Respe.

A New Orleans Tall Tale.

By, Shannon O’Neill

Author’s Note: I am not from New Orleans, so I know there are some things in here that are geographically/culturally inaccurate and some ways of speaking that aren’t spot-on. I wasn’t shooting for accuracy, just fun. New Orleanians please forgive me, I truly adore your city!

Head throbbing, shirt torn, blood still dribbling down his chin, Beau Fontenot dug into his pants pockets for anything resembling a tissue. His knuckles were bruised to bone and he winced as his fingers searched into the corners of those pockets with increasing desperation. Eyebrows raised at the soft feel of what felt like crumpled paper, a paltry victory as he pulled out a single slightly used Kleenex and held it to his mouth. His head hit something cold and hard as he attempted to slide up with his arm and shoulder against a wall. As he turned to look while getting to his feet, he saw that this cold, hard thing assisting him back to a somewhat upright position was in fact, a tombstone. The family name: ‘Fontenot’.

Son of a bitch!

Not seeing the two teeth near his heel, the ones now permanently evicted from his mouth, their vacancy leaving only pain in their wake; his clumsy feet crushed them underfoot and there they went to be buried, like everything else around here; into the Earth with the worms. Head ringing, eyes blurry, he began to look for a gate so as to stagger out of St. Louis #1. Baise Moi was all he could think as he hobbled away.

Beau had been in his family’s ancestral city for just two days and already he was sick of this swampy, noisy, death-obsessed ville de merde. What was supposed to be a rip-it-up, no-holds-barred spring break in the Big Easy with his cousin Amos and Amos’ best friend Damas ended up being an exercise in repeatedly getting one’s Canadian booty kicked from the Quarter to the ‘Treme by the very soul of the city.

*****

At 21 and nearly done with his university degree at McGill’s, Beau was fresh off of a breakup with his most recent girlfriend whom he swore had been the one; much like the previous three before her. He needed to blow off some serious steam, away from his nosy, but well-meaning parents, away from the cold, snow-white monotony of Montreal, away from the bitchy stares of his ex’s friends, two of whom he had classes with, and one of whom he had accidentally slept with. “Psilocybin makes you do crazy shit!” was his explanation. His now-ex did not concur, which he frankly felt was a little narrow-minded on her part. After all, she was always expressing the desire to experiment and be more wild in her uptight life. Apparently that did not mean experimenting separately from each other.

His experiences with the wealthy girls from ‘up the hill’ had failed to teach him that assuming they would all be open to forgiving accidental sex was a recipe for getting hurt. Or rather, it was something he failed to learn. He failed to learn a great deal with women, mostly given to his ability to get away with a metric ton of shit: at 6’2, gorgeous green eyes, wavy chestnut hair and a trim build, his smile could charm most of the people most of the time. Until it got old.

School break was the perfect time to slip away to lick his wounds with some Hurricane drinks and live music. He had family in New Orleans, and felt the fact he was French-speaking would give him an edge; particularly with the women there. The best way to get over a breakup was to fuck your way through the anger and into the acceptance phase of grieving. This had never actually worked for him, but he was bound and determined to make the fifth time a charm in the Big Easy. He had been there several times before, staying with Amos and dancing to a drunken Cajun beat until the sun came up. Every time he came down, it always felt like he had won the party lotto. He even started to get recognized by some of the locals that were friends with Amos and Damas. This was the perfect idea for spring break. This was an even better idea for getting over getting dumped.

*****

The first day he arrived was a breeze. He met up with Amos, whose family lived in the Garden District, because of course they did. His Aunt and Uncle had lived in New Orleans for almost thirty years, having been able to afford a big house that wasn’t touched by Katrina the way the poorer parishes had been. Amos was an anomaly in the family. His father was a big-shot lawyer who worked for the city and his mother was a judge. Neither of them could sing or play a bloody thing, ironic in a city known for its glorious tunage; but Amos could play the fiddle like a house on fire. “It’s the Cajun in him!” was what the entire family would say. Beau was able to play a bit of piano, but it was impossible to play along with Amos. Anytime that guy struck up his bow, you were a goner. He would leave you as dust in the wind. And being a young, hot musician in New Orleans meant that Amos was the perfect key to any number of fabulous parties Beau would never have been privy to as an outsider, and even worse, a mediocre musician. Even better for Beau, Amos was Gay and therefore not a cockblocker or a mutinous Wingman like his college buddies so frequently were.

