In New Orleans I took my last drink.
Fitting, I suppose.
Elle and I rolled into town sometime on a Tuesday morning. The car groaning and burning and keeping its head held high. Missed turns, rerouted, eventually parked somewhere in the French Quarter.
We had driven from Mobile, Alabama straight there, in broken A.C. and a useless stereo and hungry, cramped from sleeping in the parking lot of a Wal-Mart for the sixth or seventh time. The GPS told us turn, but there was no road. The GPS told us we took the wrong turn, but we hadn't turned. We spoke in quick and pointed bursts, hot and agitated. The car, in better shape than us.
We were three hours early to check into the Air BnB. The uneven and broken roads, the canyon of painted and collapsing corpses lining them, all held the heat bouncing and burning and I hid in the shade of someone's garbage cans while Elle looked herself over before getting out of the car.
Stink of the garbage, stink of the town. From my hole I could see the wrought iron railings on the buildings second stories. The hand-painted signs of bars and restaurants and art galleries. The decay eating away at all of it and my image of New Orleans was dead.
"What a shithole," I mumbled to Elle, who was now out of the car and adjusting her fanny-pack.
"Well, you're literally in garbage right now. What do you expect?"
"It's hot."
"Come on, let's find a drink somewhere. Maybe some food."
Elle had been here a few months back and though she hadn't had a spectacular time then, she had had a good time, and was vaguely eager to show me why.
I stood from my garbage hole and brushed dirt off of my shorts and I was already slick with sweat. "Okay."
Into the quarter and nothing was really operational yet, people still opening and we ended up just walking around the block, melting slow into our shoes. The car came back to us and it was heavy on one side.
"Fuck."
"What?" Elle asked.
I walked quicker and sure as shit, a flat. The second of our trip. Beyond that, the tire was ripped open. Cut.
I don't mind a flat tire when it is my fault. No, that's a lie. I do. I mind it less though than when some drunk New Orleans fuck decides to slice it up. At ten in the morning. In ninety-five degree heat and the argil fucking humidity.
We had $178 dollars between us, eleven days left of this trip, and a few hundred miles to go still.
"Motherfucker."
"Fuck!" Elle said. "What the fuck?! What..." She looked around, as if to spot Spring Heeled Jack dancing gleefully off over the rooftops but he remained elusive as ever. "Fuck! We were gone ten fucking minutes!"
"Honey, calm down."
"What are we supposed to do now? How are we going to pay for this? Do we call the cops? Is there a fucking point?!"
"We'll figure it out. We always do. It's fine."
"No. No, James, it's not fucking 'fine'. We were here ten fucking minutes! We have no money!"
"Just... calm down honey. Listen to me. Call triple A."
"And say what? Someone slashed our tires come rescue us?"
"Yeah. Sure. That works. Start there. We have enough to pay for it if we have to. We will just have to rough it until Texas. Lay low."
"Rough it? We have nothing. We've been camping in fucking parking lots. We shower in gyms. How much rougher..."
"Honey. Stop. Calm down. That isn't helping. Focus. We can do this. This isn't anything. We have a problem, we have the means to fix it."
"Stop telling me to calm down. How are we going to get to Texas if we have to pay for a new tire?"
"If we do, it will be like eighty bucks. We have that and more. We have food in the car. We have water. We have blankets. Everything else can go to gas. We will make it."
She stared at the tire and took her phone out. Called AAA.
I walked around the car. Inspected what I could. Just the one tire. I knew we didn't have enough to make it the rest of the way. Busking was an option, begging was an option, but neither were guarantees and begging was only insult to injury.
My phone vibrated.
My mother.
"Hey mom."
"Hi bud. How's the trip?"
I began to lie. Everything's great. So good. Unbelievable.
"No, really, how are things?"
"Well..." I filled her in. Hung my head.
"How much money do you have?" she asked. I told her.
"Where is a Western Union?" I looked it up and told her.
"I'll let you know when I can get you some help." I thanked her. Serendipity. A good parent. A good person.
Elle was done with her call and now watching me. "Who was that?"
"My mother."
"What'd she say?"
"She's going to send money tonight I think. She said she'd let me know."
"Thank god. Tell her I said thank you." Elle's tone, her entire energy slowed and she came to me and hugged me. "I'm sorry I blew up a little."
"It's okay, I get it honey. What did triple A say?"
"They're sending a truck. The tire isn't covered but they'll get us to a garage if we need to, but I remembered when I was on the phone that we have the donut in the back."
