"Three Days of New Orleans" by Brooke Sudderth

Day 1: Gas Station

The gas station next to the Mont Leon is empty as my aunt and I walk to the counter with glass Coke bottles in hand. Street lights filter through the glass doors from outside, yet the city seems louder at night than in day. Sounds of loud conversation from the streets weave into the background as my aunt and I set our Cokes on the counter. Aunt Mel takes out her wallet. The girl behind the counter barely seems to notice us. She smacks her gum and scratches her head with long fake fingernails. A sudden sound from the interior makes her lift her head. My gaze follows. I see a teenage boy – he looks about my age – sprinting for the door. His pockets look lumpy. The girl screams a string of curses. A dull thud sounds as she shoulders past Aunt Mel, smacking bodily into her. Her footsteps tap on the cheap linoleum floor as she lunges for the boy. He darts out the door, she chases him. Alone, Aunt Mel and I leave our Cokes on the counter, enfolded in the ceaseless sounds of the night.

Day 2: Bourbon

Bourbon street is a riot of neon color. People cluster beneath balconies, hands outstretched in hope to catch falling Mardi Gras beads. MeMaw points to the right, to two tall, statuesque women in six inch heels. “Brooke, would you believe those are men?” she laughs in her Creole accent. She promises to take me to hear them sing when I turn eighteen. A man slumps against a decrepit brick wall, drinking from a beer bottle three feet tall. Beside him, a huge smirking face forms the entrance to a building. The face sneers at me, holding a cigar crookedly in his mouth. A group of young men stumble in the door, laughing. Someone taps my aunt on the shoulder. She whirls to find a gaunt man, holding his hands out, eyes round and hopeful. My mother clenches my arm. Laughing, Aunt Mel hands him a to-go container of leftover spaghetti. His eyes light up. I wonder why my friends’ mothers won’t let them come here.

Day 3: Tour

Daylight washes the French Quarter in a disguise of cleanliness and wealth as we roll over the ancient streets, peering out from inside the carriage. The driver points at landmarks and explains their significance in his Creole accent. I wonder if people who aren’t Cajun can understand him. The horse plods past an ornate balcony, rimmed with a wrought-iron fence embellished with black fleur-de-lis. Lenny Kravitz lives here, the tour guide says. I smile and say nothing. Aunt Mel points to something on the other side of the road, and we all turn to look. Policemen form a semicircle around a figure lying on the ground. I stare. The figure doesn’t move. “He’s dead,” I head one of the officers say. My mother and aunt look on for a moment longer, then resume surveying the buildings. As though nothing happened. The tour guide urges the horse forward and begins to tell us about the Voodoo Queen.