They spent the day wandering the Vieux Carre first, just to remind Beau of what most folks came down to the Crescent for: gorgeous French architecture, low-hanging balconies, gorgeous trellises, street lamps that gave the city a look out of time. Lush green plants hung from the tops of nearly every balcony, a kind of natural flag of Louisiana in of themselves. You could hear the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriages carrying families around who were wealthy enough to take the trip and too hot to walk anymore with little ones. Yes, there were a gazillion gaudy tourist shops with hideous cheap plastic beads, fake Voodoo dolls and gauche t-shirts for sale that read: “Fuck Katrina: I stormed New Orleans!”. Katrina was fifteen years ago, but her ghost was the albatross that would never be shaken from the city’s neck.

As the cousins wandered, they went down towards Jackson Square where there was a hodgepodge of street musicians, bone-tellers, and food vendors. The whole place was hopping with street jazz, wafts of booze co-mingling with weed. Amos decided to have a little mischief with his cousin, whom he had always felt was too arrogant for his own good. He pointed at a Bone-Teller man sitting at a wobbly little table, dreads down past his back that were only just starting to grey at the temples, huge eyes with a greying goatee, and a smile that looked both warm and menacing all at once.

Beau froze as he saw the Bone-Teller looking in their direction. Not wanting to be made a fool of, he said far too loudly: “Are you kidding me, man!? I don’t go for that stupid woo-woo bullshit.”

Amos’ rascally grin vanished quickly and he raised his eyebrows: “Careful there, ‘Cos. You don’t knock hoodoo like that down here.”

The Bone-Teller, who had perfect hearing with a specific ear for taking down assholes, made direct eye contact with Beau and Amos. He said nothing, but gestured to the rickety customer’s stool in front of his table.

Beau, embarrassed that the gentleman had clearly overheard his snotty comment, put up his hands to try and apologize. “Oh, I’m sorry man. I’m just not from around here. That’s just not my thing, no disrespect!”

The Bone-Teller gave away nothing, as was his tack. He simply raised one incredulous eyebrow at the cocky White boy and gestured again. He knew Amos and Amos’ family well, through his brother and his nephew. He had no truck with them. Amos was a skinny little White kid from a rich family, sure; but he had a great musical ear with a Cajun flavor and he could play his worth with any cat in town. It was Amos’ obnoxious cousin who was the one that needed a mato, and he had heard about Beau’s penchant for aggressively hitting on anything with legs and a snatch. New Orleans is a proud Queen and no one knocks her down.

Amos shrugged his shoulders at the Bone-Teller as if to say “What can you do?” but he knew the Bone-Teller was the real deal and he also knew Beau was being a typical touristy dick, nothing new for him, but this was more overtly rude than he’d been before with a local busker. Word among the musicians and the local families gets around quickly in the Quarter.

If Amos was going to be allowed to play with the big cats again, he had to make sure there was no more of that kind of attitude from his cousin. That shit will stick on you like bad karma. “C’mon ‘Cos, it can’t hurt. And it’s supporting a local person’s way of life. This is part of the culture here. Show a little respect!” He gently pushed Beau towards the chair. Beau, unused to being pushed into something he didn’t want to do, stood his ground and shook his head.

“Dude, it’s just not my thing. Can we hit the bar? It’s hot as hell out here. Again, no disrespect, my man.”

The Bone-Teller said nothing for a moment, holding his eye contact firmly enough with Beau and Amos to make them freeze awkwardly instead of simply moving on. Horns blared. A trumpet wailed nearby. Loud, rowdy Tulane students were starting to head to the bars as the sun was gradually making its way Hellwards. A gorgeous Black woman in a sleek, low-cut dress and heels walked by which made Beau almost become one with the pavement. Then without warning, the Bone Man clapped his hands together loudly just once. He looked at Beau and said straight with no chaser:

“It seems you have a problem with women, oui?” He said in a deep, rumbly voice that had a gravitas Beau wouldn’t have in a million years. It was damn-near Presidential, and distinctly French, but not any kind of French Beau was too familiar with.

Beau’s entire back arched, like a cat, immediately in defense mode: “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”

The Bone Man didn’t even blink. He just sat, looking up at Beau with a wide, mischievous smile. “It means what it means.”

