Several years ago, I flew from Germany to New Orleans to visit my sister Rose for Mardi Gras, the annual cultural and traditional celebration in Louisiana and other parts of the South.
As the plane passed over the low-lying areas near the airport, I couldn’t help but notice many homes with roofs still covered with blue plastic tarps. My heart grew sad and heavy at that haunting symbol of the damage left by Hurricane Katrina.
As the jet taxied down the runway, unbearable heat swept through the cabin like a tsunami in seconds. I felt as if I were trapped in a sauna or sitting over an active volcano.
When the plane stopped, I jumped up and grabbed my bag from the overhead compartment. Then I got in line behind the passengers who were slowly getting off the plane, but not fast enough for me.
SoI hurried down the ramp, dragging my bag behind me. Irritated at passengers moving like turtles, I politely pushed past them with a quick, “Excuse me!” to get to the airport.
When I reached the main terminal, I scanned the crowd to see if Rose was waiting for me. I was disappointed because I didn't see her. But then I heard my name, "CO, oh CO!" It was Rose. When I saw her, I ran to her, fell into her arms, and cried like a baby. I didn't have to explain anything. She knew why.
As big sisters do, she calmed me down and gave me a Kleenex to wipe away my tears. Then we headed to baggage claim to pick up my other luggage before taking the elevator to the parking garage to get her car. The sun had already set, and the high humidity in the parking garage was overwhelming, making me sweat profusely. I knew that tomorrow's weather would be a scorcher.
I was happy to see my sister, but all I wanted to do was eat some of her good food, which I knew she had cooked for me, and hit the sack for some rest.
When we got to her apartment, I was too tired to eat anything after my long flight. Jet lag had set in, and I didn't even bother to unpack my suitcase. I kept nodding off while she quizzed me about my trip and what I wanted to do first. I was so glad that she made me take a nap in her comfortable bed.
Every morning, Rose prepared my favorite breakfast to perfection: hot grits, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and warm toast always hit the spot. I loved pigging out on her spicy gumbo, savory jambalaya, and seasoned red beans and rice. Rose also treated me to hot, spicy crawfish and boiled crabs. I'm not ashamed to say I had many advantages as the baby of the family. My parents and grandparents spoiled me rotten in so many ways. Rose added to that permanent advantage by doing her part to spoil me, too.
MY VISIT AND THE FOOD
When we got to her apartment, I was too tired to eat anything after my long flight. Jet lag had set in, and I didn't even bother to unpack my suitcase. I kept nodding off while she quizzed me about my trip and what I wanted to do first. I was so glad that she made me take a nap in her comfortable bed.
Every morning, Rose prepared my favorite breakfast to perfection: hot grits, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and warm toast always hit the spot. I loved pigging out on her spicy gumbo, savory jambalaya, and seasoned red beans and rice. Rose also treated me to hot, spicy crawfish and boiled crabs. I'm not ashamed to say I had many advantages as the baby of the family. My parents and grandparents spoiled me rotten in so many ways. Rose added to this permanent advantage that I have by doing her part to continue spoiling me, too.
The next day, I was rested enough to go anywhere with my sister. Truthfully, both of us were itching to visit our favorite haunt, Harrah's Casino, at the foot of Canal Street. I was still antsy because my mind was focused on the one-armed bandits at the casino. Rose kept telling me to relax because the machines weren't going anywhere.
HOOKED ON SLOTS!
Speaking of slot machines, I've been obsessed with the one-armed bandits for a long time. When I was in the Army, I flew Rose from New Orleans to Fort Huachuca, Arizona, so she could attend my graduation from the military intelligence course. From Arizona, we planned to drive to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California, for my next assignment. On the way, we stopped in Las Vegas. I got us a hotel room on the Vegas Strip. Naturally, we had a blast gambling all night. So that's the short, sordid history of how my slot machine love affair began.
PARADES AND TRUCK FLOATS
On the way to the mall, I caught glimpses of a few vibrant, colorful truck floats scheduled to roll through the city that day. Mardi Gras was still a few days away, so I wasn't as excited to see those truck floats as I used to be growing up in New Orleans. Besides, I had followed more than my share of parades and caught enough beads and trinkets to fill an entire football stadium.
The next day, after breakfast, Rose and I got dressed early. She smiled when I told her I had a case of itchy palms. She knew that was my signal for us to hit the slots before I had a nervous breakdown. LOL
THE BUS RIDE TO CANAL STREET
Rose knew the traffic would be bumper-to-bumper, so she decided we would catch the bus and then transfer to the streetcar on Canal Street.
