How do you describe New Orleans to the uninitiated? I'm not really sure where to begin, whether it's the dichotomy of million dollar estates sprawling a mere two blocks from Slumville, U.S.A., or if it's better to describe the city by telling you that everyone listens to a commercial-free, public radio station that only plays blues and jazz. Several people made it clear to me that all the "cool" people kept their radios exclusively locked onto that station.
But it was very hard to get a real feel for the place. I was only there for a couple of days, I had no car, and one of those days was spent inside one of the grimiest beer bottling plants I've seen in my life. Oh, we were there for a commercial shoot, not to drink. And from now on, I will do absolutely everything in my power to avoid anything that's been bottled in, tainted by, passed through, or has thought about the Dixie Beer bottling plant.
By the start of my last night in the city, I still hadn't been able to find its pulse. That's when I headed over to the Bourbon Street area, and when everything fell right into place. Blues bars, strip clubs, tee-shirt shops, and restaurants were lined up, one after another, and followed by more blues bars, more strip clubs, more tee-shirt shops, and more restaurants.
The blues bars advertised by cranking the sound system up so loudly you could hear it in the next three bars over. The strip clubs had women barkers, proclaiming the virtues of their particular dancers ("We have naked women AND men, ladies," one of them announced, as she ceremoniously flipped over a title card in front of her to illustrate her point), while the tee-shirt shops just used blinding fluorescent tubes to supersaturate their shop windows. These stood out even more since they were usually sandwiched between a dimly lit blues bar and a darkened strip joint. And the restaurants just had prices and menus plastered to their storefronts.
Me? After grabbing some gumbo at a tiny dive and showering it in some delicious hot sauce, I headed to the one place that seemed to be a little different. Yup, I went straight towards....
Well, let me explain. I've always loved ghost stories. Make me watch one horror film after another, and I'll sleep well that night. But give me a badly written book with supposedly "true" ghost stories, and I'll be sleeping with the lights on and a squirt gun full of holy water in my hand. I collected ghost stories in Washington (D.C.) before I moved down to Miami (which is far too tacky and modern for any self-respecting ghost to haunt), but I've always envied the residents of New Orleans. See, many books claim that Virginia and D.C. are the second-most haunted areas in the country, due to the age and history of the locales. But New Orleans is frequently sited as the most haunted city in America.
So when I went down to Rev. Zombie's House of Voodoo, it wasn't due to my interest in Haitian magic (not my thing), but to sign up for the walking tour of ghosts and all things haunted.
Midian was our tour guide, and he laid down the law from the front. "We will not be jumping out and scaring you, and this isn't a school yard house of horrors by the local Jaycees. Instead, we'll be walking to some of the most notorious and infamous haunted sites in this area, and telling you their stories."
A midwestern couple was slightly disappointed, as were some high school aged kids, but it was exactly what I was hoping for. So, the (uh... seven, eight, nine...) ten of us slapped on some silly stickers (to tell us apart from any stragglers), were handed some noise makers to scare off any restless spirits and annoying drunks, took our gift of blessed beads (mine currently hang on my wall of memorabilia over my office desk), and we started walking.
And immediately stopped, not twenty feet from where we started.
Across the street from us was where the Mad Dentist (ok, so he had a name, but I certainly can't remember it) used to drug his women patients, put them in a trance, and make them contact the spirits so that they would lead him to the treasure he was sure was buried in the swamps around the city. He also killed one of these women, and her ghost (and some ghostly cat, though I can't remember how that critter ended up in the story, either) still haunt the restaurant next door to this very day. Avoid the gumbo, folks. Never know what's in it.
We strolled through another eight or nine haunts. I can't remember any one story in great detail (except for the last one before -- THE BAR -- but I'm ahead of myself), just impressions from each one. They blend together, turning into a mishmash of country legend. The pirate turned statesman who seduced the nun's ward before the nun managed to beat her to death but after she had been seduced by the escaped slave who subsequently killed himself with the sultan's brother's sword. Irrelevant. All of it.
