No One’s Studying You
The cabbie gives me the once over.
“You a doctor?” he asks.
“I’m a writer,” I say.
“I thought you were a doctor,” he insists. “You got the hair, the glasses, the dress.”
For the rest of my time in New Orleans, I wear patterned hose and flapper dresses and red pointed cowboy boots and a tight black tee-shirt with my Elvis medal pinned front...