The Big Easy & Orvis by Bradley A Evans

“Whatever you do young man, do NOT do business in Cajun Country before noon.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll be drunk before lunch.”

That was the introduction to my first job out of college in Louisiana. I split my time between a hotel on the corner of Bourbon and Canal and a charming little town named Natchitoches (Nack-a-tish) where I had a room in an old bank. In a matter of weeks, I had been invited to a Cigarette Boat poker run, a cock fight, and a Courir de Mardi Gras (traditional Cajon/Creole version). Somewhere in the mix, I was also invited to an alligator hunt on a private island that a Confederate General supposedly owned. I liked Louisiana, and Louisiana liked me.

Let’s back up for a second. I had a few internships in college when I wasn’t getting into trouble in Jackson Hole. In addition to my summer with Smith Barney, I interned with an agriculture equipment manufacturer in the finance and marketing departments. Smith Barney wouldn’t hire anyone straight out of school, even if you interned with them. So, my first job was visiting tractor dealerships around the country.

By the end of my first year, I visited twenty-five states and was gunning for a promotion in northern California or Louisiana. The California job was highly coveted because the territory included Sonoma and Napa Valley. Oenologists require thin tractors to navigate through their vineyards, and there was no shortage of guys willing to relocate to wine country. I knew it was a long shot, so I wasn’t complaining when an old Southerner in upper management called with the news:

“We’er sendin’ you ta Re’ad Stick, son.”

“Red Stick? What in the hell is Red Stick?”

“Bat’n Rouge…down’n Lose-ee-ann-a.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll make you proud. Would it be OK if I lived in New Orleans?”

“Ha! You ain’t gonna make it out alive boy, but you’el be grinnin’ like a possum wit’ a sweet patater!”

I took that as a yes. My territory was the Pelican State and east Texas. I had a company car, a sizable expense account, and an appetite for getting down and dirty in The Big Easy. In lieu of a traditional farming territory, like the corn fields of Nebraska, I was dealing with French-speaking Cajuns and sugar cane farmers. Life was great! My days were spent driving from one tractor dealership to another, chewing the fat with the owners, and getting ingrained in a culture I’d quickly come to love. The further south I went, the less English was spoken, the better the etouffee, and the more likely I’d be drinking beers in dirt floor honky-tonks.

Weekends were always spent in New Orleans. My typical Saturday had a Hunter Thompson flair to it – wake up late, get an outdoor table at Pat O’Brien’s, order two Hurricanes, an order of fried alligator, and wolf down a plate of etouffee with another Hurricane. If you’ve been to this dive and can convert ounces to shots, you’re well aware I was walking out sideways. Afterward, I’d head over to the Carousel Bar at Hotel Monteleone for a few more pops before drunkenly buying a painting or two in Jackson Square (one of which still hangs in my parent’s house). Evenings were spent listening to jazz and enjoying dinner in the Garden District.

I started listening to Zydeco and took to visiting Voodoo shops. When my mother found out, she had all her friends praying for my soul. If I hadn’t tortured that woman enough, I was a signature away from becoming an Army Diver (underwater reconnaissance and demolition) instead of going the corporate route. If it wasn’t for a dishonest recruiter and Mom’s prayers, I would’ve joined the military. I’ve come to believe my mother has a direct line to the Almighty.

I won’t go into detail, but I was in rare form at the Mardi Gras before Hurricane Katrina. My buddy’s older brother, who was a legend at The Hooch, called me from Dallas, “Evans, I heard you got a place on Bourbon Street. There’s a party there this weekend. I’m coming over.” I replied, “I know Stephen, it’s Mardi Gras.” “Yeah, that’s it, that’s the party I’m talking about. Meet me outside Commanders Palace in eight hours.” Sure enough, Captain Disaster arrived, though he was driving down a one-way street in the wrong direction with a shit-eating grin and a CamelBak full of whiskey. I’ve had plenty of decadent weekends in my day, that’s par for the course with my personality, but nothing – and I mean NOTHING, holds a candle to that weekend. But for the grace of God.

Back to work. The gentlemen who owned the tractor dealerships were extremely wealthy and had expensive hobbies, all of which I was graciously included in. Well, there was one exemption – a little parts shop in Texas was home to four curmudgeonly old-timers who sat around a coffee can spittoon telling one preposterous story after another. One of them asked if I was a mason, and I told him I wasn’t. As masons are prone to do, he didn’t formally invite me but laid out how I could attend a meeting. So I asked him, “What do y’all do?” He slowly replied, “Have you seen National Treasure?” I suspiciously said, “Yes Sir, I have.” He looked me square in the eye and said, “Well, then you know.” Mind you, two of these guys had canes and three were legally blind. I couldn’t picture these cowboys driving over the speed limit, let alone stealing the Declaration of Independence. I respectfully turned down the invitation but enjoyed a plug of Red Man.

