This haunting fear loomed over me as I entered the city of New Orleans. I had created this picture in my mind of a post apocalyptic Mad Max world of survival of the most creatively armed. Desperate men would be walking the streets capable of anything to survive in the ruins of a storm torn city. I was even more scared when I realized I had no idea where my friend’s place was and I’d have to make my way on my own. I dropped into the bar where the sign outside read, “You can’t kick the blues in a Vanilla City.”
A blue collar bar with friendly people that once they found out I was from out of town were very adamant about how the insurance companies screwed them. We shared sips from a bottle of Kentucky whiskey while I listened to the stories how FEMA and Allstate were a pack of shit eating cock suckers. I remembered that my host here in New Orleans, Russ Brown, had left a message with directions to his home so a bid my new friends good a good luck and off I went.
Russ was asleep in his chair as I barged in the door. I demanded he wake is lazy ass up and take me out to the local nightlife. My first thought as we walked into a local watering hole was, “Where are all the black people?” Russ informed me that this was the college side of town and that New Orleans was one of the most segregated cities in the country.
As we arrived back to my truck I saw Russ disappears as if he was sucked under my vehicle. I went to see if he was ok and fell in the same hole he did. Uncovered manholes are apparently pretty common in a city with no infrastructure. On our way home I came to an intersection without a stop sign or stop light and was in a collision with a local girl who fled the scene. The cop showed up two hours later and had no computer system and was reduced to writing the incident down on paper. There was over $5000 dollars damage to my truck and cannot be picked up until April due to the abundance of cars and the lack of help. What a mess. I now drive a rented Dodge Neon and consider myself a victim of Katrina. The medians are not maintained, blocks are still without power, but all of this is no new revelation to anyone who has a television. Still, this is why I came down here: To experience it for myself. Be careful of what you wish for and all that.
Aside from the accident, I loved my time in the Big Easy. The people were friendly, the women were beautiful, and the music was fantastic. I went to see Kermit Ruffins and his cavalcade of black entertainment. His entourage included a fierce tambourine player, a gospel style jazz singer, and dueling trumpets. I danced my cracker ass off.
If you read this modest little blog of mine you know that I’m a gambler. I hate that I did one of the most tourist-y things in the city, but I had to go to Harrah’s Casino. It had just opened the week of my arrival and I’m a sucker for the poker table. Again, there were interesting stories and fun people there. I ran into the second trumpet player at the Kermit show in the casino that next evening and he was wearing the same suit sipping on a spirit. “Great job last night man, you can play the hell out of that trumpet.” I told him. “Thanks man, where you from?” “Houston.” I replied. I had to look up since he towered over my 6”2’ frame. He leaned down, grabbed me on the arm, and whispered into my ear, “Everyone from here is there now. It’s crazy.” Then he walked on mysteriously.
Well, I can’t wait to get back in April when I pick up my car. Russ will be doing all the driving.
I dunno what it was that clued me in that the vacation was filled with bad mojo, maybe it was when my lifelong buddy was rolling his wang off while the Coast Guard was searching the boat for drugs. Really bad. Were it not for a quick slight of hand, and a charming conversation about the national championship, I have a feeling many, many people would have gone to jail. A gaggle of Jewish lawyers would have been making their way to Arizona.
