Member-only story
When the Friend Who Saved Your Life Dies Too Soon
In New Orleans, we walk the Second Line for Mike, the man who saved me from certain death at 16
Bourbon Street on a Sunday afternoon is about as quiet as the place gets. Hangovers are medicated and regrets expressed in the cold light of day. Planes leave filled with Yankees who tell tales about the wild jazz life; buses depart with bitter riders wondering where all their money went. Was it at Harrah’s casino? Was it that third lap dance in the champagne room? Was it the sidewalk stands, their barkers pouring shots from doubtful bottles of Patron?
Don’t get me wrong. The French Quarter is rarely still. It’s chock-full of tourists, saloons, strippers, and revelers of all shapes and sizes. You can always find a drink, or a fuck, or a fix. On Bourbon Street, you’ll find any sin to suit you. Feel the humidity slide over you like a second skin and watch the sweat droplets rise like water from a wounded lake. Feel the heat crush you as you walk the streets of the Crescent City, somewhere below sea level.
Pray the levees don’t break again.
New Orleans has always been a party, a wild rager that spits in the face of the dangers of living under the threat of a rising Gulf. Drink the hurricanes and the hand grenades and watch the…
