There’s been a strange void in my life recently. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Last Wednesday night I was actually able to attend a concert, my weekly planner is much less cluttered and the amount of coffee I consume per day has been cut in half.

Oh, wait, that’s right. I’m no longer the Life and Times editor.

I had my share of proud moments and inevitably the not-so-proud ones – a spelling mistake in a headline, printing the incorrect gender of a source- but why should we dwell on the past? It’s the here and now that matters. So, I will spend the amount of time I have left reflecting on my reign as editor … Alright, now that that’s over, it’s time for the present.

I live in a distant neighborhood far from Uptown they call the Faubourg Marigny. It continually captivates me. It’s a mystic land of artists, cyclists, smelly anarchist punks, bitter and fabulous queens, circus freaks and a shining gem of a man: Mr. Okra.

The first time I saw Mr. Okra creeping down Burgundy Street in that flamboyant truck of his plastered with his emblem, the established New Orleanian in me was not phased. I thought to myself, “There goes another crazy,” and kept about my business. I didn’t even pay attention to the phrases he was belting out through his megaphone. Although I couldn’t really make them out anyway as they were slathered with a New Orleans drawl. Little did I know he was doing a great service to the surrounding area.

The next few times Mr. Okra rode through my life he was like a phantom. It became creepy and disorienting, like a ghost that lurked and dissipated as fast as he came or like a fleeting voice in my head. I would wake up in cold sweats as his truck rolled by only a few feet away from my bedroom window, his haunting voice mingling with my REM cycle, and as I fully awoke, it trailed off and finally ceased. I couldn’t escape this mysterious man.

The next time I had a Mr. Okra encounter, I was able to get a better look at this spectacle. In the light of the midday sun and in my caffeinated and sober state, he appeared as less of a wonder. I was able to see what his truck was harboring -beautiful and fresh produce -and discern his rhythmic, almost metered announcements. He would proclaim, as if to advertise his merchandise, “I’ve got potatoes … I’ve got oranges,” and my personal favorite, “I’ve got salad, cold all the time.”

Now that I am less ignorant about this fantastic grocery man on wheels, I can fully embrace the glory of Mr. Okra. I am now charmed by his voice instead of utterly puzzled. He’s one more reason that my neighborhood and the city as a whole is one of the most eccentric as they come.

Viva Mr. Okra!