We walked to the bus stop a short distance from her house. I felt so strange riding on a bus, which was something I hadn't done in ages. I was not prepared for how dirty the bus was, and the filth and sickening stench almost overwhelmed me. I couldn’t wait to get off!!
TRANSFERRING TO THE STREETCAR
After several stops, we transferred to another bus to reach Canal Street. From there, we boarded a streetcar heading toward the Mississippi River at the end of Canal Street. Rose and took seats not far from the operator, a heavy-set Black woman about 45 to 50 years old.
THE STREETCAR PASSENGERS
The first thing I noticed was the other passengers scattered in seats throughout the streetcar. They looked like stone-faced statues in a museum. Not one of them appeared to be under 70. I wondered whether this streetcar was reserved for senior citizens only! Anyway, I was sure those senior citizens were heading to the casino, too. But I wasn't going to let those old geezers bother me. I just wanted to get to the damn casino to fight with the one-armed bandits.
SITTING IN THE STREETCAR
Sometimes, I think I might have ADHD. Case in point. The streetcar operator hadn't started the car, and I became very anxious. She was cutting into my gambling fun time. I got tired of sitting on that streetcar in the middle of Canal Street.
Since the operator hadn't made a move to get us going, I was tempted to volunteer to drive the streetcar for her if she was too tired. But I realized she had a specific schedule to keep, so I left her alone just for a minute.
I knew the streetcar would stop at the end of Canal Street, so we wouldn't have far to walk to get to the casino. From where the streetcar was parked, I thought we could have walked the rest of the way, but it was too damn hot, and the rowdy drunks all over Canal Street were thicker than the hair on my head. So, the streetcar was still the quickest and safest way to travel down Canal Street.
FINALLY ON THE MOVE!!
A few more minutes passed before I heard the metallic whine and screech of the gears as the driver set the streetcar in motion. It took all I had not to jump up and yell, "YES! About damn time!" To be honest, I was excited to be riding in that old streetcar with my sister. I felt like a kid again and was happy to be in the middle of the wild carnival celebration spreading all over the city.
As the streetcar ambled clumsily down the tracks on Canal Street, I looked out the window and saw a lively mix of tourists and locals on both sides of the street.
Alcohol really does bring out the worst in people, who lose their inhibitions and will do almost anything out of the ordinary during this raucous pre-Lenten season. I spotted a multitude of weird, frightening, unbelievable, and outrageous sights and antics. I'm too embarrassed to mention them. But I oohed and aahed at the makeshift creative costumes, garish makeup, and wild pranks of people who felt no shame and had no inhibitions about what they allowed themselves to do in public. I knew these free street freak shows would become even more reckless and audacious as the rambunctious crowds grew louder the closer we got to the French Quarter.
And Bourbon Street! Lord! All the streets crisscrossing this famous French Quarter street (Iberville, Bienville, Chartres, Dauphine, Dumaine, Conti, Toulouse, St. Peter, etc.) were teeming with throngs of boozers at various stages of drunkenness as far as I could see. New Orleans is an open-carry city, where you can walk through the French Quarter with booze in your cup. A few partiers who had too much to drink were sprawled out on the banquettes (sidewalks), knocked out and oblivious to the numerous merrymakers and other drunks stumbling over and around them.
Traffic was at a standstill on Canal Street and at intersections leading to the French Quarter (Vieux Carré). I felt sorry for drivers who thought they could get to the French Quarter from Canal Street. Idiots! A few motorcyclists managed to squeeze their bikes between the cars inching along bumper-to-bumper. Such is the madness of the Mardi Gras season!
As the streetcar continued down the tracks, the old-timers on board remained unmoved by the wild party atmosphere spreading through the city. Like me, they had probably seen and heard it all many times before. Today, two days before Mardi Gras, was just another been-there-done-that day for them.
THE STREETCAR PASSENGERS AGAIN
And back to those damn passengers! I found it strange that they were all neatly dressed in normal everyday clothes, despite the Mardi Gras tradition of dressing as outrageously as one dares or cares to. One old guy was neatly dressed in a blue-and-white plaid short-sleeved shirt buttoned up to his neck. He wore a straw hat with a short brim. An old lady sitting in the seat behind him wore a purple-and-white flowered dress. Her hair was in a neat bun at the back of her head. But one thing she wore was odd: a string of pearls. WHITE PEARLS! In that heat! Who does that? Maybe that was her idea of a Mardi Gras costume. But what did I know?
