While the air hung thick with Mardi Gras jubilation the last 2 weeks – that is to say it reeked of piss, puke, stale beer, and cigarettes – I was busy working my ass off. Mandated overtime at a rate of pay not even at half the rate of Federal minimum wage I was over Mardi Gras by the time I got my one day off. Fat Tuesday was a bust. I wasn’t feeling it; I was over it before it began.
The boyfriend had worked more hours than I with a job that actually had expectations and responsibilities so it was really a feat that he rose before I and made breakfast and bloodies to rouse me from slumber. We weren’t up late nor had we drunk exuberant amounts of alcohol but I just ain’t a morning person. I roared and growled and shushed him into submission – LEAVE ME BE. I finally got up and going around 9:30. Bloody in hand we headed to Canal to see if we could catch what would be our only real parade of the season for our very first Mardi Gras – on the very last day of the celebration.
The streets we already filled with drunken costumed belligerents who didn’t notice that they were bumping into me at every pass. They got in my pictures, stood in my way, blew smoke in my face. I hated them. Round one corner and on to Canal (finally) and there was dancing, grills on the sidewalk, and excited adults and children alike. I was tired, my feet hurt; I just wanted to find a place to park but I hadn’t found it yet. There was to be an intersection of 2 parades but where was it? We walked on.
When the sea of people went from white to black it was obvious we’d hit the crossroads of the two big parades of the day: Rex (the Klan-looking parade that has, since 1872, introducing the King & Queen of Carnival) and Zulu (the more festive and laid black counterpoint). We were there to watch Zulu. We wandered a bit farther looking for a place with a view.
As we walked on, I watched a crowd of coordinated peeps doing the electric slide in perfect harmony and I knew M, my bff, would have loved it. I was warming up to the idea of Mardi Gras but as I was not yet there. I drank my drink, I felt the warmth of the sun through my many layers and waited for the parade to commence.
It’s been years since I had seen a parade and it was strikingly different than those I’d attended up north as a kid. Parades there were no longer permitted to throw candy or toys and they were never for the amusement of adults. Here, on the other hand, the festivities were clearly enjoyed by all. We met tons of locals who had been in attendance for years if not decades and others whom had traveled short and long distances to partake. It was decided: It is the tourist who celebrated Mardi Gras all year long but it is the local who really (so it seemed to me) participates fully in the festivities in the weeks between the 12th day and Fat Tuesday.
The coveted token for today’s parade was the elusive coconut. Some seemed to have acquired ½ a dozen while others, like myself, received none. This parade stuff was serious shit. You had to be aggressive. There were strategies. There were bags and bags of shit to be caught and the crowds weren’t scared to bowl you over for it. While I found all of this amusing it wasn’t until the later part of the parade that I finally raised my hands and joined in, “throw me something mister.”
My bag and neck swelled with booty; my camera filled with images; but the one moment that would stick with me was this one little boy that sat on the shoulders of his father. He was adorable and probably no more than 4 years old. He was so excited as he and his extended family stood ready on the curb. As the parade began, his family and others that surrounded him would pass him a token: a necklace, a stuffed animal, a football. His arms out reached, he was smiling and having fun but his face lit up in a whole new way when he caught his very own necklace. I am moved to tears now just thinking of it – it was such a genuine and bright moment. This kid was so proud and so grateful. The sincerity in his voice when he thanked the thrower was unbelievable. It is difficult to explain just how moving this moment was. Words do no justice but in that instant, I got it. That was my highlight, my token, my golden coconut; I didn’t need anything else.
I grew tired of the crowd and the weight of our newly acquired junk so we headed home scavenging the now vacant streets for left over goods. We were still strikingly sober when we crossed paths with our neighbor. My failure to feel the festivities were still palpable (I was so tired and so sober) and D, my next door neighbor, eagerly fetched me a drink. He was a New Orleanian and was bound and determined to make the most of our day. We would intermittently hang out throughout the rest of the day and night as we watched ticker tape parades from our stoop, refilled our drinks, and danced at clubs down the street.
After a handful of cocktails I was starting to have fun. I guess alcohol is what one needs to “feel” the mood (and ignore the pain of my feet) and alcohol is what I had in great quantities. By 9 or 10 my alcohol induced whirl wind led me astray as I seemed to have lost my group. Lost or abandoned, I had headed out alone – and this was a bad idea. It is easy to get carried away here and literally as I would discover.
