Drinking and the Dead
"Spare some change for a homeless vampire?" asked the Goth youth on the curb.
I ignored him - I wasn't worried. I had a silver cross in my pocket for just these situations. But I wouldn't need it for him; he was just a punk. He was faking it.
This isn't unusual in New Orleans. The town is full of faux vampires, snake charmers, and punks riding around on girl's bikes. For a long time there used to be a woman named Ruthie with a pet duck on a leash.
Ruthie disappeared a long time ago, but she was a guide book favorite. I think guidebooks thought of her as the essence of the French Quarter. They talked about Ruthie, but they never knew what it meant. Maybe they don't see it, maybe they are afraid to speak the truth. But here it is:
New Orleans is actually the afterlife. Ghosts walk the streets; the entire place is stuck in amber. It is not of this world.
Of course, the afterlife would look just like New Orleans. Not the bright white lights and puffy cloud kind of afterlife like in the movie Heaven Can Wait, but more the dark, comical afterlife like Beetlejuice.
This explains the proliferation of mullet haircuts. This explains the strange clothes, the capes and the top hats, and the surprising number of feather boas. This explains the obsession with jazz music and their ancient traditions of frying everything that moves and layering all food with butter. This explains the odd way birds float in the air, hovering, not even flapping their wings.
The sweet decay, the busted-up sidewalks, the romantic peeling paint - all of that is part of the deal, part of visiting the afterlife. When you visit New Orleans you walk with the dead.
It's the afterlife with a high tourist rotation. People visit, they party, they have Hurricanes at Pat O'Briens, they eat some gumbo, and they go home. Maybe they buy a tacky T-shirt on Bourbon Street.
They take tours on horse-pulled carriages. They tour the cemeteries and eat at Café Du Monde. They unwittingly drink with the dead.
Then they leave, none the wiser. And that's the sad thing right there - tourists come to the party town, throw some beads and actually feel they understand New Orleans. Because the real thing is not like that - the beads, the T-Shirts, the Hurricanes. That stuff is all a stage show for the masses.
But we're not like them - not me and my posse. We discovered the truth some time ago, when bar hopping.
That night, deep in the quarter, we noticed whatever deceased band or long-dead singer we talked about would magically, suddenly, play on the jukebox within minutes. If you are there, try it: talk about Elvis or Patsy Cline and see how long it is before you hear that performer.
This town is a good thing. What a treat it is for those that understand the hidden meaning. What a pleasant thing to be able to visit the afterlife, to sample the nectar. To see the past, to see the dead so clearly.
There is beauty here - New Orleans should be a comfort to us all. If this is the afterlife, it ain't all bad.
My last night there I was drinking with the dead, at a so-so bar. When I turned I saw this amazing bartender; she was pale, long blonde hair. Turn of the century garb; she was wearing a ratty corset. She looked dead. I nodded to my friend Chris and when I turned back I couldn't find her. She had disappeared. But he had seen her earlier and had felt the energy of the dead. He knew the deal.
Maybe she died from the bubonic plague or something. Maybe yellow fever. But doesn't the bubonic plague leave you with bumps?
Who knows.
Later we saw her flow through the quarter with a cigarette. It was not possible.
Ah, but it was.
Because it was New Orleans.
Questions?
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