It Happened on Japaonica Street

“What street did you say it was on?” Colette asked the man at the other end of the line? “There is no Antoine Street in the French Quarter,” Colette thought to herself then realized she was speaking out loud.

“I didn’t tell you it’s in the French Quarter, girlie. I told you it was in the Bywater,” the man snapped back in his thick Yat accent.

The Bywater? I hate the Bywater with all the Bohemian residents. They never take baths or wash their hair. They look like the denizens of Paris during the French Revolution. I feel like I am stuck with the cast from some nineteenth-century drama when they panhandle in the Quarter.

“Exactly where in the Bywater is Rue Antoine?” Colette asked sarcastically.

“It’s off Poland Avenue by the Poland Street Wharf. You can’t miss it, unless you’re navigationally challenged,” the man snarked

Why did I ever agree to buy a vintage piece of furniture from the guy? Am I so desperate to impress my Uptown colleagues with my good taste and knowledge of all things vintage? From the sound of the guy the Christian Dior 1955 jade green evening gown isn’t even authentic. What man sells vintage evening gowns from a 1950s trunk show. But then again, he did have an effeminate Yat accent.

Colette turned her 1970 VW Bug towards Esplanade Avenue, one of the four borders of the French Quarter. Her GPS proved useless in pinpointing the location of the street much less the address. The further Colette drove into the Bywater, the narrower the streets became. She decided she needed to park on the street and walk the remainder of the hunt.

The shotgun houses appeared to be in varying stages of decay, although evidence showed some level of gentrification in progress among a few of the structures. I wonder if the prices of these are worth investing. A nice mix of medical and business people can always bring up the value of real estate. Perhaps I should alter my thinking on this rundown, dilapidated area. I see some trendy bistros and cafes reminiscent of a provincial neighborhood, like the one I visited in France the summer after college. Must make a note to make some contacts next week to inquire.

Colette looked up at the street signs to make a note and ensure she was on the right path.  Japonica Street? How the hell did I get here? Somedays I think I need to be on ADD meds. Colette had veered off her initial path and found herself lost. The New Orleans School of Burlesque, Colette read the painted sign that looked more like graffiti. Next to the building surrounded by barbed wire fencing where five vintage travel trailers similar to the AirStream model.

“What dimension have I walked into? Colette asked though no one was around to hear. She looked for signs of life around the building and as there were none, her curiosity got the better of her and she moved closer to look inside. Colette looked across the street at the white with blue and pink trim with the pale pink picket fence. She thought she saw the curtains move slightly and felt eyes on her. Against all good judgement, Colette moved around the building for peek inside. All she could see was a large mostly empty room with mirror-covered walls. This must be where a girl learns to bear it all for her man. I wonder if my vintage guy knows about this place? He could have given it as a landmark to let me know when I got close to his place.

Just then, Colette saw movement inside one of the travel trailers. It looked like a man wrestling with himself. Must be a new form of expressive dance considering the neighborhood. Then Colette heard what sounded like a grunting sound. Okay make that some strange sexual maneuver as well. Colette could not control herself; she had to sneak a peek. I feel like a voyeur. What am I doing?

Creeping around the back of the camper, Colette stretched to her toes to see the man inside and the blood rushed from her face, losing her balance, almost crashing against the propane bottle. A man’s body lay lifeless on the floor. He must have passed out. I hope the poor guy is okay? Maybe I should see if the door is open. Colette tried the door latch and surprisingly it turned. Colette slowly edged closer to the door to peer inside.

“Hello, are you okay? I didn’t mean to be nosy and peek at you, but I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to see if you are okay? The body on the floor did not move. Colette place her fingers in front of his nostrils to feel for breathing; there was none. She placed two fingers on the man’s carotid artery and felt no pulse.  Do I start CPR or do I go get help then come back and start CPR? I always miss this step on the test.

The ER nurse in Colette was confident when surrounded by her colleagues. The ER Colette in a strange place, not so much. She took out her phone to dial 911 to discover she had no service. Just as she stood to go outside and attempt to call, a body pushed past her out the door.

“What the, hey, you, I saw you, I know what you look like!”  Oh, yes that was brilliant, dumbass, he saw you too, and for a whole lot longer than you saw him!

Now outside, Colette tried again, with no luck to get phone service. Remembering the house across the street, Colette ran over and knocked on the door. When there was no answer, she banged louder. Eventually an elderly man around a hundred cracked open the door about two inches.

