Glitch Back to NOLA

I was on the last plane out of Houston after a layover in Denver took me to Philly and I glitched to Texas. Imagine I wouldn’t have gotten this seat until this lady offered it up after announcing she still wasn’t ready to fly for the first time.

Stuffed between two dudes at least six-five each and spilling over into my seat, I did my best to calm my nerves. Eyes closed, long deep breaths of dry cabin air, I tried to tune out everything around me. The glitching, as I had come to call it, wouldn’t stop. There were moments when something would go my way, but I think that’s me trying to stay positive after so many glitches. I desperately needed to get back to New Orleans and find that woman, then make her undo whatever it was she did to me.

It all started when I went to the birthplace of jazz with my friend Tom last week. Figured we’d fly down during the off-season before Mardi Gras really kicked in and the nutjobs would be flooding the gates at Bourbon and spilling over onto the classier streets.

I had been there before. This was Tom’s first time. I picked the right friend to go with me since he tolerated my endless suggestions of incredible things to see and do. Like me, he wasn’t much of a partier, but he did his fair share of imbibing on Bourbon. But New Orleans is about the culture. The music. The food. So much more than getting plastered.

With only two days and three nights, we packed a lot in. We skipped the bayou tour since the drive out and back would require a cab. Instead, I showed him to the best places: Preservation Hall, Cafe Du Monde, and Jackson Square. Lafayette No 1. Rode the streetcars. We did it up—ate way too much while seeing lots of awesome street music, always with a drink in hand.

Every night Tom insisted on a ghost tour. I kept putting him off. This was my fourth time in the Big Easy, and I had done a ghost tour twice before. The first time was kind of fun, sort of hokey, and slightly informational with most of the facts in question. The second time I did the tour was with another company—and it was the same exact tour as the first one. I quickly realized there was any number of guides and companies parading gawking and mindless out-of-towners along the same route night after night, visiting the exact same spots as one another, and telling the same exact stories. A halftime pitstop takes every group to Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop Bar for a drink. The bar is supposedly haunted by a ghost guarding the treasure left behind by the famous pirate. Apparently, it’s somewhere in the walls of the fireplace where the body of a would-be robber was tossed in. They say that on quiet nights you can see his glowing eyes in the embers.

All I saw was a lot of drunken revelers lining up for their next drink or clogging the toilets. Thankfully, I could hold it a little longer. Still, I couldn’t believe I had let Tom convince me to do one of these stupid ghost tours again. We gently shoved our way through the open doors of Lafitte’s through a sea of bar patrons. Taking a break from Hurricanes and Zombies, we scored a light beer from the packed bar and looked around for a seat inside. The place was packed, and we were lucky to snag a two-seater high top right by the door as a couple was leaving. Perfect for people watching. That’s when I spied our tour guide shove his way to the bar, and the bartender quickly brought him a shot, a beer, and a tiny cup of water.

“Check out our guide,” I said to Tom, nudging him with my elbow as he took a sip.

“Yo, watch it,” Tom replied. “I don’t need to wear any more alcohol on this trip.” He looked over his shoulder then turned back to me. “What about him?”

“He walked right up to the bar and the bartender got him those drinks lightning quick,” I said.

“What’s your point?”

“He probably does these tours every night,” I said.

“So?”

“So,” I said, exhausted, “They stop at this bar in the middle of every tour. Each tour is an hour. He must come in here four or five times a night, get himself a shot, a beer, and a water.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tom said. “That’s pretty cool.”

“Cool? I was thinking pathetic. But I guess everyone has to make a living.”

The guide carried his three drinks to a far corner where the light didn’t follow. He snagged his seat, his face dimly lit by a three-inch round candle on the high top. The light illuminated his long scraggly blondish-gray hair under the ragged black fedora. Three piercings lined his left lobe and a ring dangled from his nose like a droplet of sweat that wouldn’t fall. Dressed head to toe in black, he had a sad innocence about him. While Tom sipped his beer, his head spun like a swivel on his neck trying to keep up with the rowdy revelers all around us.

“I’m going to go talk to him,” I decided.

“Who?” said Tom, wiping beer from his beard.

“The guide,” I said. “I’m curious what his deal is.”