"Can't get to Texas on a donut."
"True. But we could get to a shop if need be."
"I can't change it here. The road is too uneven." It was, where the car was parked the road dipped in deep ruts and a few years back I had almost lost a few fingers from a falling car and wasn't looking forward to doing it again.
We waited. Nearly silent. Sweating. Two hours passed.
The truck AAA sent turned out to be a guy in a van and he had us pull the car into the flattest section of road,, shredding the tire between the rim and the pavement. Threw the donut on, said "Yep, someone cut it. Animals out here." and drove off.
Drove to Wal-Mart.
Waited. One hour.
New tire.
$83.
Hungry, but we decided to wait until we checked into our room and eat there from our supply.
Welcome to New Orleans.
Welcome to New Orleans.
Our Air BnB was in the seventh ward. Not a safe area by any means, but not the worst. Luckily, over the trip, the car had formed it's own intimidating personality and we weren't worried about it. We checked in, showered, ate, and my mother messaged me that the money should be available.
"Thank you," I said.
"Of course. I love you. Be safe."
I hung up and we went into town.
The French Quarter, in the evening was slightly more seductive than the day. I assumed because I could see neon, people had hope in their eyes, and you couldn't see the rotting houses. We walked the blocks to the Western Union and picked up the money. I thanked the cashier and bought a water and we headed into the evening.
"I don't want to be out long. I'm not feeling that well."
"Okay, we can do the New Orleans night thing tomorrow if that's cool."
"Sure, honey."
We had a drink and went back to the Air BnB. Nothing else worth mentioning happened that night.
In the morning, waking in a soft and engulfing bed. Stretched out. Air conditioning. I shit on people who refuse to live on the bare minimum, but I did miss luxury in the moments I had it.
Elle made coffee and oatmeal and we sat on the edge of the bed and ate and woke slow into the promise of the day. I was looking forward to drinking. To exploring and running around town with Elle and getting into trouble and the normal routine. We didn't have a lot of money, but I had a way of acquiring alcohol with almost nothing.
"What do you want to do today?" She asked.
"Whatever you'd like. I just want to hit the town this evening."
"Well, if you want, let's get dressed and go hit the bodega around the corner. See what they have and maybe walk into the Quarter and explore a bit."
"Sounds good."
We showered again. Dressed.
The temperature was already in the high nineties and it wasn't noon yet. I was in pants and regretted it. Elle stopped often to take photos of various street art. It had been a while since she had taken a photo of me, and I couldn't remember the last time she did, and I put the thought out of my head.
The bodega was mostly Mexican, the best kind of bodega, and I bought a six pack and a water and we went outside.
"Want one?" I asked.
"Maybe in a bit. Still early for me."
I opened one and put the rest in my backpack and we walked toward the Quarter through a somehow worse neighborhood than we had seen yet. Boarded doors and windows. Bars. houses missing walls even though people clearly lived in them. Vagrants under overpasses and between buildings and anywhere the sun wouldn't poison them. I kept my hand on my knife and close to Elle and quiet I recommended she do the same.
In the Quarter I was already drenched in sweat and opened another beer. We walked for a bit and when we were hungry we stopped in a bar that featured sculptures from one of Elles favorite artists. Large pastel cake-like sculptures with animal teeth. I didn't know how I felt about them. The skill was impressive but the message lacked and seemed tired of being repeated over the last fifty years. Buzz-art.
We had pizza and beer and were on our way. The hours melted under the sun and a clever beggar got me for five bucks, inadvertently damning all other beggars in New Orleans from even getting eye contact from me. More drinks. More bars. More art galleries. Some impressive and beautiful, others lacking in many ways.
As evening spread over the town, I couldn't shake the idea of why Elle hadn't taken any pictures of me on our trip. Or liked any of my shit on social media. Or spoken to me without being spoken to. I knew I was drunk and I knew my brain was exaggerating a number of aspects, but I couldn't gwet out of the tailspin.
"What's up, you?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You're quiet. You aren't really speaking to me."
"I am right now."
"Only because I asked."
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"No. That isn't true."
"Okay. Tell me how I feel."
"I don't know. That's why I am asking."
"What do you want me to say?"
"What is on your mind."
"Christ. Nothing. Are you sure something isn't on your mind?"
"Yeah, of course. A lot of shit."
"Oh, so that's what this was about. I'm bait."