I pieced together the remainder of the night through pictures, hazy recollections, videos, news reports, and the feedback from of my drunken friends and boyfriend after a litany of questions. Here seems to be how the night concluded:
My neighbors and friends headed down Bourbon to partake in the fun on the street and in the clubs. I didn’t need any more booze but everyone seemed so eager to keep my glass full. And by everyone I mean any old friend or stranger who brought me a glass of anything. What did I care? I was having fun and keeping warm now that I was bundled up in my gorilla suit. (Hey, I finally wanted to dress up too!) Along with my suit I drug along several cameras and a large vintage blonde doll. I was so clever, I thought, I was King Kong. But I kept saying Godzilla because apparently King Kong was too difficult to remember. Now here is where it gets really fuzzy.
I’m not sure if I grew confused as to the location of my friends or if I just decided to head out on my own but I wandered off farther down the street. I was in a club – a gay club if I recall correctly – and while I danced with the crowd I seemed to have found a new friend. An unattractive 40-something man who had taken a liking to me. I distinctly remember trying to lose him in the club but there he was by my side on the street. I wasn’t sick but everything was whirling. Sights and sounds were twisting into one continuous blaze of color and noise – I knew I needed to get home. Again, I tried to ditch this guy but we were on Bourbon and I lived on Bourbon. Did I mention I was drunk? There weren’t a lot of clever tactics at this juncture.
I made it to my front stoop but couldn’t seem to find my keys. When I was found (thank god for the boyfriend who had gone looking for me shortly after my departure) I was drunkenly propped up against my fence with this man hovering above me. The boyfriend told him to scram. (I later discovered this dude’s number written on a piece of cardboard with my junk and he reportedly showed up at my work looking for me a couple of time later that week.) I was tucked into bed. End of Mardi Gras – and it should have been, but it wasn’t.
While I lay passed out inside, my next door neighbor’s house caught fire. A two alarm fire that took more than 20 minutes for cops or firemen to respond to. Delays were, in part, due to the festivities themselves but also thanks to some illegally parked cop cars blocking off Bourbon Street. A crowd grew as did the fire so my boyfriend and another neighbor took out garden hoses and began watering down the houses (ours and the neighbors). Neighbors were being called and doors were being kicked in as the entire block was being evacuated.
The boyfriend, playing the neighborhood hero, left me inside because, “I couldn’t wake you up.” He had left the side gate open and that is how the cops and gained entrance into my home. When he saw them going in, he quickly followed which led him to witness them reach for their guns as I sat up right in bed flipping them off with both hands yelling “fuck you assholes.” You see, I thought it was a joke – or a dream. Either way I had no idea what was going on. “Gentlemen,” he explained, “she’s loaded. Let me get her up.” Disgruntled, they let him give it a go and this time he was successful. I think they would have been happier cuffing and booking me as they did others in the area.
I was dragged outside and left with the other on-lookers. Others, as I mentioned, were getting arrested for one bullshit reason or another. Some snacked on late-night munchies from the Quarter Master. I was confused and crying as I thought MY house was on fire and the cold realization sunk in that I had grabbed nothing. I took nothing with me as we evacuated our home. Not a single fucking thing. In fact, I don’t think I even had shoes on.
You always think you know what you would grab but it hadn’t even crossed our minds. It did now. Oh fuck, I thought. I have no insurance. All my cash was inside. My computer, my things, my crap; all inside. I compiled a list in my head and when I saw the boyfriend again I told him to go get these things. I demanded, loudly in fact. When he refused and told me to shut up about the cash (because, hey, even the cops were likely to go in and steal it) I demanded that he give me his phone. Hysterically, I called my best friend and my sister. Fortunately, the later answered and talked me down.
If not for the fact that the fire occurred in a brick house the many wood houses that surrounded it surely would have caught flame too. In fact, coals had fallen on our roof which would later explain why I thought our house had caught fire (of course being engulfed in smoke while 2 cops roused me from a drunken slumber might have added to the confusion).
The neighbors and gawkers stood on the corner as the neighborhood filled with sirens and smoke. Drunk party-goers video-taped and commented much to the dislike of those of us that lived here (@ the conclusion of the video you can see my other next door neighbor yelling at the cameraman. Josh and Sam moved out less than a week later – they were done with the Quarter.) They extinguished the fire but not until the newly restored home had been completely gutted by the fire. We were eventually permitted back on the block. I didn’t go home. I was still freaking out and my friends tried to sooth me as I was tucked into their bed. They stayed up later still drinking; too adrenaline ridden to sleep. I slept there until about 5 am when I rose, finally remembering where I was and what had happened and went home. On the short walk my sinuses ached as they filled with the air that now hung heavy with the distinct smell of a fire: smoke, chard tinder, campfire and chemicals. The smell of Mardi Gras was no more.
Maybe next year I won’t drink so much. Maybe next year I will don a costume before a sun sets. . . . maybe next year my feet won’t hurt, the air won’t stink and I won’t wait until the last day to celebrate. Maybe next year a house won’t burn down.