Even stranger about that elderly crowd was that they were quiet. Too damn quiet for me and Mardi Gras. There was no lively chit-chat among them. New Orleanians are always friendly and talkative, especially to strangers. They speak to you even if they don't know you. It's part of our French culture and inherent good manners. But there were no conversations going on in this car. I wondered if any of these passengers were even still alive. The inside of that streetcar was quieter than the city morgue at midnight. Very strange indeed.
The high-pitched metallic whine and squeal of the streetcar's wheels on the tracks blended with blaring car horns, whistles, and party kazoos outside. The combined noise was loud enough to wake the dead in the nearest St. Louis Cemetery! Man oh man!
Still, in the back of my mind, I couldn't figure out how the old geezers on the streetcar stayed as stiff as ironing boards as the raucous merriment of the crowds tore through the graveyard stillness inside the streetcar. SMDH.
Although it was only 1:00 in the afternoon, many revelers were already juiced up way past their limits. But as is customary during Mardi Gras season, they still had plenty of time left to sober up, eat, and drink until the cows came home to reach their personal level of inebriation. I grinned, thinking that everyone, especially the tourists, was in New Orleans, where anything goes, and they were having the time of their lives. With the great food, Dixieland music, and party-ready people, no one could sit still for too long in The Big Easy. No one.
THE STREETCAR PASSENGERS ONCE MORE
But back to the zombie passengers. I couldn't shake them from my mind. It still seemed unusual for them to be sitting in stone-faced silence amid all the craziness and high-pitched racket filling the streets. Everybody outside the streetcar was partying their asses off. I thought the passengers' reluctance to chat with each other was due to their age. Maybe they were heavily medicated or holding their liquor well and just as juiced up as the wild-and-crazy crowds roaming the streets. I had to ignore them because I had that bandit on my mind.
THE BROILING TEMPERATURE
New Orleans is known for its sweltering tropical heat and high humidity. On that sunny day, the temperatures rose to a near-boiling point of 98 degrees! I could actually see the heat rising from the banquettes (pavement), like cobras emerging from a wicker basket. For those who live there or have visited, y'all know what I'm talking about.
To make matters worse, the smell of sweaty bodies, stale alcohol, strong urine, and some nauseating funk rushed through the open streetcar windows. All that stench made the hot air and high humidity almost unbreathable. Though a breeze occasionally wafted through the open windows, it wasn't enough fresh air to keep me comfortable. Thank God, the streetcar had only a few more blocks to go.
THE WILD CROWDS ON CANAL STREET (AGAIN)
I looked out the window again at the throngs of crazy people living it up like there was no tomorrow. Many carried go-cups filled with beer or strong alcoholic drinks. Some go-cups were probably filled with the famous New Orleans cocktail, the Hurricane. I was sure some college kids had yet to discover the potency of the Hurricane drink. Although the Hurricanes taste like Kool-Aid, they would sneak up on those kids and kick their butts and knock them out cold, especially in that heat.
AN UNSCHEDULED STOP
About two blocks from the casino, the streetcar slowed down to an unscheduled stop in the middle of Canal Street. I thought that was unusual. No passengers got on or off. Puzzled, we all waited for the conductor to make an announcement, such as, "THIS IS AS FAR AS WE GO, FOLKS. YOU'LL HAVE TO WALK THE REST OF THE WAY." But that announcement never came.
I thought the streetcar had broken down, but I couldn’t tell amid all the thunderous metallic noise it made rolling on the tracks. Still, the conductor made no announcement about any mechanical failure. I looked at Rose, then back at all the passengers sitting rigid in their seats like crash-test dummies. I still couldn't figure them out. But I became upset because this unplanned stop was cutting into my fun time with my sister. I wanted to scream at somebody, "What the hell is wrong with the streetcar? Why ain't we movin'?" For a few seconds, I didn't say anything.
I leaned to one side to look out the front window of the streetcar to see if anything on the tracks was preventing the streetcar from continuing. There was nothing. The tracks were clear, so I didn't understand the sudden stop.
THE NOPD MOTORCYCLE POLICEMAN
My ADHD kicked in. Since no one else in the streetcar moved, I got up and went to the conductor to find out what was going on. I heard Rose chuckle as I left my seat. I leaned down to the conductor's right ear and asked her in a calm, normal tone, "Ma'am, what's the problem?" She turned, looked at me, and answered as if it was no big deal, "Oh, just a police motorcycle blocking the tracks."