"No. You are quiet. I just wanted to see what was up," I said.
"Oh, sure. Because you have something you want to yell at me for."
"What?"
"Nothing. You only ever want to talk to yell at me about something."
"What...? What are you talking about?"
"Come on. Spit it out. What did I do now?"
"Wow. Forget it."
"No. You wanted to talk, we're talking. What did I do to piss you off?"
"Have you taken any pictures of me on our trip?"
She was silent.
"Why?" she asked.
"I just... this is a big thing for us, and I assumed you'd want memories of it, but all I have seen you post is street art and shit. Like I'm not even with you. Even on like, Facebook and shit, you haven't liked anything of mine since the end of July. Like a month ago."
"Jesus Christ. You're pissed about getting likes?"
"What? No. That isn't what I'm saying at all." I sat down on the sidewalk. "It just feels like you don't want anyone to know I am with you."
"Everyone knows you're with me. What's the fucking problem?"
"I don't know. A couple months ago, when I was in Florida, you were upset because I didn't interact with your stuff enough, it made you feel unwanted, so I made sure I did."
"I don't remember that."
"It's in our chat history. I can show you."
"Yeah I bet you have screenshots of everything. No, I don't want to see it. You're being over sensitive. Knock it off and let's just get this over with."
"Get what over with?"
"I don't know," she said. "This night, this stupid fucking fight you decided to have."
"It's not a fight, I just asked you a question, and you're kind of making me feel like shit about it."
"Well it's a stupid question. I'm not fighting about likes."
"Again, it isn't about likes."
"Yeah, it is. And you know it."
"No. Please listen to what I am saying. It is about feeling unwanted."
"I'm done talking about this. Can we please go?"
I looked up at her. My chest drained and I felt defeated.
People passed us and when they were gone Elle bent down and hugged me. "I love you. I want you. This is in your head. you're just drunk."
Hearing it was a warmth in me, and I believed her.
I stood and she hugged me again.
We went to another bar.
A few hours passed and people bought us whiskey, my Hyde-switch, and beer and more and more and I remember very little after this, save for;
Screaming at Elle, walking back to the room. Calling her a liar. Calling her a cunt. Picking apart her argument both surgically and recklessly. I remember her screaming back at me. I remember finding another bar. I remember telling her I was going in and she could fucking walk home. I remember seeing her ask the bartender to call a cab. I remember drinking more and finding my way back.
She was sitting on the porch.
She couldn't get in. We yelled in the street and eventually I kicked open the door and told her I was leaving. Told her she was a liar and I knew I didn't mean shit to her and that she was a cunt and I didn't give a shit what happened to her. I went upstairs and threw a bunch of my shit in my suitcase and told her I was getting the rest of my shit out of the car. She said she wouldn't unlock it and I just needed to go to bed.
More yelling. More screaming. More crying.
"I hope you rot and die!" she screamed and I remember that every day, just as I know she remembers each terrible thing I said.
I went to the car, loudly in the dark and it was locked.
"Open the fucking car or I'm kicking in the goddamned windows!"
She was at the door watching and I threw my suitcase down and began kicking the windows over and over and she yelled and came running out and unlocked it and she was crying and screaming and I ripped the door open. I began grabbing my shit and throwing everything else into the street. Blankets. Clothes. Our food. Our dishes. Books. Her clothes.
I opened the trunk. Repeat. She screamed at me and I told her I couldn't fucking believe her and more names and more screaming and I walked into the dark neighborhood.
I found a closed gas station and set my bags and guitar down on the stoop. Laid down and closed my eyes. I had enough money for a bus ticket or I would just kill myself in New Orleans. I didn't give a shit at all. The argument about feeling unwanted smashed and exploded inside me. The evasive answers. The excuses. I couldn't stop hearing it.
She called and told me to come back. To get sleep.
"Fuck you!" I yelled. "You did this!"
Repeat.
I nodded off occasionally but didn't sleep.
I called her. I told her we were over.
Dawn crept slow into the city and I sat on the stoop in the growing heat. Still drunk and I gave my last beer to a homeless man who had decided to sit and tell me everything would be okay. That he'd seen worse. That at least I was still alive. That maybe she didn't love me, but someone could someday.
He went into the store and a few minutes later came back out with a tallboy and handed it to me. I sat on the stoop with a rotating cast of homeless and drank and around noon Elle drove up and I got in and we didn't speak for hours, until we were almost out of Louisiana.