“What are you, a fucking Voodoo Fortune Cookie?” Beau was starting to get into brawl mode, a very bad idea.

“It means you need to respect the Lady.” The Teller sighed. What he meant was: respect the Lady New Orleans and the ladies of New Orleans. This guy had testosterone, entitlement, and misogeny written all over his stupid, privleged, handsome face. The kid was clearly far too dense to get the man’s meaning (and warning), but fucking with him was far too fun to resist.

At this point, Beau was incensed and feeling the way he did if he had been 4-beers deep at a bar while hitting on someone and a fellow DudeBro accidentally bumps into him and makes him spill his beer. He felt intruded on. Dude interrupted. “What lady?! What are you gibbering about? I fucking love women! I mean, Jesus Christ, Amos here doesn’t even sleep with women! I’m a goddamn ROMEO, asshole!”

At that point the Bone Man’s eyes seethed. He gritted his teeth. Fucking with this kid had gone beyond not worth his time. If he didn’t want to hear the truth, then he could bo bourik mwen. He held up his hand for silence as he watched Beau twitch with frat-like resentment.

“Enough! If you cannot handle reality, I cannot help you, and I will not tolerate your abusive language. Go away now, you are scaring my customers. Bonne chance.” The Teller said this last sentence as if he was spitting out acid. He might as well have been.

Beau was stunned. No one had ever spoken to him like this before, except perhaps one of his exes, but they were just being pissy. Men his age were usually friendly with him, almost like puppies around an Alpha. Granted, he was not usually around men of this Bone-Teller’s age (or color, if he were to be honest), but this nonsense was a lot. As he moved to walk past the man, avoiding eye contact with him, the Teller started to grumble a little in what sounded like French, but was not exactly Beau’s kind of French. Beau then saw his cousin Amos’ face take on a lobster hue. He had hurt Amos with his careless, homophobic, extremely public screed and had no clue how much he had damaged Amos’ reputation in the Quarter with his attitude. He walked over to his cousin, and Amos simply turned away.

“No man, fuck off. I thought we were just having some fun, but you were a complete prick. I’m out. Like always. Figure your own way around, you’ve been here before.”

Beau sighed, and decided he would do exactly that; hoping his cousin would cool his heels after a little time apart. He was just being a Drama Queen. He knew his cousin didn’t take it seriously, he was just spouting, he was so oversensitive. A Pimm’s Cup and some music would soothe the savage beast.

*********

A Pimm’s Cup, a Ramos Gin Fizz, and a Hurricane drink later, Beau found himself flirting with a beautiful college-aged blonde American almost as tall as he was. Evening had started to pour in along with excitable tourists and a smattering of locals. Zydeco was roaring on the stage in the small, cramped bar near Frenchman street. Beau had waited out the sweltering heat of the day in this dark, lively place. He and the blonde started to dance together, his hands slowly doing the one-two creep down her back when he looked up and startled at seeing a familiar face at the bar. It was Damas, Amos’ best friend, and he looked pissed.

Before Damas could approach Beau, the woman he was dancing with, who was not nearly as drunk as he had assumed she was, started to squirm away from him, and pushed his arms off of the small of her back. Beau balked. “What’s wrong baby? I thought we were having a nice time?” Her face was one that was definitely not saying ‘I’m having a great time.’

She pulled back and said in a hiss: “‘Baby’? Are you kidding me? You’re a creep, get off of me!”

Pretending to have no idea what she was saying, Beau went with:“What the hell, I thought we were just dancing?”

Before Beau could get another word in, Damas stormed over to them both. Had he been animated, you could have seen the smoke emitting from both ears, and he was already intimidating enough a sight. He was built like a quarterback, Lower-9th Ward-tough, and had huge dark eyes that could strike lightning if they wanted to. Unfortunately, the Universe has a sense of humor because when he spoke, his voice was soft as velvet. Also, unfortunately, Beau was both drunk and distracted by his dance partner dumping him and when Damas spoke, instead of scaring or shaping up Beau, it just made him giggle.

“Hey asshole, I’m talkin’ to YOU! You dare to disrespect not only my boy but my UNCLE?”

Beau’s eyes dilated a little at that. They dilated a little more when Damas reached down, picked him up by the front of his stupid McGill’s t-shirt and slammed him against a wood pillar in the bar. The coat hooks on the bar dug into Beau’s back and he yelped in pain. Plenty of eyes were looking at them, but the locals all knew Damas and Damas’ Uncle. They were well known in the Quarter and the family had been in the Big Easy for generations. No one was going to fuck with Damas.

