Chasing A Dead Man's Ghost

Grief makes you do strange things.

Like uprooting your life to chase a dead man's ghost.

Jelly Morton blues play on repeat. I'm at the same bar I go to every week because it's convenient. Even though the seat's splinted leather keeps poking through my khakis, no matter where I sit at the bar. I'm starting to think they're all in need of replacing.

"What brings you to New Orleans?"

My eyes land on calloused hands as he drops the dish rag to the side. It takes effort to smile back at the bartender. He has a sweet southern smile already plastered. His youthful brown eyes are curiously bright and for a split second, I swear he can see through me.

"Sorry?"

"I've seen you hangin' around back most days. I wondered if you'd ever make it to the bar."

His accent is ridiculously strong, I'm wondering if he's always been from here.

"That obvious, huh?"

His breath breezes through the gaps in his teeth. One of the top front ones is slightly more yellow than the other one.

"I know a tourist when I see one. And everyone's got shit in their closets. Even if they're just passin' through."

"I'm here for business actually." It's a half-truth.

He nods briefly. I figure I've lost his attention already.

"What'll it be?"

"One gin fizz, please," I glance at the newcomer as I order. His cold clammy arm touches mine as he squeezes into the tight spot. I give him some room, leaving a sticky stain on the wood from where my elbow was.

The four o'clock sun hits the road outside and people pour in for the same reason that I did. It's boiling and I'm early for where I need to be. I've got a half hour to kill before Raj closes his shop and I'll get an opportunity to talk to him. The last time I tried, he told me to leave before I disturbed his customers. Honestly, I don't think I did anything to earn his hostility. I just wanted to talk to him about John, dad, whatever...

Tourists cluster together by the front in awe of the 'magic piano keys' playing by themselves. It's the main attraction here even if it means they won't order anything.

"Thank you." My drink is set in front of me.

He nods and attends to the others. There's a purple business card left under the glass. I look back at him in case he's watching me. He isn't.

The card is for a ghost tour in the French Quarter. Headless Knights. I've never heard of it. The city's infested with haunted tours. Since I've arrived, I haven't taken any. And I don't think I'm missing much. Almost everything is online.

The city is like a fucking party, twenty-four hours a day. I love it. I love the outrageousness of it all. I pay for my drink and walk outside to the balcony where it's less chaotic, my messenger bag swinging behind me. I don't need to turn around to know my seat is already occupied. The smell of sweat and cider subsides.

You're never bored here, not in a sensory overload kind of way. You melt into it. The music, the people and occasionally, the booze.

There are more bars with balconies on this street. I can see people perched up on them. Some of them are singing across from me. I don't go out as much as I'd like. It's a good time but fuck, is it expensive to keep up.

I've been here for almost two months now and the land lord's finally taken care of the faulty kitchen sink in the new apartment. Moving has been a bitch and he's wasted a week of my time already. New Orleans ain't Chicago. But I guess Chicago, ain't no New Orleans either.

Something smashes on the floor inside and heads turn. I can't see much but someone is definitely yelling. Everyone's looking the same way, wondering the same thing. Bar fights aren't exactly rare but they're not as common as you'd think they are either.

I sip my drink from the safety of the balcony. The citrus is amazing in this heat.

"Get the fuck out," the bartender from before shouts. I can't see who he's yelling at. It's some guy but his face is turned the other way.

Security is already on the floor, partially blocking the view from the balcony. Get out of the way. I want to see the fight. There's a scuffle before they finally get one of the guys out. People start clapping and whistling. I want to cringe.

It's a while before I can see him walk out into the street from where I'm standing. He flips the guard off from the middle of the road. Of course, the guard doesn't care because he didn't see it. He's already headed inside.

I look back to see what the other guy is doing but he's already packing up. I'm assuming his wife, red-faced and short, stands behind him. She's got a pair of go-cups in her hands, eager to leave.

"What just happened?" a guy from the table beside me looks around, laughing.

His sunglasses are pushed too far up his nose and he's looking my way. For a moment, I'm not sure if he's waiting for me to respond. I'm quiet to the point it's gotten awkward.