After a decade, I had hit the bottom. The black had swallowed me and I was a violent, screaming, drunken monster and whether or not Elle would forgive me, she didn't deserve that. Or anything even close to it. As we drove I understood her distance. I would have been too. This was the worst outburst of mine, but not by that much.
That tallboy on that stoop, in a small crowd of New Orleans homeless, was my last drink.
It was time to heal. For me. For Elle. She may not love me, I thought, but someone, someday could. And they didn't deserve it either.
We crossed into Texas, both crying silently to ourselves.
"Thank you," I said.
"Of course. I love you. Be safe."
I hung up and we went into town.
The French Quarter, in the evening was slightly more seductive than the day. I assumed because I could see neon, people had hope in their eyes, and you couldn't see the rotting houses. We walked the blocks to the Western Union and picked up the money. I thanked the cashier and bought a water and we headed into the evening.
"I don't want to be out long. I'm not feeling that well."
"Okay, we can do the New Orleans night thing tomorrow if that's cool."
"Sure, honey."
We had a drink and went back to the Air BnB. Nothing else worth mentioning happened that night.
In the morning, waking in a soft and engulfing bed. Stretched out. Air conditioning. I shit on people who refuse to live on the bare minimum, but I did miss luxury in the moments I had it.
Elle made coffee and oatmeal and we sat on the edge of the bed and ate and woke slow into the promise of the day. I was looking forward to drinking. To exploring and running around town with Elle and getting into trouble and the normal routine. We didn't have a lot of money, but I had a way of acquiring alcohol with almost nothing.
"What do you want to do today?" She asked.
"Whatever you'd like. I just want to hit the town this evening."
"Well, if you want, let's get dressed and go hit the bodega around the corner. See what they have and maybe walk into the Quarter and explore a bit."
"Sounds good."
We showered again. Dressed.
The temperature was already in the high nineties and it wasn't noon yet. I was in pants and regretted it. Elle stopped often to take photos of various street art. It had been a while since she had taken a photo of me, and I couldn't remember the last time she did, and I put the thought out of my head.
The bodega was mostly Mexican, the best kind of bodega, and I bought a six pack and a water and we went outside.
"Want one?" I asked.
"Maybe in a bit. Still early for me."
I opened one and put the rest in my backpack and we walked toward the Quarter through a somehow worse neighborhood than we had seen yet. Boarded doors and windows. Bars. houses missing walls even though people clearly lived in them. Vagrants under overpasses and between buildings and anywhere the sun wouldn't poison them. I kept my hand on my knife and close to Elle and quiet I recommended she do the same.
In the Quarter I was already drenched in sweat and opened another beer. We walked for a bit and when we were hungry we stopped in a bar that featured sculptures from one of Elles favorite artists. Large pastel cake-like sculptures with animal teeth. I didn't know how I felt about them. The skill was impressive but the message lacked and seemed tired of being repeated over the last fifty years. Buzz-art.
We had pizza and beer and were on our way. The hours melted under the sun and a clever beggar got me for five bucks, inadvertently damning all other beggars in New Orleans from even getting eye contact from me. More drinks. More bars. More art galleries. Some impressive and beautiful, others lacking in many ways.
As evening spread over the town, I couldn't shake the idea of why Elle hadn't taken any pictures of me on our trip. Or liked any of my shit on social media. Or spoken to me without being spoken to. I knew I was drunk and I knew my brain was exaggerating a number of aspects, but I couldn't gwet out of the tailspin.
"What's up, you?" I asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You're quiet. You aren't really speaking to me."
"I am right now."
"Only because I asked."
"Nothing. I'm fine."
"No. That isn't true."
"Okay. Tell me how I feel."
"I don't know. That's why I am asking."
"What do you want me to say?"
"What is on your mind."
"Christ. Nothing. Are you sure something isn't on your mind?"
"Yeah, of course. A lot of shit."
"Oh, so that's what this was about. I'm bait."
"No. You are quiet. I just wanted to see what was up," I said.
"Oh, sure. Because you have something you want to yell at me for."
"What?"
"Nothing. You only ever want to talk to yell at me about something."
"What...? What are you talking about?"
"Come on. Spit it out. What did I do now?"
"Wow. Forget it."
"No. You wanted to talk, we're talking. What did I do to piss you off?"
"Have you taken any pictures of me on our trip?"
She was silent.
"Why?" she asked.
