Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans in August 2005. My Louisiana parents were living with my wife Marilyn and me in Oklahoma. My mom had just completed her chemotherapy for lymphoma and wanted to return to Louisiana. Marilyn and I drove them to the northwest Louisiana town of Vivian, dropped them at their house, and then continued to New Orleans to see for ourselves the damage incurred by the killer hurricane.
As a Vietnam vet, I had witnessed my share of destruction during my time in Vietnam. I had also driven through downtown Oklahoma City on the day of the infamous Murrah Building bombing in 1995. Neither the War nor the bombing prepared me for the destruction we witnessed in New Orleans.
My first French Quarter Mystery, Big Easy, was completed at the time. Not only was I heartbroken by the devastation suffered by the citizens of New Orleans and south Louisiana, I felt my own sense of loss because I didn't know if New Orleans would ever be the same.
What Marilyn and I learned was that the people of New Orleans and South Louisiana are tough and extremely resilient. The city not only survived, it has prospered. Alcoholic Hazes is one of the stories I wrote during our visit that appeared in my now out-of-print book Murder Etouffee.
Hurricane Katrina took more than 1,800 lives and is considered the costliest, and perhaps the worst natural disaster in U.S. history. The city survived and Marilyn convinced me to rewrite much of Big Easy to reflect Hurricane Katrina.
The female bartender with the Scottish accent in Alcoholic Hazes became the inspiration for the gorgeous redheaded bartender Chrissie who first appeared in City of Spirits, Book 2, and again briefly in Primal Creatures, Book 3. Her collie, the dog behind the bar, was the inspiration for bartender Bertram Picou's collie named Lady.
Even after only a few days following the hurricane, many of the bars in the French Quarter had reopened. Souvenir shops were selling tee shirts commemorating the terrible natural disaster. Even amid the death and destruction, the artists managed a sense of humor, albeit gallows humor. My favorite tee shirt was: FEMA Evacuation Plan - Run Motherfucker run!
The Quarter was almost deserted the night Marilyn and I visited the Irish bar. Almost!
Alcoholic Hazes
Many great
writers including William Faulkner, Tennessee Williams, and John Kennedy Toole
lived in New Orleans. One thing that made each of them great was their ability
to create amid the cacophony and ado of the Big Easy.
I remember reading a humorous essay by
a journalist who had lived there for several years. He’d moved to the city
looking for inspiration, fully expecting to pen the next great American novel.
Something quite different happened instead.
The semi-tropical city steams in the
summer with ninety-degree temperatures and humidity through the roof. Like many
cities in southern climes, life’s pace is slow, skidding almost to a halt
during summer months. Lunches tend to drag on until two, and workdays often end
by three or four, usually with a trip to some dark watering hole.
The journalist finally moved away from
New Orleans without completing a single chapter of his proposed novel. He
lamented that he’d never sufficiently sobered up, but that he did meet many
interesting people and had enjoyed himself immensely. I had a similar
experience during a post-Katrina trip to New Orleans.
There are so many things to see and do,
and so many wonderful places to eat and drink, that it is difficult to find time to
write. Still, artists, writers, and poets continue to fill the city. On our way
back to where we were staying at the Sheraton on Canal, Marilyn and I stopped at a little bar on Decatur Street called Kerry
Irish Tavern, and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender was a friendly
young woman with a Scottish accent, her big dog snoring as he napped behind the
hardwood bar.
The dim tavern was
almost empty except for a young man talking to the pretty bartender. His name
was also Eric and we struck up a conversation. An aspiring writer, he had a
manuscript in progress. Gill, a graphic artist, and his friend Tim, a poet with
a distinct stutter, soon joined us. Our new group quickly became locked in
conversation.
We stayed for another round, and then
another, discussing Eric’s book and viewing some of Gill’s art. Realizing that
I liked poetry, Tim recited several of his poems to us, never once tripping
over his words.
The three men finally left, on their way to another bar. “We’ll be back at midnight for the band."
"A band?"
"Many people never left town. Will you join us?”
Marilyn frowned and folded her arms when I said, “Maybe.”
After paying our tab, we returned to the hotel to sober up. We never made it back to the Kerry Irish Bar.
I’ve thought about Eric, Gill, and Tim many times. Did they finally finish their masterpieces? I’m betting no and that you’ll find them in some French Quarter bar, locked in alcoholic hazes and still contemplating the art they love to talk about, though they will never complete.
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