We trudged into Detective DeBlanc’s office. “First order of business. Call your parents.” He handed us desktop phones. One look at Nestor’s face told me he was having the same conversation I was. It was hard to hear all the yelling on the other end of his phone because my parents were both yelling into my ear at the same time.
I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say, if we had to clean houses as a punishment, we’d be scrubbing for the next ten years.
We gave our statements. Detective DeBlanc thanked us for our help in “apprehending those criminals” and then yelled at us again for not calling the police.
I got the message —good can come from dumb, but it’s much better if it comes from smart.
Detective DeBlanc drove us to the train station and introduced us to the conductor. Another no-nonsense guy. ”I’ll be watching you,” he said as he pointed two fingers from his eyes to my eyes. I think I saw that in a movie. It was funnier then.
Our mood changed on the trip home. No phones. No singing. No playing games. No goofing around. Every once in a while, we talked about what we had done and seen, the people we had met, the experiences we had had. But we sat in silence for a long time.
I decided to write a poem about New Orleans. Well, I didn’t actually write it, but I dictated it, and Nestor wrote down the words.
Creative writing isn’t Nestor’s strong point. “Think of me as a keyboard. I’ll write down what you say, but you do the thinking.”
It took a lot of crossing out and spelling corrections. Nestor moved words and lines around so they made more sense. After I told him what to do, that is.
Nestor asked me, “What was your favorite part of the trip?”
I had to do a little thinking. “First, all the great people we met. My second best was Jean Lafitte Louisiana.”
“I’m with you on your first choice, but my second choice is tied between the pirates and Marie Laveau’s crypt.”
“You still believe in that stuff?”
“Don’t you remember Madame Destiny’s warnings? She was right, wasn’t she?”
“Yeah, she was. Maybe I’m being stubborn again.”
“Do you think my gris-gris bag helped keep us safe?” Nestor asked.
“I think it had more to do with Colette and Jennifer talking with Officer Guidry and Detective DeBlanc.”
“My gris-gris bag was underground with us long before any police showed up.”
I had to give some thought before I answered. “Maybe it all worked together to keep us safe. Positive energy from all directions can’t be a bad thing.”
We got back to work. It all poured out of me. I had to capture it when it was still clear in my mind. I could never have done it without Nestor.
“Nestor, thank you for doing this for me. It’s no small thing.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
New Orleans
The Big Easy—so edgy,
rolls its soulful eyes.
Jesus and voodoo.
Parties and prayer.
Celebrate life.
Honor death.
Live oaks embrace the sky.
Visitors walk in the shadow of Christ.
Streets—so hot.
Jazz —so cool.
Consonance. Dissonance. Improvisation.
Wail that trumpet.
Tickle those ivories.
Pluck that banjo.
Trill that horn.
Pound those skins.
Legato. Staccato.
Sway. Swing, Sashay.
Let the good times roll.
Faithless levees—so sad,
once protected by alluvial soil,
conspired with the shameless
to impel hapless souls
submerged beneath the coursing torrents
to an audience with
the Lord Jesus Christ.
Corralled. Abandoned. Dispersed.
Ghosts of tortured souls—so lamentable.
Stalking. Jumping. Trailing.
Victims of slavery, crime, disease,
oppressive heat and humidity,
natural disasters and wartime occupation.
They cry out in pain and fear.
Tortured. Burned. Mistreated.
Medical and carnival experiments,
limbs and body parts exchanged.
Pleas ignored.
Prayers unanswered.
Cities of the Dead—so esteemed,
rise up to give shelter.
Wall vaults, a year and a day prelude to family tombs,
crypts and mausoleums
in a gumbo that blends
cultures, races, and social strata,
simmered and stirred by
common experiences in life
and shared spaces in death,
served over yellow mums
to welcome protection of the saints.
Laissez les bons temps rouler—so joyful.
Purple for justice.
Green for faith.
Gold for power.
Baby Jesus nestled in the womb of the
Twelfth Night King Cake.
Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras,
begins the fasting season of Lent.
Costumes. Masks. Gemstones.
Plumes. Feathers.
“Throw me something.”
Beads. Doubloons. Trinkets.
Get down.
Positively.
Absolutely.
Yeah.
I had thought I didn’t notice details, but I was wrong.