the LSU Delta Gamma house, but her coifed hair and perfect makeup make me feel self-conscious. She waves from the hostess desk and I attempt to straighten out my wrinkled blouse before she sits down.

“What’d you think?” she says before even pulling out a chair.