“Day, c’mon, what are you talking about? I apologized to Amos! I said I was sorry! And who the fuck is your Uncle?! I’ve never met your freaking Uncle! Ow! Could you please put me the fuck down? I’m sorry man, it wasn’t meant to disrespect him. Amos is like a brother to me, you know that. FUUUUCK please put me down!” His feet were scrambling in the air, but it was hopeless.

Damas was known as a gentle giant to most folks, though he had earned a reputation as a fierce fighter in the Ward when he was forced to throw down, especially in the years following Katrina. He and Amos had met years ago as kids in their school’s band and had stayed tight ever since. They often played the same gigs together. Amos was scrawny and scrappy, but being openly Gay in a New Orleans public school had not always been easy and Damas became Amos’ protector as well as his friend. Day knew Amos would never stand up for himself firmly with his cousin, whom Day had always thought was a thoughtless jerk the few times they had met on one of Beau’s women hunts disguised as family visits. Beau’s arrogance needed a serious head-clearing the Crescent way.

Speaking of Beau, at this point he was grappling with Day’s huge arms, trying to wrench himself free from his grip. It was fairly comical to the lookie-loos. The loud chuckling, especially from some of the beautiful women at the bar, including the one who had recently just rejected him, was beyond humiliating.

Day looked into Beau’s pasty, squirming face hard. “Okay you arrogant little blan yo, I’m taking your ass where it belongs. Come with me.” He dropped Beau like a sack of Canadian bacon, then as Beau stumbled to get up, he felt his arm yanked in the direction Day was walking. Behind them both, Beau could almost swear he heard faint applause, but that could have just been the booze.

******

Day gripped Beau’s arm tightly until they came to what was apparently his car, a very nice sleek, black Mustang with an icon card hanging from the mirror. The picture was of a tall, thin man with a skull painted on his face (or was his face a skull?) with a top hat and wearing what appeared to be a tuxedo. In the background was a cemetery. Man these hoodoo freaks are fucking weird! was all Beau could think as he was shoved into the back seat of the car.

“We’re picking someone else up.” Damas said curtly as he started the engine. Beau would have tried to unlock the door and escape, but the doors locked only from the outside and he was starting to get the spins from all the alcohol he had had. Puke was going to make an appearance at some point. They went for several blocks and then hit Jackson Square again. As a tall Black man with gorgeous dreads down his back stepped into the car, he turned around to get a good look at Beau, breaking out into a wide smile, but this time there was no mischief behind it, just pure anger.

Beau puked and then passed out.

*******

They drove around the outskirts of the city for a while, then stopped at a small strip of land that waded into a bayou. It was part of their family’s land, but Beau didn’t know that. It was pretty dark now. The lights of the car stayed on, flashing on and off, cutting into the mist that had started to creep across the surface of the water. An alligator was clearly floating off into the deeper part of the woods; the eyes reflected in the lights of the car, peering from the black lid of the water.

Both Damas and the man he picked up got out of the car and then honked the horn to wake up Beau, who had passed out in his own vomit. The noise startled the gator, and with a splash of its tail, it went further under the water, but not necessarily farther away. There was, after all, the potential of food in the air, or at the least a good wrestling match. It had been some time since anything challenging had found its way into its jaws.

Beau sat bolt upright and banged his head on the roof of the car. “Goddammit! Where am I? What the fuck is happening?!”

The Bone Man, and also, as it happened, Damas’ Uncle, banged on the roof of the car with his fist. “Get out of the car, kid. End of the line. No more free rides today.”

Beau slithered out of the car like a drunk snake, dried puke stuck to his ripped McGill’s shirt, hair slicked in sweat, and face wet with drool. “Look, I’m sorry man! I didn’t know this guy was your Uncle! I didn’t know! I’m sorry, alright? Please don’t kill me.” He started to sob a little, shoulders shaking in fear,

Damas couldn’t help but laugh just a little at the assumptions that this kid had about them. “What do you think we are, Beau? The Mafia? Gang members? That we’re just goin’ to kill you ’cause we’re from the ‘hood? The fuck is wrong with you, man? Didn’t Amos teach you nothing about down here?”