I'm thinking to myself, "Well, shit!! Is that it??? A policeman's motorcycle??" I didn't say anything else to her...at least not yet. I just frowned at her like the nitwit that she was. That cop with his motorcycle on the tracks was cutting into my time! I was angry not so much at the cop, but at the conductor who didn't do a damn thing to resolve the situation to get the streetcar moving again.
Actually, I wanted to yell at the conductor, "MISS, DO YOU SEE HOW BIG THIS STREETCAR IS??? Why don't you get off your fat ass and go tell that cop to move his damned motorcycle, which is ON the tracks and in YOUR way!!?? If he doesn't move his cycle, just push his shit outta the way!! You could even run over him and his motorcycle, and no one would find his body for days especially in this crowd!" Fortunately for her, I remained silent, but only for a few seconds.
I stayed at the front of the streetcar and looked back at the passengers sitting there like idiots, afraid to move, I guess, because that cop was a white NOPD cop blocking the tracks.
I NEVER TOOK MY ARMY BOOTS OFF
I have had plenty of experience correcting soldiers' SNAFUs (Situation Normal All Fucked Up) in the United States Army. Confronting that cop would be a piece of military cake for me. So, with the battle courage of General Patton, I decided to take action.
Before I got off the streetcar to address the policeman, I reminded myself that I am a retired US Army veteran. I receive disability benefits and take medications. NO FEAR! If the cop tried to blow me off or shoo me away, I'd just pull out my Retiree ID card and flash it in his face. If that didn't work, I would drop to the ground, roll around in feigned agony for a few minutes, then fake a faint worthy of an Oscar. I bet that would get everyone's attention and teach that brain-dead conductor a thing or two about taking charge. Besides, maybe I'd even make the 6 o'clock evening news.
I decided not to act like a crazy person, yet I kept that brilliant idea in reserve just in case things got out of hand with the cop.
I heard Rose cracking up as I stepped off the streetcar. The other passengers remained silent. What's with them? I went down the steps, walked over, and stood right next to him. Amazingly, that pasty-faced jerk was sitting on his motorcycle, chatting away on his cell phone as if the massive steel and wood 100,000-pound streetcar, just inches away and breathing down his neck, posed no problem for him.
His inaction led me to believe he intentionally parked his motorcycle on those tracks. There was no way he did not hear nor sense that hulking streetcar looming over his shoulder.
After swallowing hard to maintain my military bearing, I tapped him on his right shoulder with my index finger. Still holding his phone to his ear, he turned to me and told the person on the other end to hold on. I had no idea what to expect, but here's what happened.
THE NOPD COP: "Ma'am, can I help you?"
ME: "Yes, you can, officer."
Instead of screaming at him like a banshee, I politely asked in a friendly tone, which went against my better judgment and took all the fun out of my response to show out.
ME: "Could you please move your motorcycle out of the way so the streetcar can pass?"
Incredibly, he looked back at the streetcar as if he were seeing it for the first time!
ME TO MYSELF: SERIOUSLY?! What a maroon!!
THE NOPD COP: "Why sure, just give me a minute."
ME TO MYSELF: What a jackass! (Thank God he couldn't read my mind.)
After quickly ending his conversation on his cell phone, he started his motorcycle, put it in gear, and sped away.
ME: 'Man, that was too easy,' I thought. I didn't even have to get rowdy with him.
ALWAYS A SOLDIER
Throwing my shoulders back and my chest out, I got back on the streetcar. Tepid applause and a few accolades from the dimwitted passengers surprised me. 'Too late, scumbags,' was on the tip of my tongue, but I said nothing to them. The fat-assed conductor had the nerve to tell me, "Thank you, ma'am." I was seconds away from telling her, "Stuff it, sister," followed by a slap across her face to drive home my point!
I wanted to tell her that we'd still be sitting on the tracks if it weren't for me. But I just looked at her like the moron she was. All I could muster in response was, "UH HUH!" She was lucky she wasn't in my Army in my day because she would have had hell to pay with extra duty for her indecisiveness!
I sucked in a deep breath through my teeth and walked back to my seat. Rose tried to contain herself as she said, "Girl, you're crazy!" I smiled and said, "Yeah, that may be true, but I got us moving again, didn't I?" Rose almost fell out.
And so, we were on our way, just two blocks from Harrah’s Casino, where my guilty pleasure and free drinks awaited me.
I have to admit that I hit it big after beating a one-armed bandit to the ground that day. Rose did pretty well, too. Clearly, karma paid me back for my good deed: challenging a white NOPD cop and surviving without a scratch or going to jail. And yes, Mardi Gras was a blast, but that's another story.