"Just drunk, I guess," I shrug.

He's got a stupid grin on his face and someone else, from what I assume is his group of friends, makes a joke about it. I turn my head as I'm casually kicked out of the conversation I didn't even ask to be a part of. He's still looking my way though. I pretend not to notice. Acting dumb usually helps me out of these kind of situations. He'll get bored eventually. They almost always do.

I stay in the shade which honestly doesn't feel any different than if I was under direct sunlight. The gold chain and locket around my neck don't really help my skin either. I haven't taken it off for years except for showers but god, this heat.

Watching the guy in the street saunter away, I'm lost for a while. I can't stop thinking about how good the heat feels on my back. They tell you to avoid coming here in the summer when it's most unbearable. But when you're escaping the brumal Chicago winds, you find the weather to be anything but.

I don't think staying home any longer was an option. Mom still hasn't talked about Noah since the day we first heard about it. I kept hanging around in case she'd open up. Lord knows, I could've used the family cry-time. But staying around her made me want to smother myself most mornings.

My online therapist told me that it was completely normal to feel this way, given the circumstances.

I'm not aware of how normal my intrusive thoughts are, after losing my brother to a hate crime and then my father to suicide. But I stopped paying for my monthly subscription after that.

"Are you having money troubles, Terra? If you're struggling, we can try and come up with a more manageable plan for you."

I don't remember how I responded. But she wasn't wrong. I couldn't afford the sessions anymore. It didn't matter if I payed it off in a six months or four years. Besides, I don't think therapy can help me. Not in the way I want. To erase the nauseating feeling I have every goddamn night before bed or from the debilitating grief that occasionally blindsides me during the day.

Noah's death has shaken the web I was so comfortable living in. And while I'd like to think that this loss has pushed me to try and follow my dreams, to live life differently to how I was before the incident. The truth is that, I'm terrified to die so abruptly; To die the way they both did.

The group on the balcony leave before I can finish my drink. After they're gone, I walk back inside, too. My sunglasses protect me from giving away too much. It's bizarre how safe I feel behind the tinted screens. The bartender is looking my way and I'm not sure if he's trying to get my attention. Discretely, I pause and look over my shoulder just in case.

By the time I look back, he's already pouring drinks.

It's four 'twenty five by the time I'm back on the street, walking past musicians and artists. Raj's shop is a street away, sandwiched between two other gift shops that seem to be doing way better than his.

I stop across his shop, waiting on the pavement. Down the road, tourists pose in front of the little colorful houses. John comes to mind and I'm wondering if he ever hated it here. For someone to live their whole life in one place, I'd like to think he was happy with his choices.

The last we talked was the month after my twenty-fifth birthday. I turned twenty-seven last month.

Well, technically we didn't talk but he did send a postcard. Probably one from his own shop. Who knows?

Raj steps out. He's closing the shop. I check my watch and he's right on time. I don't think he's seen me but I don't want to startle him either. After he's done with the door, I walk across the street and call his name out.

"Hey," he doesn't hide how inconvenienced he is. "I'm locking up for the day."

"Oh, that's fine. I wanted to see you actually," I shift my weight on to the other foot.

"What is this about?" he sighs.

"It's about the previous owner of this shop."

He scratches the skin above his crooked eyebrow before replying. "Okay?"

"He was my dad. And he passed away. That's how you got the shop."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thanks. But I'm here in case you knew him?"

He's already shaking his head, like he knew what I was going to ask. "I bought the shop but I've never met your dad."

"Right."

"I'm sorry but I have to go now. Have a good one," he tells me before walking away.

He soon disappears, where I can't tell him apart from other silhouettes anymore. It bothers me more than it should. The first lead was never going to work. I reminded myself that before coming. It's weird standing in front of his shop. John had taken over it after his Pops left it to him. And I never expected him to pass it onto Noah and I. We wouldn't have known what to do with it anyway.

I still want to look for people he knew. The man never left this city. Not for his family. Not for himself. I want to know who he was, why he stayed and why he chose to remain tethered to us with postcards and letters.

And why that was enough for him.