Beau looked around the swamp. He could have sworn he saw a giant lizard floating in the water, but he was sure it was just the aftermath of the booze and the fear. “No, no man I just…”

Bone Man spoke up, putting his great hand up in front of his chest as if to halt any other words from Beau’s mouth. “This stretch of bayou is part of our family’s land here. We brought you out here because it’s a quieter place to talk with fewer eyes. Ain’t no one trying to kill your stupid ass, though kicking it is pretty tempting.”

Beau was thoroughly confused, but at this point was so tired he simply sat on the damp, swampy ground and listened. If he turned his head just right, you could see behind them the lights of the city, beaming and partying like nothing else was wrong in the world; a beautiful woman shimmering in a gorgeous dress of red and gold with a laugh that spoke of pure heathen fun, but eyes that said she was still a lady.

“Beau, you know Amos and I have been tight since we were kids, and I always feel like I need to look out for him. He’s like a brother to me. You have always been a dick to him, every time I met you you put him down or made some fucking Gay joke. And the way you treat the women here, including some who have been friends of both Amos’ and I’s, is not just right. I couldn’t take seeing you do that anymore. Especially not after you were such a prick to my Uncle here, in the middle of Jackson Square in front of everyone and their Mother. That shit can’t fly.”

“The Bone Guy is your Uncle?!” Beau felt like he had been slammed into cement. I feel like I just stumbled into a fucking Tennesee Williams verison of ‘Our Town’.

“My name is Baron, you petite embisil. And you better start putting respect on the culture here, the women here, my nephew, and your cousin. And yes, the local buskers, like myself. We are part of that culture, we are what makes New Orleans what it is. You will never be welcomed back here if you can’t do that. Do you see that light back there? That’s the Lady New Orleans. It is our home. It is damn special, and you have proven you are definitely not worthy of her. You need to get over yourself. You want to be an entitled little jerk to everyone because you’re rich and went to some fancy college? Day here went to Harvard on a Scholarship, motherfucker! And think you can just do what you want down here because you Parlez-francais? Shit, you wouldn’t last five minutes in the Ninth Ward or ‘Treme.”

Beau sat and blinked at them. He was tired, nauseous, hung-over, angry, and vaguely hungry. He was over this ridiculous little ghetto version of an after-school special. He wanted out. So he figured the only way to do that was to simply make these dudes think he got the message.

Beau gave his best contrite face, the one he used when his last girlfriend dumped him. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I have been a bit of a dick. I will try to stop being such a player. I will absolutely tip any fortune tellers I see…” He trailed off for a minute, expecting the possibility of more vomit to make another nauseous appearance.

Both men started shaking their heads, knowing this was a boy only God could fix. Or poverty, if God was kind. Baron chuckled a deep chuckle that had no malice, just deep disappointment in how incredibly strong the douche ran in this unfortunately typical kid, even if he was allegedly Canadian. Douchiness, it seemed, was aggressively pervasive.

Baron relented. The lesson would either take or it wouldn’t. It was time to get back. “C’mon Day, let’s get on home. The Lady will sort this kid out. Or some other lady’s big brother. Either way, I’m tired. Let’s boogie and then head on down to Bertha’s.”

Day nodded. He opened the door and tapped, not without kindness, Beau’s shoulder and gestured with his hand for Beau to get in. Beau sighed a deep, relieved sigh. As the engine of the car started up and the lights flickered in the mist, the alligator was deeply disappointed in the Angels of the Baron and Damas’ better nature, refusing to leave him a feisty snack. He thrashed his tail against the muddy Louisiana waters and drifted off to search for its own version of a po’boy somewhere in between the shadows and beneath the stars. The bayou had its own honky tonk in the night far from Cajun or Creole eyes. And much like its two-legged neighbors that lived in the lights, many would not awake to see the Delta dawn.

*******

All three men were quiet now but for the sound of some Wynton Marsalis on the radio, and so the ride back into the city was jazz smooth. Beau rubbed his temples to try and sooth his rattled brain. As the lights started to get brighter in the mirror, he noticed the icon card on the mirror was different. He could swear he saw a regal-looking Black woman with her hair bound up in a large, beautiful hair wrap and an old-fashioned looking burgundy dress with long sleeves, and a skull with a candle coming out of it. I’ve got to stop smoking weed when I drink, he thought as he rubbed his eyes.