“Hello, sorry to bother you. My name is Colette and I am a registered nurse in the emergency room at Big Charity. There seems to have been an accident in the camper over there. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I need to use your phone to call for help. I think the man inside is dead and that he was murdered,” Colette spewed out quickly for fear the man might slam the door before he had all the facts. He closed the door anyway. But Colette could hear the rattling of a chain and decided it was a chained lock the man was releasing. In seconds the door opened completely to reveal the elderly man and four women of about the same age.

Taken aback, Colette quickly recovered hoping her face did not show the reaction taking place in her head.  I don’t even want to know the story behind this little scenario, but considering this neighborhood, nothing would surprise me.

“Just need to use your phone to call the police. No ambulance needed as he’s dead,” she was trying to remain calm, but her voice was shaking.

“We will call for you, sweetie,” one of the tiny women said. “You go back over there and wait for the police to arrive.”

“Okay thank you very much,” Colette responded, thinking she should be making the call herself to provide the necessary details, but she didn’t seem to have much of a choice. She reluctantly walked back across the street to wait as the man had slammed the door shut.

Colette turned to walk away but noticed the curtain of the large window pulled back and at least four pairs of eyes watching her. Not sure what the story is there, but it seems kinky. Colette decided against sitting inside with a corpse, so she sat on the park-type bench outside the camper. Trying to remember every detail that the police might ask about, Colette found the camper parking lot creepy. Other than the dead guy and obviously the guy that killed him, there don’t seem to be people staying in these places. Must just be for parking purposes. Here come the calvary. Colette stood as the police unit drove up. Then her face fell.

Out of the car came NOPD’s most handsome and obnoxious member. Patrick Mulligan of the fifth precinct frequented the emergency department with perpetrators that tried to resist arrest and needed tending before taking to booking and the usual street people in need of safety and food so they won’t die on the street before morning. Patrick was of the New Orleans Irish and Colette of the Creole culture which meant they tended to clash from time to time on everything but the Catholic Church.

“Nurse Laveau, what brings you to my precinct? This isn’t your usual neighborhood for socialization. Or did you come for lessons?” Mulligan said looking over his shoulder at the Burlesque School. “Is there something you’re hiding with your typical demeanor?”

“If you must know Officer Mulligan, I got lost when looking for another address. And then I got distracted by that building,” Colette replied pointing to the school as well. “And then that building, and these travel trailers, and then the guy in this one,” Colette rambled on realizing Patrick really wasn’t listening to her but looking at the perimeter.

“So then, Colette, tell me what you saw looking into the window of this camper like a peeping Tom,” Patrick snorted.

“It wasn’t like that,” Colette started. “Okay, maybe sort of, but not intentionally. I was looking in the window of the burlesque school, when I turned away I could see the man in the camper looking like he was wrestling with himself and some strange dance. I don’t know, my curiosity got the best of me,” Colette heard her voice becoming higher. “Anyway, I went to get a better view and saw the body lying there. The nurse in me kicked and decided to see if he was okay. So, I found the door unlocked and went in. He didn’t have a pulse. I didn’t have phone service and went across the street to the strange senior citizen house to use the phone. They wouldn’t let me in, but said they would phone for me, and well, apparently they did because here you are,” Colette finished feeling short of breath.

“Well those strange senior citizens are Officer Perrier’s uncle and aunts, who happen to own and operate the New Orleans School of Burlesque,” Patrick chuckled.

“Wow, that puts Michel into a whole new perspective,” Colette replied knowing her thoughts showed on her face. Michel Perrier, in body and manner, was not what most considered cop material. Standing about five feet four inches and weighting maybe a hundred and fifty pounds, the middle-aged veteran of the force held the rank of captain, but nothing about him intimidated anyone. He ruled through policy and procedure.

“Well, let’s go see your body, shall we?” Mulligan said reaching for the door latch.

The police officer stepped inside the camper indicating for Colette to wait outside. A few minutes passed before he came back out. Why isn’t he saying anything or radioing the station for instructions, like calling the coroner’s office to come pick up a dead body?

“Colette, there’s no one in there. There doesn’t look to be any kind of a struggle either, “Patrick said looking at Colette with skepticism. “Are you sure of what you saw?”

“Wait, I forgot about the guy who ran past me. He must have killed him, heard me and hid in the closet, then rushed past me when I turned to use my phone. I didn’t get a look at his face; he word a hoody and it happened so fast,” Colette recollected sounded panicky. “I know what I saw, Patrick. There was a man in here, and he was definitely dead.”