“You don’t need me, do you?”

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. He chuckled. As I made my way to him, passing the haunted fireplace—zigzagging through small high-top tables and standing-room-only tourists—the guide didn’t even pull his head up from the candle on my approach. The shot already downed, he was staring into his beer, turning the plastic cup slowly.

“Hey,” I said after a few seconds. He looked up, puzzled. “Dave.”

“What?” he replied over the commotion.

“I’m Dave,” I said louder. “I’m on your tour.”

“Oh, okay,” he replied nonchalantly. “What’s up?”

“Is the fireplace story true?”

“Sorry, what?”

“The fireplace story about Jean Lafitte…is it true?”

“Of course it is,” he replied, no change in his expression. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Have you ever seen the guy in the fire?”

He shook his head slowly. “What do you want?”

I nervously wiped the condensation from the sides of my plastic cup. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Long enough.”

“Do you like it?”

“Not really. Something to do. Pays for the beer.”

I laughed. He didn’t. I looked around the room, trying to find my next good sentence—I was curious about this guy. “These tours are kind of lame, right? I mean, everyone goes on the same tour no matter who’s giving it. Right?”

He glared at me. No expression. I couldn’t tell if I hit a nerve or nailed it.

“You looking for something different?” he asked. I nodded. “The Voodoo Bone Queen. She’s down on Royal near St. Ann. Her tour is the same as all of us, but with a twist—she throws in history of voodoo and whatnot.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could stomach another tour,” I replied followed by a short chuckle. His face snarled at me. “Sorry, no offense. This is my third tour. I’ve heard the stories.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Your tour is really great, man. Riveting, actually.” I meant it.

“I’m not telling you to take her tour,” he said. “She has a voodoo shop. You can get all kinds of stuff there. Most of it is crap—fakes and nonsense. Some of it is legit. She does readings, too.” That’s all he said. Lifted his beer, chugged the rest of it, then chugged the water. “Tour leaves in two. I gotta take a leak.”

Chatty fellow, I thought. He disappeared into the darkness on the way to the head, and I turned to grab Tom. As I passed the fireplace, five glowing embers stared up at me. I couldn’t have made out a face if I had tried.

“Mind if we skip the rest of the tour?” I asked Tom.

“Yeah, I kinda do.” He hopped down from the stool and finished the last sip of his beer, then quickly sidestepped a guy who started puking on the sidewalk outside next to us.

“These tours are all the same, I’m telling you…”

“Not all of them,” he interrupted me, then tipped his head behind me. I turned and looked to see a slim brunette, our age, darting her eyes away.

“Ah, you dog,” I said, punching him in the arm. “Well, do you mind if we meet up after the tour?”

“Go right ahead,” Tom said. “You don’t have to tell me for the fiftieth time how lame these tours are. I’m a grown man.”

“There’s a voodoo shop down on Royal,” I said. “Meet me there when you’re down.” He nodded, but his expression told me he didn’t hear a word I said. He strutted right up to the girl who blushed with a glowing smile.

That was the last time I saw Tom. One week ago. I’ve been texting him but get no reply. I keep calling but I get the mobile company-issued voicemail, and it won’t let me leave a message. I’ve been trying my hardest to find a way back to Royal and St. Ann, but every other thing I do ends up in a glitch. I could be on a plane to Chicago trying to get my connection to New Orleans and I end up in San Diego. I bought a bus ticket from San Jose and fell asleep—woke up in Boise instead of NOLA. I could be in a cab for twenty minutes and somehow wind up in the backseat of a stranger’s car in Marterie screaming at me that they're calling the cops. That was the closest I got to Royal Street yet.

The rocking of the plane from Dallas to Louis Armstrong Airport was soothing. The turbulence always tries to get the best of me, lulling me into a peaceful sleep. Tired as I was (I’d been awake for over forty hours), I chanted to myself not to let the sandman take me. That was the fast track to a glitch. Luckily the brutes next to me made it nearly impossible to get comfortable. And they exuded enough body odor to kill a platoon—that’ll keep your senses awake.