Damas spoke up looking at Beau’s bloodshot eyes in the mirror. “Ok man. We’re dropping you off where Amos is tonight. He texted me. He’ll take you back to his place once he’s done hanging.”

Beau shot straight up in his seat, once again hitting his head on the car ceiling. “Wait, he knew about this?!”

Both men looked at each other, grinned a little, and nodded silently. “Your cousin is not the pussy you seem to think he is.” Baron said this gruffly but with a subtle glee lurking under the surface.

They pulled up to the side of Napoleon’s Itch, rife with pride flags, drag queens, and some absolutely delightfully funky piano beats wafting out of the windows.

Damas unlocked the passenger door and gestured to the bar. “Ok man, we’re here. Amos’ll be out soon. You can wait for him inside or you can wait at one of the nearby bars. None of these places close ‘till late. It’s only about 11 or so. You should be fine until then.”

As Beau stumbled out into the buck-jumping streets of a city on fire with festivity, he turned back and awkwardly waved at his faux-hosts for the evening. Baron the Bone Man gave him a look and just before they drove away, he looked right into Beau’s eyes and said with cold truth on his tongue: “If I ever see you walk on by my table again, or anyone else I know with a snotty attitude or hear you are giving Amos a hard time, I will shove every one of my telling bones down your throat. Tu comprends?”

Beau felt the slightest shiver weave down his spine and into his own bones. All he could let out was a strangled-sounding: “Oui.”

And with that, the two men who had shown up the Glasgow Smile of this smiling city were off into the inky black, ready to play and ready to shake it. Beau stood outside of the Itch for a few minutes, contemplating what he really wanted to do. He was so pissed at Amos he wanted to scream at him, maybe even punch him in his dumb, scrawny face. But Beau also knew that would only bring more trouble and he had had enough of that. He started to walk towards the bar, but as he got closer he could see two men, one tall, sleek, and Brown with glittering eye shadow and a leather vest passionately kissing a short, slightly husky fellow with spiky ombre-dyed hair and a beard. His chest tightened. He didn’t have anything against this per se, at least he knew he wasn’t supposed to; but it was just not his scene.

Beau felt his phone buzz, it had been on silent the entire time! How had he not thought of using it to call someone? Shaking his weary head, he clicked to see a text from Amos: Be out in about 10 minutes. You’re welcome to wait at the bar. I can have Lulu fix you a drink.

Beau grimaced. He waited for about three minutes and then realized he was too mad to spit.

“Fuck this.”

*****

As Beau decided to amble along Bourbon Street to fume, shouldering past a cacophony of loud, drunk people of varying ages, races, and nationalities, he couldn’t help but feel just ever so slightly watched. He turned several times to look behind him to see if there was anyone else on his trail, like perhaps his ridiculous cousin who had clearly seen one too many episodes of The Sopranos or The Wire; but each time he just saw random revelers having a good old Southern time. At one point he felt he had gotten turned around, the street felt too familiar for him to have been going forward.

As he stood on the corner of St. Ann and Bourbon, he saw a sign that read: Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo. Below the sign was a portrait of the exact same woman he had seen on the Icon card that had hung on Damas’ mirror. He felt a warm, tingling feeling down his legs as he stared wordlessly at the picture. Her eyes followed him no matter which way he shifted. There was a loud guffaw coming from a few feet in the other direction of the road heading into Bourbon. A short man with a jet-black crew cut and about 100 gold rings on each hand and a striped collar shirt (that would not look out of place in a Spike Lee movie that featured Brooklyn Italians) was laughing so loud it could cut glass. He sounded like a donkey on cocaine. He kept repeatedly pointing at Beau’s crotch.

Beau was about to start getting fisty, but then the even-shorter redheaded butterball next to this stunning specimen of manhood pointed with him and said “I can’t believe that guy pissed his pants! He doesn’t look old enough to be out of diapers!” Then before Beau could hurl one-thousand tiny paper-cuts of insults at Thing 1 and Thing 2, they were gone into the smoke and noise of the New Orleans night. He looked down at his pants. They were indeed soaked with a tiny pool of urine gathering by his feet. He quickly jumped up, as if by removing himself from the spot, the problem would be solved. He wiped at his pants and hoped in the din of the crowd and the amount of puke, urine, and beer that was likely convalescing all over the sticky corners of Bourbon Street, he would be considerably more undetected.