“But Colette, there’s no body, maybe someone was playing a trick on you,” said the officer offering an explanation.

“Patrick, that man wasn’t playing dead; he was dead!” Colette cried feeling herself becoming frustrated. “The guy must have come back and removed the body,” Colette continued. “I was across the street and distracted, so I didn’t see him come back and take the body away.”

“I’m pretty sure you would have heard the sound that would have been made trying to wrangle a dead body out of this tiny camper, Colette. It would have been difficulty to do it quickly much less quietly,” Patrick said.

“It’s Mardi Gras season, so the shenanigans are increased and the crazies are out in mass. I assure you, this was probably just a prank,” Patrick said heading back to his patrol car. “Want me to take you to your car? Do you remember where you left it?”

“Of course, I remember where I parked my car,” Colette lied. “No, I’d rather walk.”

Trying to remember where she had decided to walk on this adventure, Colette thought about asking the elderly siblings if they had seen anything, but changed her mind and her direction. The afternoon had turned dark and the street lights provided little illumination.

Rounding the corner back to Marais Street, a man stepped out of the shadows.

“Thank you for saving me,” the voice said.

Colette jumped back and felt her heart palpitate. No scream came even though she willed it.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you are too precious,” the voice continued. As the man came into the light, Colette realized she was looking at the dead man.

“You were dead. I couldn’t feel your pulse. And the guy who killed you, “Colette said. “How is this possible?”

“Don’t you know, you have the gift,” the man said. “When you laid your fingers on me, your life force transferred into me and brought me back,” he explained.

“What gift?” Colette asked deciding to play along with the man’s obvious prank.

“Why girlie, you’re the descendent of the high priestess, Marie Laveau!” the stranger came in closer as Colette stepped back.

“You are coming into your true powers now, and if you begin to channel them, you can be as powerful as your grandmother,” he continued.

Colette’s family had claimed the name Laveau was common in the Creole New Orleans and her was not relation to the mythical Voo Doo queen.

“Come with me to the sacred cemetery and meet your tutor. I have been sent to bring you to him,” the stranger said reaching out to Colette.

Just as Colette was about to take the strangers hand, a loud clap of thunder and flash of lightening came between them. When Colette regained her sight, she saw the four siblings standing in front of her.

”What the hell just happened?” she asked looking around her. “Where did you come from?” Colette continued as she stared into each of their faces. Their demeanor differed from when she encountered them before. The four looked confident and engaged. She also noticed the strange dead man disappeared.

“We saved you, it what happened,” the gentleman replied.

“He was sent from the underworld to kidnap you,” the tallest sister contributed. “We figured it out when you came to our door this afternoon,” she continued.

“What did he want with me?” asked Colette. “Is what he said about me having gifts true?”

“Yes and no,” began another sister. “The underworld plays the descendants of Marie making them think they have the gifts in an attempt to recruit them. It’s a ploy. Marie took them when she died; everyone knows that.”

“Then who are you that you should know this? Colette asked.

“Oh, we’re the ones the underworld fear the most. We are the witches of New Orleans, and not about to let the voodoo practitioners regain their stronghold on this city again.

Colette suddenly linked the pieces together, that their intent was to destroy any descendant of Laveau and knew she was in danger. Just as Colette began to feel the energy to run, the quartet of witches advanced toward her with dangers drawn. Colette let out a scream.

“Colette, Colette, wake up,” the man knelt beside her, shaking her.

“Where am I?” she asked. “Ouch, why is my head bleeding?” Colette said as the policeman helped her sit up.

“Looks like you took a nasty fall and hit your head so hard it knocked you unconscious,” Officer Mulligan explained.

“Patrick, what are you doing here?” Colette felt her face flushing from embarrassment.

“The Perrier’s found you when they were out walking and called Michel, who radioed me,” Patrick said helping Colette to her feet.

At this Colette saw the faces of the good Samaritans, finding them familiar somehow.

“Yes, we thought you were dead, Miss Colette,” said the gentleman. “You better get her to the Charity to get her head examined,” he continued.

“Thank you, Uncle Maurice,” Patrick replied. “I am taking her there now.”

“What on earth are you doing in this neighborhood, Colette?” asked Patrick

“It’s a long story, but you aren’t going to believe the dream I had while unconscious,” Colette said.

“In the Bywater? Nothing surprises me anymore. Not since the witches took over a hundred years ago.”

Colette looked at the four siblings out of the back window of Patricks’ patrol car. What the hell just happened to me? How will I explain it to my therapist?