I was shocked that the plane landed just after ten o’clock, taxied to a gate, and let us off. I was growing more worried by the second as my tired legs hobbled me to the pickup zone out front and waited for my Lyft (the app usually crashes just as I’m about to confirm the pickup location). I was ready to vomit butterflies in the Lyft as we sailed down Route 10 without a snag (I had to politely tell the chatty driver know I was in no mood to chat). She pulled onto Claiborne Street where the crowds started to grow. The ghost tours were out and about along with the drunks and the skanks.

My eyes were peeled. I hardly blinked. My breathing grew heavier by the second. I eyed every passing building to make sure nothing had changed, that I wasn’t suddenly rocketed into another place and time. As we started down Dumaine, the traffic and the people were a swarm.

“I’ll get out here,” I said.

“Now he wants to talk,” she mumbled. I jumped out and slammed the door behind me. “You’re welcome,” she cried out as I started into a jog. I threw a wave. Rude, I know, but I was closer than ever. I could practically smell the incense burning inside the Voodoo Bone Queen’s shop.

I tripped over a homeless person with their dog tucked inside a doorway, then had to push through a huge crowd gathered around a high school jazz band.

“Hey, watch your elbows man!” someone shouted after me.

Nothing is going to stop me, I thought. Suddenly, everything started looking familiar. The buildings I had seen for the past week in my dreams and in my waking hours were coming into view. A quick right onto Royal, past the jewelry store, the souvenir place, the red house with the white door, and finally…the Voodoo Bone Queen. My jaw dropped as I started up at the dilapidated building, the door and windows boarded up. There wasn’t even a sign out front.

“Where’s the voodoo place,” I whispered to myself.

“Say again?” a raspy voice said.

I turned to see an elderly black man leaning up against the blue house next door. He was wearing sunglasses and holding the mouthpiece of his trumpet inches from his lips.

“The voodoo place,” I said to him, “where is it?”

“Ah, you on the wrong street, son,” he said, followed by a raspy chuckle. “Voodoo museum is ova’ on Dumaine.” 

“I’m not looking for a museum,” I said, growing agitated as I stared blankly at the boarded-up space.

“Marie Laveau's is over on Bourbon if that’s what you lookin’ fo,” he replied and played a haunting jazz tune on his trumpet.

“It was right here,” I said frantically. “Only a week ago. The damned place was right here.”

“You’re looking for a voodoo shop?” said a familiar voice. I turned around to see the most amazing thing I had seen in a week.

“Tom!” I cried out and practically fell into his arms.

“Whoa, buddy,” he said, pulling me to my feet.

“Dude, what the hell happened? After I left you at Lafitte’s, I came to this shop. I checked out some of their weird voodoo charms and trinkets and decided it wasn’t for me. That’s when the Voodoo Bone Queen descended the stairs from the back courtyard. Out of the darkness like a ghost from a midnight swamp, man. It was so bizarre. She lured me into that godforsaken room and flipped over those cards one at a time. Doomed to be lost and never found, she said. What did that mean? Never find my way again, she said. I don’t get it, but at least I’m back, and here you are, too.”

Tom just stared at me, dazed and confused. I spied his phone glowing in his hand.

“Why haven’t you answered me? I’ve been texting and calling you all week.” No reply. “And why are you still here?”

“I live here,” said Tom. “And by the sounds of it, my friend, you are in serious need of medical attention.” He gently grabbed hold of my arm and began to walk me down the sidewalk. “You tourists always come here trying to live it up. Drink too much, get your hands on some bad stuff, go out of your mind. Lucky for you I help out at a free clinic down the street. They’ll help you get back on your feet.”

I pulled away and stepped back to get a better look at him. “Tom, what are you talking about?”

“The name’s Jeremy, friend,” he replied plainly. “Come. Let me help you get better. Are you with anyone?”

“Yeah…” I started to say, You. But I didn’t. Did I glitch again? If so, this was a bad one.

That’s when I spied her down at the end of the street. She paused only a moment, her long flowing green gown and purple headdress glowing under the streetlamp. The Voodoo Bone Queen. Before I could cry out or run after her, she blew me a kiss and disappeared.

I blinked. Mountains. Sunshine. Hikers. 

Colorado? Alaska? Vermont? Guess I’ll find out soon enough.