Bourbon Suicide

There are certain streets I always take to get home from work. Straight out of the bar onto buzzing Bourbon Street. I then take a left and walk until St. Peter, then take another left and saunter until I hit my apartment building on Royal. It still makes me laugh that someone like me lives on a street with such regal connotation right in the name. Bourbon is in full swing at 3 in the morning as always and though the sky is dark the streets are lit with the colorful signs for strip clubs and piano bars. Bourbon seems overwhelmingly loud but if you just stand and close your eyes, people begin to funnel around you, everything appears to slow to a low murmur sprinkled here and there with laughter.

This is a destination chosen by families on vacation who come for the rich history but leave mortified that their child has seen more of the human anatomy than they would like, thrill seekers who understand the unbridled opportunity this city holds, and the emotionally distraught looking for some kind of solace in the chaos that is Bourbon Street. It would take only a few minutes with me to figure out which one of these categories I belonged in. I like to believe I was that thrill seeker, deciding that I didn’t want to grow up just yet and spending 3 years drinking my time away. But I came here as one of the emotionally distraught, bouncing back and forth from fortuneteller to fortuneteller in Jackson Square. I even visited Marie Laveau in hopes that the dead voodoo queen would give me some new perspective on life, or at the very least destroy my enemies. Unsurprisingly none of this was effective in my search for self-discovery.

I started my walk home passing by my regular bars, contemplating going in and having a drink with Cybil before heading home. Cybil was my roommate, well significant other, she never paid rent. I passed by the bar and didn’t see her doing her usual thing, leaning over the bar with her chest hanging out and laughing at everything the men said, so I decided it’s not worth going in and just continued down the block. I still wonder to this day, what if I had gone in and had drinks would I have still witnessed what I did.

The fresh, upbeat atmosphere of the French Quarter starkly contrasts the dark, smelly air of the alleys. That night it was raining so I decided to take a shortcut through one of those alleyways. For some reason I always forgot to use the bathroom at the bar at the end of my shift, maybe I thought my apartment was close enough or it was the state that Bourbon Street bathrooms were notorious for. Probably why everyone, including myself use the alleyways to relieve ourselves. I propped myself up with one hand pressed against the brick wall and I started to ponder life as one does after a long shift while taking a piss in an alley. It’s been three years; maybe it’s time to try somewhere new. What about Cybil, my job, it’s comfortable here. It’s been so long since I’ve felt comfortable somewhere. Dare I say New Orleans was beginning to feel like a home? Bourbon didn’t care what color your past was, it didn’t matter if you had been a lawyer or a con artist. As I buttoned my pants I saw a group of what looked like college freshman pass the alley I had just marked as my own. All of the girls had clearly drank more than their limit and the men were so graciously guiding them back to their hotel with a hand on each of their asses. I shook my head and started to mosey in the direction of home. There’s that word again, home.

As the sounds of Bourbon started to fade a bit and I neared my apartment building I heard crying. Not just crying but sobbing coming seemingly from thin air. I stopped to try and find the source of the sounds and every direction was inconclusive, like I was searching for a damn cricket plaguing my kitchen, but then I looked up. Perched on the edge of one of the brightly colored buildings stood a woman in a blue sequined party dress, holding her heels in her left hand. She was looking up at something and shaking, but I don’t think she was scared, it was almost as if she was trying to calm her crying. She was a vision of someone trying to talk to God. Without wanting to jump to conclusions about what she is doing up there, she did.

I watched her body fall from the edge of the building but it felt more like she was an angel falling from the dark sky or an elegant ballerina portraying a dying swan. I called out but everything seemed muted, moving in slow motion. I started running to the place she would land but I was too late. This beautiful girl, dark hair, makeup running down her cheeks, that was experiencing such despair mere seconds ago, was peaceful now. Her eyes looking toward the shine of the streetlight. “Go toward the light” I whispered to myself as I pulled my phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. It feels morbid and horribly cliché as I recall it now but in the moment it was just poetic. Then I just stood there, waiting in the rain memorizing every feature of that girl’s face. That night New Orleans wasn’t the destination of happily ever after for me, and I continue to wonder if it was for that girl that night.