Article And Photos By: Scooter Tramp Scotty
Originally Published In The February 2015 Issue Of Cycle Source Magazine
The freedom of warm summer months that allow easy movement throughout the continent were almost gone. As the southbound highway led onward through the slight chill of fall and to the promise of milder southern climates, I thought of my destination… A long time motorcyclist, B.B. St. Roman had learned of my travels through a friend. She seemed a fan of my writing, and contacted me. Last year, I’d taken the opportunity to pay her a quick visit on the way to Daytona. It was then that I learned of my new friend’s strange history. For 20 years of her youth B.B. had worked as the sound person for a crew that made documentaries around the world and during that time she’d seldom set foot back into the U.S. Over the course of her employment she once spent nine months living completely off the grid with the primitive people who inhabit the Himalayan Mountains while the crew made a documentary of their shaman. There were many other documentaries too, but I think it was the two years spent in the company of Mother Teresa that influenced B.B. most. She told me that Mother Teresa was love in action. I found it interesting that B.B. is also personal friends with the Dali Lama; who had visited her home on several occasions when he traveled stateside.
With no desire to settle down, B.B. had taken her lovin’ where and when it came and, running in those circles, had affairs with a handful of celebrities whose names we all might know. When the documentary job ran its course, B.B. took employment as the road manager for Dr. John—a big name musician originally from New Orleans. After 10 more years of world travel she finally bought a house and settled in the French Quarter of New Orleans. She soon married Doc—the man originally responsible for starting the Louisiana ABATE chapter. Doc also orchestrated various local biker charity events and today there’s a city park dedicated to him. After only two years of marriage Doc died of Cancer. From the very start of her life in New Orleans B.B. began to donate so much time to the 8th Precinct Cop Shop in an effort to help the city’s homeless population that the station ultimately invented a position for her. Nowadays, through the efforts of this one woman, policies have changed throughout the city. New facilities have opened. Housing has become available; and almost anything that has to do with people in need is channeled through one of her three cell phones. She’s one busy-assed woman. Having found B.B.’s story of great interest, I looked excitedly towards the time I’d soon spend living in the French Quarter with her. Little did I suspect that Betsy and I would not leave for seven weeks…
The French Quarter is a grid of two and three story buildings that completely line the narrow streets of a very crowded neighborhood. B.B.’s beat up little home sits on Burgundy St., which is just two blocks north of Bourbon St. The house is 204 years old and a narrow gated pathway leads between her place and the one next door. When I got there I was met by a small eccentric white woman with long dreadlocks. After hugs and greetings, B.B. led me down the pathway to the tiny, completely enclosed courtyard behind her place. It was there that the home’s main entrance faced a smaller building that had once served as slave quarters. Now it is a home she rents to an old friend. I eyed the yard with thoughts of where to set up camp. I soon began to settle into the French Quarter. Since I hale from a background of huge motorcycle rallies, the noisy allure of Bourbon St. didn’t really suck me into its vacuum. However, the city of New Orleans loves its street performers and offers them the use of Royal St. (one block south of Bourbon) where auto traffic is generally blocked off. There amid the coffee places and other shops, I took great pleasure in the constant performances. Street performers range from one singer with a guitar to large acts that easily rival any Broadway or television talent. I made a few friends among them. Neko calls himself a “motorcycle magician” and rides from Washington State to work Royal St. every winter. I found his lot interesting and spent a good few afternoons jabbering with him at our favorite coffee shop.
The reputation and fame for excessive fun that New Orleans enjoys is well earned and if one finds himself bored there it’s only because he’s not yet gotten out of bed. Monday through Sunday the action is constant. The bars never close and it’s legal to drink anywhere on the streets. Beyond the drinking scene there are plenty of other things happening as well. Of course the live music is endless but there’s also biker events, street fairs, festivals, parties, pot lucks, and parades. My God does New Orleans love its parades. I also noticed that the N.O. cops rarely bother anyone for anything short of violence or perhaps drugs. B.B.’s own motorcycle had not run for three months but I had it fixed in an hour. Dragging B.B. away from her constant work with the underprivileged, we began to attend many events and made new friends. Although her own bike now ran, our outings were made mostly two up and from the comfort of my full dress Electra Glide. I’ve never known anybody who lives in such constant altruistic service to their fellow man and I could not walk down the street with this woman without people coming up all starry eyed and saying, “B.B. you saved my life. I don’t know what I’d have done without your help.” Many seemed happy just to stand in her aura for a few minutes. It was a strange experience to live in the presence of someone so closely akin to Mother Teresa—except that B.B. is by no means a saint. The city’s people, rich and poor alike, exhibit great love for this short, dreadlock clad, white girl. The ragged people say they have her back (she’s often in the streets among them at all hours of the day or night) and I’m sure no one could lay a hand on her without being attacked. The wealthy seemed to share much the same sentiment.
One afternoon we bicycled to a party in the French Quarter. I remembered this place from the previous week when a woman had called to inform B.B. that she’d saved a portion of her coveted Cajun food and to come get it. That time the woman had met us at the door, but today it was a doorman who checked our names on his list before allowing passage. At the stair-top my coat was taken and, upon entering, I noticed that a single piece of art on the wall was probably worth more than the last 10 years of my life. I dined on lobster and caviar that day. The holidays arrived and with them came even more social gatherings and events. It was near Christmas when B.B. told me that the next week she’d be riding through the French Quarter with a bunch of people on the top of an antique fire truck. Sounded weird…so I invited myself. It was full dark when we arrived at the street corner where the truck waited. Along with a bunch of what looked like straightlaced folks, we climbed on top of the old red battlewagon. Near the front, one woman sat at a huge pipe organ. She began to play and Christmas tunes split the air as the truck jolted forward. Cramped among the smiling faces I watched as bottles of champagne were uncorked and plastic cups filled. Piles of cardboard boxes filled with small bags of potato chips sat between us. Our gang began throwing them into the outstretched arms of people in the street. We were now a one-fire truck parade.
Our mission, I was told, was to scrutinize the Christmas decorations of every business in the French Quarter then later make an assessment of who won the grand prize—whatever that might be. The French Quarter’s a grid of one way streets and our antique red Christmas slay slowly traversed them all. It was one of the weirdest times of my life and, along with the others, the grin seldom left my face as this strange show continued for an hour and a half. Eventually the truck stopped and everyone filed off. A woman said to B.B., “We’re going to the big house. Come with us.” But my escort wanted to go home instead. “There’s gonna be free food!” That statement caught my ear and I talked B.B. into going. The place was only a few doors down and, stepping inside, I realized that tonight’s ride through the Twilight Zone had not yet ended. This house had obviously once belonged to some pre-Civil War filthy rich dude who was most likely connected to the plantation business. New Orleans was, after all, once a big shipping port for the cotton and tobacco industry of that era. I entered the dining room to note most of our crew (which B.B. quietly informed me were some kind of civic leaders) were seated at a long wooden table. After grabbing a sandwich from the table, I turned to survey the living room. It was magnificent. One of the older men loved this house, wanted to show it off to somebody, and decided it was gonna be me. What a break. So B.B. and I followed as he led us from room to room telling us stories and answering my questions.
As we went to leave a woman handed B.B. an envelope containing $500 in cash. A Christmas gift from the wealthy. Only two days before I’d witnessed police at the 8th precinct take up a collection of $350 as an Christmas gift for her. It figured. I’d seen B.B. inspire the spirit of giving and selfless labor among so many in recent weeks. In short time I was destined to offer service as well…and for it would receive great reward. But then, that’s another story…