The rest of the owners were characters too. They had mounted alligators in their offices, and I don’t mean just the head, but the whole damn gator. I about shit my pants the first time I walked in on one of those damn things. They owned massive plantations, had every toy known to man, and would jump on a grenade for their LSU Tigers. They always had smiles on their faces and something up their sleeves. None of em’ took life too seriously. Laughter was the language, even if their native tongue was French.

I was having the time of my life, but I knew it wasn’t a forever gig. Smith Barney was still the objective, and my younger brother was back in Atlanta waiting for a heart transplant, so I came home.

I eventually got my dream job at the firm, but before that chapter unfolded, I took a stab at chasing a lifelong dream of working in the fly-fishing industry.

My first time fly-fishing was on the world-famous Madison River in Montana’s “Golden Triangle.” Dad took my brother and me to Ennis (population 773), where he hired a guide and got a room in an old Victorian home. Nowadays, Ennis has three fly shops, the population has blown up to 917 and it’s considered an epicenter for fly-fishing. But in the early ‘90s, it was relatively unknown.

Our guide auditioned for a role in A River Runs Through It (Brad Pitt did none of the fishing in the film) but was turned down because he could only cast with his right hand. They needed a fisherman who could cast with both hands in case a shot required it. He told us stories of drinking beers with the cast at a local tavern and how he spent an evening with Robert Redford. He had him sign a can of beer to show his wife why he came home late for supper.

An old Evans family tradition goes like this: a dollar goes to who caught the first fish, the biggest fish, and the most fish. I landed the first rainbow that day; little did I know how that moment would influence the rest of my life. Fly-fishing is one of a few things I instantly had a knack for. I understood the poetry of it from day one. I could cast a fly where I wanted on my first try, and boy did it feel good when our guide paid a compliment about me to my old man, “Your son is a natural, Bob.” I’ll never forget it.

I got a job at an Orvis shop in Atlanta while waiting on Smith Barney. I don’t know how they do it these days, but the white-shoe firms were notoriously slow and methodical when it came to hiring. I lost track of how many interviews and exams I took before taking the Series 7, 63, and 65. And to make matters worse, the Managing Director who hired me said, “I feel like I’m doing you a disservice in giving you this job.” I walked out of his corner office as mind-f*cked as I was elated. Nothing was easy. Super alpha culture. Now that I’m thinking about it, they’ve had to soften it up for the cupcakes coming out of college now. I’m trying to picture my MD interviewing some dipshit millennial who brought his mother with him. I digress.

I worked in the fly shop at the back of the store with a group of serious fishermen; half of which were retirees and the other half were river hippies. When the store manager was gone we had Widespread, Phish, and the Dead playing. I sold rods, reels, and everything in between, but mostly I talked with fellow anglers. If I wasn’t fishing on my off days with my colleagues, I was with customers. Work and play were truly intertwined.

I couldn’t believe they were paying me, albeit it wasn’t a path to retiring on Sea Island. The economy is peculiar in that it can’t decipher between leisure and fun jobs, so it errors on the side of low wages in exchange for pleasure. But I wasn’t trying to get rich. We got ten dollars in “Orvis Bucks” for every $75 we rang up at the register and 50% off everything in the store. I’ll never forget a father and son who arrived in a blue D-90. They had never fly-fished, so like a lot of our customers, he said, “Hook us up with everything we need.” In case you’re not a fly fisherman, it’s an expensive hobby. When they left with two high-end rods, reels, waders, boots, nets, and flies, it came to the tune of $4,000; which put $500 of Orvis Bucks in my pocket. I ended up meeting them on the Hooch for an afternoon of fishing.

I put my name in the hat to run a shop in Virginia, but I was turned down after a few interviews. All I brought to the table was a love of bamboo fly rods, handmade shotguns, and Leigh Perkins. I didn’t know a thing about retail, I didn’t particularly like dealing with the public (non-fishermen), and I had no interest in women’s clothes (I cannot emphasize that last part enough). I tried my best and it didn’t pan out.

There’s a scene from ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ that I’ve tried to model my life after. It’s at the end when Jack Nicholson takes bets that he can pick up something bolted to the floor in the insane asylum. He wraps his arms around it and yanks with all his might until veins protrude from his forehead. He tries and tries, but it won’t budge. As he walks away worn out and defeated, he says, “But I tried, didn’t I? Goddamnit, at least I did that.”

P.S. I am looking for an introduction to a member at the New Orleans Athletic Club. I’d like to take a boxing lesson and write a piece on it. Please DM me through IG if you know of anyone. Thank you.

Contributor Bradley Evans is a good buddy, a UGA grad, and an idea guy. We’re lucky to have his thoughts here at RCS…more to come.