Easter on the River of Bourbon Street

""First a short Carnival, and then Hunter S. Thompson dies."

~ Overheard leaving Saint Louis Cathedral

* * *

After Mass, L. A. Norma and I left the witch-hat slate towers of Saint Louis Cathedral and headed for the soaring balconies of Bourbon Street, two blocks away. There, we were lifted on the wings of whiskey poured from the Bourbon Pub and Club Oz, two large dance halls flanking the intersection of Bourbon and rue Saint Ann. They guard a kind of demarcation line between Reader's Digest tourists ebbing back towards Canal Street, and those who might read the National Geographic and venture on freely towards les Faubourgs Marigny, Bywater or Treme.

We took a balcony table above the Pub's shingle and watched the masses with their arms upraised in jubilation of Christ‘s resurrection.

Photo by Melanie Plesh

Touched by the Easter holiday and the elfin Mr. Booze, we saw Jesus walking down this infamous street wearing a crown of thorns over His long black hair. He wore sandals, too, and was naked save for a loincloth cut like the one in the paintings. He was thin and looked like He might be Filipino, but mostly He looked like Jesus. Everyone on the balcony saw Him.

On the street below, He slummed with the local rabble and reveled in their Easter experience. They simply glowed in the clear and righteous wonder of it all. A few blocks up the street, Chris Owens' annual Easter Parade pressed through the throng. They, a finely feathered flock, consisted of David Duke, a brass band made up of midgets, elder ladies of the young snatched-bodies cult, and a half dozen or so bunnies in pastel fur. The bunnies threw underpants to the crowd. Among this human eddy, none gave any notice whatsoever to the walking Jesus.

A tourist family stood against the downstream wall of Pete Fountain's former club, now Club Oz. The father stood wide-eyed. The girl, about seventeen, waved up to us. The pubescent son giggled and hugged his mother. Then, along came Jesus straight towards them, down one of sin's busiest thoroughfares. The tourist mother was offended. She hurriedly gathered her crew and paddled off down the street. Toward what? A friend's house, a bed-and-breakfast, another tourist murder?

Jesus did not seem offended by their departure. After all, He wrote the book on forgiveness. The other sinners, noting nothing of this drama, went on about their sinning.

The Pope appeared on the Oz balcony. He stood directly above where the tourist family had been, and he was dressed head-to-toe in yellow and white satin. He blessed all who passed beneath him. He looked across the River of Bourbon Street and blessed us, too. We waved, and he motioned us over.

We crossed the street and took our seats at the Pope's table. We looked back at the Bourbon Pub balcony. The Pope, ever wise, said, "You can not see yourself on the balcony you have just left." We had all had a lot to drink.

The Pope handed me a large bourbon and water. "Holy Water, from The Holy River," he said.

Three real nuns, in old-fashioned black-and-white, came trotting along rue Saint Ann returning from a later mass. As they passed the intersection with Bourbon, heading lakeside towards Cathedral School, the sea of sinners parted.

"What would they think of seeing Jesus?" L. A. Norma asked of no one in particular. She leaned ominously over the balcony rail and yelled to the crowd below for Carnival beads. A photographer looked up and took her picture.

I yelled down asking if he had seen Jesus.

"No," he shouted back.

Would he like to?

"Yes, of course, yes!"

The Pope looked at me and said, "Watch that woman, and do not let her fall over the communion rail." Green Carnival beads landed on the Pope's pointy hat. They looked interesting, but he took them off and tossed them to two college boys on the street below. Norma told him the two boys should have opened their pants. He frowned and sternly said, "This is not Carnival!"

I said, "It is not Paducah either," but the Pope did not hear me -- he was gone to find Jesus.

Norma looked first at me, then past my forehead, and talked of far-ranging things. The Pope returned without Jesus, but laden with fresh drinks that he distributed round the table.

"He can not be found in this wicked den," he said handing us fresh Wild Turkey and water.

When we looked up from our drinks we saw Him, Jesus, across the street waving from the Bourbon Pub's balcony. We waved back. His naked arms were lifted heavenward. His loincloth flapped in the whiskey-flavored air.

The man with the camera jumped and shouted, "Your cross, your cross, show your cross!"

Jesus looked down with great disdain and bellowed, "Don't you know what holiday this is? This is Easter, I have no cross!"

The Pope, assorted communion-rail leaners, and followers passing on the street below shouted, "It isn't Carnival!"

It wasn't, it was Easter on the River of Bourbon Street.