WILD PIRATES. Part Two. Recon and Surveillance

Bar, strip club, bar, bar, bar, voodoo shop, cafe, bar, bar, bar, strip club, bar, restaurant, bar. Bourbon Street lay before us in all of its wet and well-tred glory. Throngs of partying pedestrians armed with grenades, and plastic cups spilled on to the streets. Music blared from every doorway. Buskers and brass-bands littered the sidewalks. We rolled down the road at barely 5 mph plodding through the foot and carriage traffic. Eyes wide and heads practically pressed against the window glass we were overstimulated and desperately searching for a place to park. It was all I could do to resist the urge not to run madly into the fray. This was Mecca, this was Valhalla, this was Babylon. I got my wish. The parking garage was cash only. Someone had to run out and hit up an ATM machine. “We’ll drive around the block and-” Our wheel-man Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence when the door slammed shut behind me. I ran into the fray, blending into the Bacchanalia.

We reconvened at the parking garage, Larry Sparrow sported an oversized sombrero. “Where did that come from?” I asked in wonderment.

“Over there.” He pointed to an empty parking spot.

“I love this place!” I still reeled from my solo excursion.

The three weary travelers clung to to the shadowed side of the street, shying away from the sun. We dodged and weaved winding our way through the thick pedestrian traffic. Multiple layers of music clamored in our ears. “Should we keep walking or-” Larry Sparrow never finished his sentence.

“Barrrrrgh” The two Curvy Dogs madly interrupted, we were perilously parched, wired tired and far too frazzled for senseless sober walking. Sadly, if we set out in costume, we would have never found refuge in the nearest drinking establishment, especially with Cininnati’s finest Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator in our midst. He’d be stormed by women in seconds. Suddenly swept up in a sea of screaming fans, followed by a flurry of photos. “Oh my god! It’s Johnny Depp!” they’d all shout while MAD and I would wait on the sidelines for the first wave to pass. Then we’d be free to take a couple of steps further before the second wave rolls in and so on.

Under-dressed and therefore unnoticed, we sidestepped inside as swiftly as possible . It took a couple of minutes adjust from the harsh light to the dark interior of The Funky Pirate. When I could see I couldn’t believe what I beheld. “Dollar shots! Of Pirate’s Revenge?!” There it was, an illuminated sign on the wall. A brilliant beacon beckoning us to drink.

As the afternoon wore on, this town looked more and more like a place I’d want to call home. Body and mind were greased and eased by live Delta River Blues, rum, gin, some sweet drink that Larry Sparrow sipped, and quite a few those vengeful grape-favored shooters. After an indeterminate amount of time, we landed once more on the street absolutely astonished to see the sun sink. “Dollar shots! Get your dollar shots of Pirates Revenge!” The day’s allotment of alcohol left our companion MAD harassing passers-by, brandishing the sign she stole from the guy whose job it was to sit outside the bar holding it. “Dollar shots! You know you want to drink them! You must!” She shouted like a pretzel vendor at a Ren Faire. Her enthusiasm was admirable. After about ten or so minutes of harassing and pulling patrons into the nearly empty bar, we made our weary weaving walk back to the parking garage. The bayou was waiting for us.

Hey, this isn’t that bad at all, I mused as I rolled out the bedrolls and settled into my tent for an early night. We had a long and work-filled day ahead of us; sleep was of the utmost importance. Luckily, the previous night’s panic and paranoia dissipated entirely. We survived the first full day. We were fine, and I laughed at myself for thinking otherwise.

“Listen to those animals,” I thought aloud hearing the bayou awaken. The still evening air filled with nature’s nocturnal cadence. All around us, beasts chuckled, chirped, and brushed up against the tent. The incessant high-pitched hum of a mosquito swarm and a chorus of coyotes resounded out of the darkness. “Listen to those animals…”

WILD PIRATES. Part Four. Bourbon Street Stockings

It was late  Tuesday night and I slumped drunkenly on the sidewalk. My feet rebelled carrying me further. Blisters grew and bruises spread there was no longer solace in the insoles. The lot of us marched for miles navigating the netherwordly nighttime streets of the Haunted New Orleans Pub Crawl. Flat feet, three dollar thrift-store buckle shoes, and  four dollar pitchers of PBR at every port left this poor pirate lass wishing for the quiet comfort of a little campsite in the bayou. But this beaten band of brigands wasn’t going anywhere.