All of it except for those tender, juicy impressions. The light burning in the attic window of a house, the translucent circle of glass making it seem like a full moon too low in the sky; The broken glass and sharpened hooks imbedded into the top of the high walls surrounding most of the houses in the area, as strong a burglary deterrent as any pit bull; The burning gas lights and overextended balconies and verandahs.
Midian was a perfect tour guide. He took his job seriously (but not too seriously), using his knowledge of the local lore -or tremendous ability to bullshit- to entertain the entire group of us for the evening. Dressed in... hmmm, I'm not really sure, not being the fashion mogul I used to be in my past life. A suit? A tuxedo? Let's call it a hybrid of the two. A really fancy (gray?) suit, that would have looked right at home in New Orleans a century or two ago. His cane was the perfect prop, too. It kept the pace as we walked, and the hook was a great tool for sudden stops -- just wrap it around the nearest parking meter, and swing to a graceful stop like Gene Kelly in a summer downpour. And the blunt end? How else do you so elegantly point at the houses of terror?
Within an hour or so, the impressions began to shift. Something happened, totally on an ethereal level, that I don't think anyone else really noticed. We actually, as an entire group, started phasing backwards in time. It was as clear as any ILM effect to me. First, a feeling of lightness, like I had lost some weight. Then, after a few more minutes, our group became vaguely transparent. You had to look really hard, but with any effort, you could see right through any one of the party. We were partly in 1997, but more passerby were starting to totally ignore us as we walked on. Fewer glances in our direction, fewer curious looks and questioning stares. It's not like anyone actually walked through us; it wasn't that dramatic. It was just a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. Not even a full step to the left, more like a tiny shuffle.
This feeling progressed as the night aged. Distances between objects stretched out and snapped back, colors drifted between neon hues and sepia subtleties, and sounds picked up a distant, stale sound. Midian's stories also took on the urgency of a local news broadcast, though his storytelling never altered. It was just that he was now describing the shadows that I could so clearly see in the windows. His tales were no longer tall or old. No, they were as current and up to date as a narrator can make them, describing the results of a bloody suicide jump from a second story window even as I watched a murky figure leap in its perfect arc of endings, the wet crunch of the impact in perfect rhythm with Midian's pained wince.
I saw it all.
The Bar. One of the oldest in the country.
We went there. A pause in the tour. A quick step into a building where all right angles have turned to wrong ones, where the temporal cacophony that was our evening seemed to feel right at home. Where I had my first liquid hurricane.
"Guaranteed to get you buzzed," quipped the waitress.
I didn't believe her. I was right not to believe her.
I wasn't buzzed, I was drunk. And I hadn't even finished the drink.
I can hold my liquor. I might not be the college frat boy who can down two bottles of wine, but a single drink shouldn't have me staggering the way this one wanted to. I can blame it on the small bowl of gumbo (and nothing else for dinner), or the eerie night, or whatever I want to. But it comes down to one thing: the drink was fucking strong. Two of them, and I'd have passed out in the middle of the sidewalk, no doubt about it.
Do you know what strong drinks do to you on a ghost tour? I thought so. And do you know how much more intense it is when you're already seeing black and white, ghostly figures, and shifted personalities? Oh. You don't?
Shift left. Shift left some more. Keep going. Almost there. A little further. And one last push.
There. Rest a while, look around. You're not seeing double, you're seeing two. And yes, there is a difference. Seeing double is seeing a repeat of the same image. Seeing two is seeing the same place at two different times. You do this by standing perfectly still, and shifting left at the same time. Kinda breaks all the laws of physics, I know. Which is why it helps to be drunk in New Orleans when you try this. I don't recommend trying it sober from home.
There's a lot more to tell. There are many more details to share. But I feel, um, unclear as to how to continue. I see no path, no direction of words, no coherent thoughts that must be shared as I sit here, trying to remember what it was like to see two of everything. The vision is as sharp and clear as the explanation is muddied, while my mind is as cluttered as that walk through time. Too many conflicting images, too many shared memories to sort through. I'm very tired right now, and the weight of my own feet is almost too much to lift them from the cobblestones for my next step. My New Orleans experiences has left me drained and spiritually damaged, and until I can heal that wound, my story must now come to an untimely end.
© 2000, Michael Yanovich. www.mentalsnot.com