Live a Little

The grand carriage waited poised, its elegant woodwork, four black horses, and delicate label, Queen Marie’s NOLA Ghost Tours, out of place against the dirty, plaster smothered brick wall and rusted iron gate separating the living from the dead. A confident young woman leaned against it, matching the angle of the sign post proclaiming the corner of Basin and Conti streets, and watched me approach with bright eyes. She took a puff of her slender vape and smiled as she warmly took my hand in both of hers. Her top hat and vest matched the elegant carriage, and her tattered jeans and mid-calf boots matched the rest. A colorful scarf trailed playfully out from under her black silk hat and she said, “Hello Roger, I’ve been expecting you,” her eyebrow quirked up. “Well, well. You’ve been in New Orleans for a week, and the most adventurous food you’ve had is red beans and rice? You can’t vary too far from that comfortable cheese burger huh? Monsieur, you must at least try some etouffee, jambalaya, and gumbo while you’re here. Lord knows it will open your mind.”

She read the confusion on my face and said, “I’ve got a feeling about these things.” I stumbled back as a large snake emerged from under her vest and coiled comfortably around her shoulders. She took another drag from the vape pen. Smoking wasn’t for me, but she seemed made for it in a timeless sort of way, emphasized by the slender cigarette holder shape. She smiled again around the vape and said, “Let’s go honey, it’s time for me to show you NOLA like few ever get to see.” I scrambled onto an empty bench and smiled at the other guests as Queen Marie flicked the slender driving whip and said, “Welcome monsieurs, madams, and mademoiselles! As you well know, I am Queen Marie, and this beautiful snake is my friend Zombi, and it will be our pleasure to guide you this lovely evening through a night of frightful adventure, exposing the very spirit of New Orleans, and of course, getting nice and lush! First stop will be Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop!” I crossed my arms against a slight chill as I watched the white mausoleums roll by in the deepening twilight. I should have stayed in the hotel.

Queen Marie wrapped up her history lesson as we clomped up to the hunched form of the little pub. Revelers on Bourbon Street stumbled away from the large horses with delight, and an excited young woman rushed out of the dark doorways of Lafitte’s to flash some bystanders on the other side of the street for a shower of beads. Music, whoops, and hollers rolled all around us and I was amazed the horses were so calm; the chaos almost put me into a frothing frenzy and I was supposedly on the top of the food chain.

“Now keep a look out for some of Lafitte's usual paranormal denizens- the Lady of the second floor, perhaps some demonic red eyes,” she clutched a crucifix hanging around her neck at this one, “or maybe the spirit of Jean Lafitte himself!” She looked right at me, “Enjoy yourselves! Keep yourself open to the experience!”

I looked skeptically at the old building. It was small with dark doorways flanked by large gray shutters and large swaths of brick exposing itself under the white stucco. It was dingy and clearly leaned into its historical roots. I ordered something with rum at the bar as my eyes adjusted to the gloom and the bartender complimented my choice; rum had been a staple here since it opened. I moved around the tight space wondering if people had been shorter in the past and frowned when my shoe stuck in the dried up remains of someone's overzealous celebration. I turned in the corner and saw Queen Marie near the door watching me. She smiled and tapped her temple, looked around the Shop with exaggerated wonder, and then took a deep breath and let her shoulders relax. I followed suit.

My drink was sweet on my tongue. I savored the rich flavors of the Caribbean. I looked around the pub again and tried to see the history, to feel it. The Lafitte brothers had been pirates and smugglers, and the Lafitte Blacksmith Shop had suffered only minor changes since their time, so I tried to imagine what it would've been like. My eyes were caught by a figure next to the fireplace. He leaned over it with his hand braced on the mantle, over which hung a saber I hadn't noticed before. The firelight glinted off his dark curls and accentuated the ruddy, sunburned and wind scoured skin of his face as he turned and saw me watching him. I squinted and rubbed my eyes; his clothes were out of place, out of time. He wore a red silk shirt with a pointed collar, and a white cravat. His pants were high-waisted with a double row of buttons and he wore black pirate boots. The sounds from outside the pub shifted subtly and I followed as he stepped across the room.

I stooped out of the haze clinging to the ceiling and noticed a bunch of candles in sconces around the room. The crowd had apparently cleared out and the bartender must have gone to the back because suddenly I was the only onlooker as the redshirted man joined another at a wooden table, hunched over a large, thick piece of paper. They talked in hushed voices I couldn't quite make out. I took a few steps closer and took another drink of my punch. The second man said to the first in a thick French accent, “Jean, your brother sends word- Jefferson's blockade has closed tight around New Orleans. We must find a new port, yes?” Jean nodded and peered down at the paper, a map, and after scrutinizing it for a moment, jabbed his finger down confidently.

“I know these waters better than the body of my favorite mistress! Eh? This island in Barataria Bay will suite us very well I think!”

The door smashed in with a startling crack. I stumbled backwards against the wall, wondering when the door was closed, while the two men at the table burst into motion. A tall man in a blue coat and trousers and a black top hat fired a large revolver with a loud burst of flame and black smoke. I cowered away as the second man went down. Jean burst towards the assailant and ducked under the next shot, which exploded the plaster wall uncomfortably close to my head. The assailant said in a nasally voice, “You are under arrest Jean Latiffe, for high crimes of piracy and smuggling!”

Jean grasped the assailant's arm and smashed it against the doorway. The gun flew into the dim room. The man jabbed Jean, drove two fast strikes into his nose and drew his saber, slashing towards the staggering Jean and blood splattered the wall. Jean rolled backwards over the table and scrambled up as the navy man pursued blade first. Jean smashed the sword aside and bashed the man in the face with a clay jug still spinning on the floor. Jean looked at me, “Roger, get in the fight!” He blocked the sword with the jug and it shattered in his hands, showering him in rum. Jean kicked the man in the chest and looked to me again, “Roger, the sword! Throw me the sword monsieur!” I shook my head confused as he tackled the man, and grappled his sword arm, grunting with the effort. I looked at the sword over the mantle and shook my head. Jean strained, turning the blade away from his neck. He kneed the man in the side and looked to me again, “Roger!”