Larry Sparrow, the infamous Cincinnati Captain Jack Sparrow impersonator, my long-time best mate and drinking partner the fearsome Captain Mad Anne Dandy and I Bloody Lynne Flynnt were just three brave souls striking out against The Big Easy. The Crescent City. A pirate convention, nay two pirate conventions, converged in New Orleans that year and fleets of professional pirates, enthusiasts, and reckless adventurers such as myself flocked from all over. This was shore leave.
The brochure admonished us it was a tour first and a pub crawl second. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped heeding the warning. There were only grim recollections of the tour itself. Bobbing to the tawdry tales of murder, suicide attempts gone horribly awry, slow painful public executions and brutal beheadings. Completely and utterly enthralled by our handsome and swarthy navigator. Enamored with Jean Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar, which was actually was The Gentleman Pirate Blacksmith Shop. We rollicked with The Pirates Charles, as they paraded and serenaded us through the streets the darkened alleyways while we were swept up a sudden fierce thunderstorm. The last two or four taverns we ventured into I had done so slinging my buckle shoes over my shoulder. Carelessly plodding through the puddles in my red and white striped stockings down the filthy soaked pavement of Bourbon Street.
At the end of our intriguing and intoxicating tour, we hitched a ride back to our vehicle. Our journey took a quick turn for the worse. The wheel-man was a greasy drifter that could have been part of our group, but at that point everyone looked a like pirate. There were quite a few of us packed tight in his backseat. He stopped suddenly as a flock of frat boys crossed in front with no regard for traffic signals. As he slammed on the brakes, the car thumped, thudded and died right there in the middle of the intersection. We didn’t hit any of those damnable jocks but what had befallen us was bad enough. “Transmission,” our strange wheel-man glumly said. We got out and pulled the dead vessel to the side of the road to let the traffic pass. He called a tow truck, delved deep into his trunk, and pulled out a bottle. The label read Diesel and it looked down-right flammable. The one hundred and ninety something proof Everclear meant this guy was serious.
I was vaguely aware of how my compatriots regarded me from my post on the sidewalk in my inebriated state. I very well could be Bully in the Alley. “I’m fine,” I grumbled, thankful it was no longer The Golden Age of Piracy. Luckily, I had such a compassionate and likewise marooned crew who wouldn’t just leave a drunken pirate alone in an alley to maybe pick up later. “I would be better if I could walk” I whined, cringed, and forced the Diesel down my gullet when it was my turn. Instead, I gagged and spit it out on the sidewalk. Just when I felt at my most pathetic, two men teetered toward me at the crosswalk. One of them reached into his pocket. “Here” he said suavely as he approached, “five for the right and five for the left,” and stuffed a bill down my cleavage as he passed. I looked down to see the ten poking out from between my breasts, which were practically bursting from my bodice. There I was, slumped on a sidewalk in the middle of the night in New Orleans. A hot mess, or perhaps just a mess. There was nothing new with the scenery; this town had seen millions like me. But when things looked their grimmest, I found an unexpected reward. “Hey guys! I just got some money!” I exclaimed, sat up a little straighter and adjusted myself with purpose.
There was no question where the money was going to go, new stockings. My current pair was sopping wet and coated with the black grime consisting of piss, spit, spilt drinks and the bile of tens of thousands of raging nighttime tourists. They would have to be quarantined the rest of our excursion or tossed away in the nearest receptacle. Naturally, I couldn’t part with them. I washed the Bourbon Street stockings when I finally returned home ten days later, throwing them in with the mound of other moldering pirate clothes. I still wear them years later especially when times get rough. Sometimes, I wear them for weeks on end.