"I just... this is a big thing for us, and I assumed you'd want memories of it, but all I have seen you post is street art and shit. Like I'm not even with you. Even on like, Facebook and shit, you haven't liked anything of mine since the end of July. Like a month ago."
"Jesus Christ. You're pissed about getting likes?"
"What? No. That isn't what I'm saying at all." I sat down on the sidewalk. "It just feels like you don't want anyone to know I am with you."
"Everyone knows you're with me. What's the fucking problem?"
"I don't know. A couple months ago, when I was in Florida, you were upset because I didn't interact with your stuff enough, it made you feel unwanted, so I made sure I did."
"I don't remember that."
"It's in our chat history. I can show you."
"Yeah I bet you have screenshots of everything. No, I don't want to see it. You're being over sensitive. Knock it off and let's just get this over with."
"Get what over with?"
"I don't know," she said. "This night, this stupid fucking fight you decided to have."
"It's not a fight, I just asked you a question, and you're kind of making me feel like shit about it."
"Well it's a stupid question. I'm not fighting about likes."
"Again, it isn't about likes."
"Yeah, it is. And you know it."
"No. Please listen to what I am saying. It is about feeling unwanted."
"I'm done talking about this. Can we please go?"
I looked up at her. My chest drained and I felt defeated.
People passed us and when they were gone Elle bent down and hugged me. "I love you. I want you. This is in your head. you're just drunk."
Hearing it was a warmth in me, and I believed her.
I stood and she hugged me again.
We went to another bar.
A few hours passed and people bought us whiskey, my Hyde-switch, and beer and more and more and I remember very little after this, save for;
Screaming at Elle, walking back to the room. Calling her a liar. Calling her a cunt. Picking apart her argument both surgically and recklessly. I remember her screaming back at me. I remember finding another bar. I remember telling her I was going in and she could fucking walk home. I remember seeing her ask the bartender to call a cab. I remember drinking more and finding my way back.
She was sitting on the porch.
She couldn't get in. We yelled in the street and eventually I kicked open the door and told her I was leaving. Told her she was a liar and I knew I didn't mean shit to her and that she was a cunt and I didn't give a shit what happened to her. I went upstairs and threw a bunch of my shit in my suitcase and told her I was getting the rest of my shit out of the car. She said she wouldn't unlock it and I just needed to go to bed.
More yelling. More screaming. More crying.
"I hope you rot and die!" she screamed and I remember that every day, just as I know she remembers each terrible thing I said.
I went to the car, loudly in the dark and it was locked.
"Open the fucking car or I'm kicking in the goddamned windows!"
She was at the door watching and I threw my suitcase down and began kicking the windows over and over and she yelled and came running out and unlocked it and she was crying and screaming and I ripped the door open. I began grabbing my shit and throwing everything else into the street. Blankets. Clothes. Our food. Our dishes. Books. Her clothes.
I opened the trunk. Repeat. She screamed at me and I told her I couldn't fucking believe her and more names and more screaming and I walked into the dark neighborhood.
I found a closed gas station and set my bags and guitar down on the stoop. Laid down and closed my eyes. I had enough money for a bus ticket or I would just kill myself in New Orleans. I didn't give a shit at all. The argument about feeling unwanted smashed and exploded inside me. The evasive answers. The excuses. I couldn't stop hearing it.
She called and told me to come back. To get sleep.
"Fuck you!" I yelled. "You did this!"
Repeat.
I nodded off occasionally but didn't sleep.
I called her. I told her we were over.
Dawn crept slow into the city and I sat on the stoop in the growing heat. Still drunk and I gave my last beer to a homeless man who had decided to sit and tell me everything would be okay. That he'd seen worse. That at least I was still alive. That maybe she didn't love me, but someone could someday.
He went into the store and a few minutes later came back out with a tallboy and handed it to me. I sat on the stoop with a rotating cast of homeless and drank and around noon Elle drove up and I got in and we didn't speak for hours, until we were almost out of Louisiana.
After a decade, I had hit the bottom. The black had swallowed me and I was a violent, screaming, drunken monster and whether or not Elle would forgive me, she didn't deserve that. Or anything even close to it. As we drove I understood her distance. I would have been too. This was the worst outburst of mine, but not by that much.
That tallboy on that stoop, in a small crowd of New Orleans homeless, was my last drink.
It was time to heal. For me. For Elle. She may not love me, I thought, but someone, someday could. And they didn't deserve it either.
We crossed into Texas, both crying silently to ourselves.
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