The House Under The Bridge

I forgot another place I lived. When I left the girl in the apartment up at river bend and Tulane, I went to live with a couple that had a house over in Algiers. It was under the bridge. They gave me a back room that was sort of a storage room, piled high with old Playboys, and at night you could hear the traffic on the bridge and hear the cops' loud speakers telling someone to pull over. I was only there a short time, until I found a place near where I was working in the Irish Channel. The problem was that I didn't have a car, so I'd get a ride or I'd take the bus. If there was something going in the Quarter or at the Library, I had to make sure to catch the last Canal Street ferry across the river or I'd have no bed. I did that one night and tried to let myself in with my key very quietly, but they were paranoid and had the living room bobby-trapped to make noise and the husband came bounding out with a sword. They did live next to projects there. I seldom came home late again. It was a good excuse to use, if you were out on a date and didn't want to go home alone.