I started as my punch splashed over my sneakers, bringing me back. I looked around in shock, no trace of the violence from a moment before, and the sounds of Bourbon Street at night filtering in from the open doorways.

Queen Marie twisted around and looked back at me from the driver's seat of the carriage as the horses began pulling us to our next location. “Well my dear patrons, we're off to our next stop. I hope you enjoyed yourselves; it's always a fun time at Lafitte's! My, my, dear Roger, it looks as though you've seen a ghost!” She smiled again as I squirmed in my seat. She scratched Zombi's head with a twinkle in her eye and I rubbed at my brow. This couldn't be happening. Ghosts weren't real. With the thought, Queen Marie turned back to me again and raised her brows incredulous.

I spent the next few attractions in a daze. I wondered if I had eaten something- a piece of bad potato, humbug? Maybe I had been drugged? I felt normal. The boisterous brass of a marching band filled the air with “Oh When the Saints” as our carriage rolled past the iconic Cafe Du Monde. I had almost tried the coffee and beignets that morning, but the line had been so long. I focused on men with handfuls of beads looking down from the second story balconies, devious grins plastered on their faces. I avoided focusing on a woman in a wispy white dress as Queen Marie told stories of the madams of the French Quarter and Mae Bailey's sister, who now stood vigil over the balustrade. Perhaps she was looking down at the ghost of her soldier lover. Perhaps she was just wishing to join the party, the living, outside the sporting house as she had never done in life. Zombi curled around Queen Marie's shoulders and she watched me, lips pursed around her elegant vape.

“Alright mes amis!” Queen Marie said as she got the horses moving again, “we are moving on to our last stop of the night!” She drove the carriage through a manicured square past a pristine white cathedral with three sharp steeples overlooking a proud rider on a rearing horse, immortalized in bronze. “Tonight we have witnessed the dead in pubs, cemeteries, hotels, and brothels. Now we see that even the wealthy are left wanting for the mortal realm, likely wishing all their money and means could buy them their way back. It's a fine reminder to cherish this life while you have it.” Queen Marie looked over her shoulder at me as the carriage turned a corner. “This lovely building was once the Orleans Ballroom, a place where high society would mingle and dance with passions as high as their class. If you look just right at the second floor, you might see ghosts of beautiful belles waltzing around in their fine dresses.”

I'd always wanted to go to a ball. They seemed beautiful and fun. I swallowed. Queen Marie looked at me with her shaped brows raised and kind eyes encouraging. I took a deep breath and focused on the second floor. The dark windows came alive, brightening panes marching down the length of the balcony. I saw them, the ghosts of women long past swaying to their phantom music. One stopped and threw her head back in joy; even in death they lived more than me.

Then I was there. I passed a hand over my carefully gelled hair and stood straighter in my high collared tail coat. I looked at the embroidered cumber bun and ornate rapier at my side. Women in fine dresses with low shoulders and bell shaped sleeves danced around the room, or clustered in small groups talking and laughing at the periphery of the fine ballroom. Their hair was up in elaborate curls and braids, or covered with beautiful scarves, tignons, that complimented the colors of their dresses. Similarly, men clustered around the room in fine suits, separate islands from the women. Occasionally one would flow around to break a woman from her bunch and join him in the swirl on the ballroom floor.

I took a deep breath and dove in, lifting a delicate glass from a passing waiter and downing the strong alcohol in one gulp. I trusted my body, feeling more confident than ever before, and made my way to a beautiful woman chatting at the side. I took her hand with a questioning bow, inviting her to dance. She swept me up eagerly. We spun and twisted around the floor, carried by the music, and submerging completely into the joy and passion of the dance.

Then we ran aground. A man surged out of the motion and broke us apart. He spat at my feet and said, his voice seething, “Away scoundrel, this is my woman!” She frowned and I did as well.

“I’m sure she can decide who she will dance with.”

The man's face contorted with rage as he dropped all pretense of civility and rushed me. I trusted my body to a very different dance. I flowed back with him, twisted, strained, and sent him tumbling around me, causing an eddy of dancers to spin in his wake. He rolled up with a snarl and drew the sword at his side, sprinting forward, he lunged. I slapped it away. He slashed twice. I ducked, felt the blade through my hair, and stepped back.

“Roger, your sword!” My dancer said. Her calm voice wiped the earlier image of a blood spattered wall from my mind. I retreated into the hallway, a step ahead of the furious man as he advanced to close the distance, jabbing.

I drew my sword. Its weight was familiar in my hand. I watched the man leap towards me and into a lunge, his eyes bulging with madness. I swallowed my fear, feeling more intensely than ever before. I parried the furious lunge, and thrusted, my sword sliding into the man's chest. He stumbled onto the floor, my rapier quivered in its new home, pinning him to this moment forever. Red pooled around him.

I came back to myself in the carriage, gasping. I gripped the hardwood of the bench seat and took some deep breaths. The other guests asked if I had seen a ghost as Queen Marie looked at me knowingly. She smiled.

Queen Marie’s parting words echoed in my head as I joined the party on Bourbon Street. “Mes amis,” she had said, “I sincerely hope you enjoyed this ghost tour around the great city of New Orleans. I do hope that after this night of living among the dead, you will strive even more to live among the living.” I smiled and squeezed past some drunken patrons of a bustling restaurant. I wanted some etouffee.