New Orleans is brimming with ghosts. From the moment our bags were in the trunk and our seat belts fastened, the cab driver who took us from the airport to the hotel regaled us with stories of the many haunted locales throughout the city, including her own house, which her grown children were afraid to stay in overnight. Our destination was one of the most notoriously plagued by specters, the Bourbon Orleans, located as the name implies at the intersection of Bourbon and Orleans, in the heart of the French Quarter.
I was there for an in-law family reunion, and like most families derived from Louisiana, the tree had twisted branches touching the ground and roots like mangroves extending high above the swamp to detangle in boisterously loud conversations, filling the lobby of the hotel with deep throated laughter. There was a power outage, and a tornado warning, and a shouting match between an uncle and his girlfriend in their car in front of the hotel that ended in them driving back to Houston without ever checking in, but the reminiscing and cajoling never slowed, the revelations of past transgressions and miraculous survival flowing unabated.
On the second night my wife and I, along with her cousin and her husband, decided to take a stroll down Bourbon Street. The stories of half-sibling revelations were blurring, and we needed a few Hurricanes to clear our heads. The summer night had fallen, which meant the flies were replaced by mosquitoes and the humidity was replaced with increased humidity, and the streets were filled with folks who had a much earlier start on the Hurricanes than us.
There are three types of establishments on Bourbon Street: Servers of To-Go booze and food, in that order; Music venues spitting headaches onto the sidewalk; and Gift Shops selling trinkets only a drunk with a headache could think were a bargain. After sampling the first two in the initial blocks of our walk, we headed into one of the third. I can’t recall the name of the place, but I do remember the lady behind the counter – a small, dark, black woman with the hardened features of a life of struggle – wearing tight, bright Canary Yellow pants and a tee-shirt with “Laissez Le Bon Temps Rouler” written on it tied in the front to allow some air to reach her belly button.
The store was filled with not only made-in-China beads and voodoo dolls, but drunk sweaty humans impatiently staggering in line to make purchases, ask questions, sing Karaoke, belch and laugh about it, or fuss at their wives to hurry up and quit wasting time that could be spent killing brain cells, which was what I was doing.
There was a 40-something aged white woman ahead of us who had just made a purchase, and she was clearly confused and angry about something and was letting Canary Girl know about it, but it was hard to tell about what until she shouted over the din, “You didn’t give me the right change!”
To which Canary Girl said, “OK, give me a minute, while I help this nice lady,” pointing to the next person in line.
The perturbed customer, wearing a jeans skirt with a flowered top, and reeking of alcohol recently imbibed with much practiced dedication, did not have a minute to give.
“You ripped me off! I want my money!!” she yelled, and everyone watching her knew she was too far gone to count change, recite the alphabet, or even stand without assistance.
Canary Girl was not without patience, but it was finite, and nothing shortens it faster than heat and humidity. She looked at her drunken accuser and gave her a fair chance. “Please give me a minute and I’ll help you.”
“You are ripping me off!!” her challenger retorted.
The look on Canary Girl’s face was one of tiredness and frustration more than anger, that this was the part of the job she hated even more than the normal parts she hated. The next words out of her mouth were a statement of fact, not a threat or a warning.
“If you say that again I’m gonna hafta come around the counter and kick your ass,” responded the accused.
“This place is a rip-off!!! Don’t buy anything here!!!” were the drunk’s famous last words.
As promised, a pair of tight yellow pants careened around the counter and cut through the mob with precision and grabbed the still roaring woman by the collar of her flowered blouse and yanked her out onto the sidewalk, then threw her into the dirt of unpaved Bourbon Street, straddling the woman to deliver six swift and concise blows to her face. Then she stood in absolute disgust and walked back into her store and resumed her place behind the counter as if she was returning from a potty break. Those waiting in line had not moved, and purchases resumed with Canary Girl collecting the money.
Our group had following the pair from the store into the street and helped form the circle of spectators watching the action. The woman being pummeled was not alone, her significant other, an even drunker looking white guy wearing jeans and a tee-shirt stained with slobber, was standing to the side and took a step forward to assist, but a large brother standing next to him grabbed him by the arm to let him know not to interfere. After the beating ended, he helped his girl to the curb to console her, where she sobbed and bled and blamed the entire world for her condition.
Then, for me, anyway, it got very interesting. A squad car arrived – the only motorized vehicles allowed on Bourbon Street are the patrol cars and ambulances – and stopped in front of the wounded woman and her companion. Two officers jumped out and walked over to the pair.
The first said, “Are you the one who was just in a fight?”
It was obvious from the bleeding and crying, but he wanted a confession.
“Yes. That woman,” she said pointing to the yellow panted woman steadfastly ringing the register inside, “Ripped me off then beat me up when I complained!”
“Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?” asked the second cop.
“Naw, I’ll be OK,” said the woman.
“OK, then you are coming with us,” said Cop #1.
“She told you she was OK,” said her man.
“OK, then you are both coming. You are both under arrest for disturbing the peace!” said Cop #2, before handcuffing both and throwing them into the back of the car.
So that night I had a lesson about America beaten into me, same as the drunk broad who probably won’t remember. No matter what color you are, if you are making Green you are in the right, and if you are obstructing the Green from flowing, you may be rewarded with free room and board. Justice for all, right?
