Jassy Melson
11-12-2011, 03:40 PM
Like many others I had come to the city of dreams to escape boredom and the occasional blows to the flesh that all humankind are subject. Little did I suspect that New Orleans held a lesson for me and all lovers of the flesh, and for romantics hungering after nonsense.
I strolled down Bourbon Street during the daylight hours, intent on my purpose of traversing the street renown in story and in song as part of the Big Easy and the home of jazz and blues.
I noticed the black man eying me across the street but it didn't cross my mind that he had any evil intent. I noted him when he diagonally crossed the street but still I thought he meant nothing to me.
I looked back at the crowd behind me dressed in their varied costumes, and I saw the young man moving up fast through the mob. Then I felt the blow of his fist on the back of my neck. The strike knocked me down on the pavement, and the next thing I saw was the feet of pedestrians walking over or around me. All the pretty costumes avoided me as the young man frantically pushed his hand in my back pocket searching for my wallet.
As I groveled on the sidewalk trying hard to regain my senses, I looked back and saw the face of my assailant. His expression was a mingled one of triumph, rage, and greediness. I heard a grunt of satisfaction as he found my billfold. Then like a lightning streak he was gone. He had run across the street to join the throng of blacks who had staked out part of Bourbon Street as their territory (much as gays and other minorities had done all over the Big Easy).
I arose slowly like a dog arising from an afternoon nap—shaking myself and staring wide-eyed at the costumed crowd who had never halted in their promenade—even when seeing someone being assaulted and robbed right before their eyes.
I rubbed the back of my neck. The man's rap had given me a splitting headache. I stared at the black men slouched upon the wall across the street. I looked for my assailant but I didn't see him in the line-up.
The black faces stared back at me defiantly and malevolently, and then was when I had an epiphany: This was part of a race war--both overtly and covertly; as much as some might deny it, it was a war. And what the result would be no one could foretell
I stood unsteadily for a moment, wondering what to do next. Almost with a will of their own, my feet rejoined the multitude dressed in their fantasies, and I again became a part of the promenade that never ends on Bourbon Street in the Big Uneasy that is New Orleans.
I strolled down Bourbon Street during the daylight hours, intent on my purpose of traversing the street renown in story and in song as part of the Big Easy and the home of jazz and blues.
I noticed the black man eying me across the street but it didn't cross my mind that he had any evil intent. I noted him when he diagonally crossed the street but still I thought he meant nothing to me.
I looked back at the crowd behind me dressed in their varied costumes, and I saw the young man moving up fast through the mob. Then I felt the blow of his fist on the back of my neck. The strike knocked me down on the pavement, and the next thing I saw was the feet of pedestrians walking over or around me. All the pretty costumes avoided me as the young man frantically pushed his hand in my back pocket searching for my wallet.
As I groveled on the sidewalk trying hard to regain my senses, I looked back and saw the face of my assailant. His expression was a mingled one of triumph, rage, and greediness. I heard a grunt of satisfaction as he found my billfold. Then like a lightning streak he was gone. He had run across the street to join the throng of blacks who had staked out part of Bourbon Street as their territory (much as gays and other minorities had done all over the Big Easy).
I arose slowly like a dog arising from an afternoon nap—shaking myself and staring wide-eyed at the costumed crowd who had never halted in their promenade—even when seeing someone being assaulted and robbed right before their eyes.
I rubbed the back of my neck. The man's rap had given me a splitting headache. I stared at the black men slouched upon the wall across the street. I looked for my assailant but I didn't see him in the line-up.
The black faces stared back at me defiantly and malevolently, and then was when I had an epiphany: This was part of a race war--both overtly and covertly; as much as some might deny it, it was a war. And what the result would be no one could foretell
I stood unsteadily for a moment, wondering what to do next. Almost with a will of their own, my feet rejoined the multitude dressed in their fantasies, and I again became a part of the promenade that never ends on Bourbon Street in the Big Uneasy that is New Orleans.