*****

After aimlessly wandering for about an hour, Beau unwittingly found himself gravitating towards St. Louis Street where the crowd was slightly thinner and several tour buses whizzed past him with loudspeakers echoing in his ears about above-ground graves. He was utterly lost and his phone had died. At this point he was simply walking around avoiding help or a cab out of spite. It was getting later and slightly quieter the further up the road he went. Past a small green park, he saw what looked like a big concrete wall. It could have been grey, but his night vision was shit and the street lights were dim around this area. There was a small railing-style gate in the center of the square. He walked towards it, but it was locked. It appeared to be a tiny city for midgets. He rubbed his eyes again.

“Sorry bruh, she’s closed now. The last Ghost tour just left. ‘Fraid you’ll have to come back tomorrow. Can’t be letting people in by themselves no more.” The voice came from the other side of the fence and nearly ripped Beau out of his skin. A male guard in a shaggy blue suit and tie with a little conductor-style hat patted the gate like it was a golden retriever and shambled off after tugging on the lock to make it clear there was no getting in.

In a fit of panic, Beau started to rattle the gate like it was a jail cell he was locked in. “Dude, please help me. I’m lost and I don’t know where the fuck I am! Could you please call me a cab or something? My phone died. This fucking city is a nightmare.”

The guard stopped and looked at Beau for a moment. He came off like some kind of desperate junkie. He stank worse than a dead bayou skunk. This was often the way muggers tricked people into getting into the cemetery before robbing them. He trusted his instincts. He also hated anyone trashing his city. She’d been nothing but good to him.

“Uh, look man, I’m sorry, I gotta make the rounds here. There’s a bar just down a block or two that might still have one of those old landlines, or where you can hail a cab safe. And don’t knock Big Easy. She’s a Lady. Gotta respect the Lady and she’ll respect you.” With that, before Beau could draw a gun or try to scale the walls, the guard jogged off, leaving Beau in his state of disrepair.

Beau swore in French and English and then banged on the wall multiple times. He then punched it so hard his knuckles were on fire and drenched in blood. There was at least some bone peeking through them. “Goddaman this fucking place! I hate you, you rancid biiiitch! You can rot in the ground like those bodies for all I fucking care! I wish Katrina had just drowned you all! And if I ever see that ostie de colon again, I’ll — -” A voice came up from behind Beau, who had been screaming at the wall, not unlike many a New Yorker after a train delay.

“You’ll what?”

With that, Beau felt a thunderous crack where the back of his head was and was knocked out solid cold.

******

When Beau Fontenot finally awoke inside St. Louis Cemetery #1 and started hobbling towards the gate, realizing he had been locked in, he decided to simply find a cab and get the fuck out of town. His Aunt and Uncle could just mail him his shit. He was over it. As he straggled towards the exit, which was now indeed open, he noticed a completely different guard than the one last night; an average-sized woman in a similarly shaggy blue suit standing by with a walkie-talkie. She gave him the most evil side-eye you could think of, but when he tried to work his best: “Just got in some trouble, but I’m ok” smile, her look turned to one of simple pity.

Beau worked his puppy dog eyes and Oh Darn cadence on her. “Ma’am, I have clearly had a very bad night. My phone is dead. Could you please call a cab for me? Any cab?” The guard’s eyes softened and she did just that.

As Beau stumbled into the cab, the cabbie turned to talk to him with a sunshine smile and a fried egg voice. “Where to, young man? Looks like the Lady had a rough time with you last night! Ha! Gotta watch that gin!”

Beau smiled wanly back, and said faintly: “The airport. I think the Lady had TOO much fun with me. I think I need to just go home.”

The cabbie chuckled, having seen this result many times before. The young man would be back, as they all were. There’s no place like this place. If you party smartly, you’ll have a fine time. This young buck was just a tadpole.

*******

As the car pulled up to the airport, Beau reached into his pocket to grab his wallet. As his sore fingers felt around his pocket, he felt the slow crawl of dread spread throughout his chest. There was no wallet. He looked in every nook and cranny he could find. NOTHING. Just a wrinkled scrap of paper with something scrawled in thick marker. As he saw the annoyed look on the cabbie’s face, as he seemed to be realizing no payout was coming after he’d already driven the kid here, Beau read the note and fell back laughing mirthlessly.

Your wallet’s at the Delta Front desk. Next time don’t be such an asshole. -Amos

******